Thirteen Million Dollar Pop fb-3

by David Levien

  “Good. Then?” Dwyer asked.

  “Then she screamed and I closed off her mouth, and put her to the floor and started an interrogation. Bad bit o’ business she was knocked up, but I figured it would make her talk quick,” Rickie said.

  “ ‘Where’s your husband?’ I asked her. ‘He’s at work,’ she said. So I says, ‘What’s he working on? When’s he home?’ And, believe me, she was in no position to lie.” Rickie paused and made a hatchet-against-neck gesture.

  “Fucking Ruthless,” Dwyer said.

  “That’s me,” Rickie said. “She keeps on with the ‘I don’t know,’ and adds ‘His shift’s over at six.’ I thinks, ‘Six is too bloody long to wait ’round.’ We go back and forth another few times-‘Where’s your husband? Where’s Frank? What does he know?’ ‘I have no idea,’ she says. ‘No idea.’ The cheeky little gash wouldn’t give him up. Then one last time, ‘Where’s your husband?’ And she says, ‘He’s a cop, you can’t do this.’ But by then she’d seen me, so I had to do it, o’ course.”

  “Cop?” Dwyer said.

  “Yeah. Cop, private cop-what’s the difference?”

  “What’d she look like?” Dwyer said, suddenly troubled.

  “Good looking. Blond and preggers, like you told me. Young, ya know,” Rickie said.

  “How young?”

  “Late twenties. ’Bout five foot and a few-”

  “You mean near six foot,” Dwyer said.

  “No, she was a little thing. Come on, man, you’re starting to make me feel bad.”

  Dwyer turned to him. “You sure of who you grabbed over there?”

  “I was a go on the guy and a pregnant blond slag, Waddy, I wasn’t checking IDs. How many of ’em they have running around here?” Rickie said.

  Dwyer shrugged. “May have been a wrong woman. Friend or neighbor.”

  “Fuck me backward,” Rickie said with force, and then the big kid’s shoulders sagged.

  “Shame about the wee one …” Dwyer said.

  “Yah,” Rickie agreed.

  “Well, don’t get down about it,” Dwyer said. “It’ll be over tomorrow. That fancy bastard will either pay, or he’ll pay, and we’ll be done.”

  They sat there in a long moment of contemplation and then Dwyer put the car in gear.

  66

  Behr dropped Susan off at her car in her doctor’s parking lot and stood there and watched everything he loved drive off into the night. He’d been unable to convince her to do otherwise. He considered putting a fist through his passenger side window, but suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. He staggered around the car and got in and drove back across the city. The downtown area felt deserted, as if everyone had decided en masse to go inside or otherwise hide.

  He passed by the statehouse, big and brilliant white and lit up, the place where laws where supposed to be tended and fairness and justice meted out. Instead, it seemed to be the central nest of rot. It needed some brighter lights, Behr thought, or, better yet, turn them out altogether. He braked at North Capitol for the only other vehicle in sight-a white carriage pulled by a dappled draft horse, head nodding at each step with the effort. Behr listened to the clopping of hooves on pavement along with the rattle of wooden wheels. A man in a fleece vest and a top hat steered by and touched his brim in greeting. Behr watched for a long time and then drove on.

  Before long he reached Crows Nest, one of the ritziest enclaves of high-dollar houses in the area, which Lowell Gantcher called home. He was running on fumes, but needed to get to the man. Behr drove down Sunset Lane, looking at the impressive mansions, checking the gold numbers affixed to mailboxes near wrought iron gates and wooded driveways. He spotted Gantcher’s home, regal and imposing, if not a little newly built looking next to some of its ivy-covered companions. The designer had been conscientious, though, because a ruff of thick old growth trees that circled the rear of the house had been left standing. Behr slowed at one end of a large U-shaped driveway. The news was bad once again. There were three vehicles parked in front of the house and all the lights were on. A pair of strapping men stood outside the front door, and through a large window Behr could see about three or four more men moving about in shirtsleeves and what looked like handgun shoulder rigs. It was about this time the guys at the door started noticing him and were moving down the driveway toward him, so Behr took the opportunity to motor on.

  When he got home, his place smelled of pine cleaning fluid, a chilling reminder of what had happened earlier, and it was too quiet, as if the walls were mourning the deaths and departures of the expectant mothers. Behr pulled the cork on a bottle of Harlan Estate and didn’t wait before filling a Ball jar and drinking it down quickly. He sat there, still and dumb, and watched the wine go down past the label and finally to the bottom and it wasn’t enough. He pushed himself up and got a gallon slugger of Wild Turkey, the same one he and Decker had put the dent in so recently.

  Gina Decker. He’d barely known her, but she was a lively little sprite. Neither she nor her child nor Decker himself, regardless of the sins he’d committed, deserved what had befallen them. Every creak in the settling house made him wonder if he-the professional contractor, or contractors plural-was coming for him. He rested his gun on the table next to him.

  He’d lost Susan and it hurt, but he wasn’t sure if it was something he should be sorry over, because he and his way of life were toxic. That much was as clear to him now as ever. He was poison to everything and everyone around him. It was starting to get easy to be glad that she and the baby were gone. They were safer, better off away from him. He poured another bourbon, grabbed his phone, and moved to the couch. He set his gun on the arm of the couch and checked his lone incoming text. It was from Susan: I made it.

  He punched out an inadequate text to her: Good.

  When that was done he sent one more: Decker-call me if you want, Behr. At some point he fell asleep in his clothes.

  67

  Behr’s phone beeped and he sat up. It was early morning and he was still on the couch, and though it had been set to vibrate so he hadn’t heard it ring, the tone signaled that he had a voice mail.

  “Behr, it’s Breslau … Look, we can’t find Saunders. We don’t have any contact info for him in D.C. We tried the home, we tried the place of business. You have any ideas where he might be, you let me know.”

  Behr didn’t, not at the moment. He went and stood under the shower, freezing needles of water driving away the alcohol portion of his hangover. It was going to take a lot more than that to get rid of the emotional part. As he turned off the water a sentence came into his head. “Due to the political nature of it …” It was what Pomeroy had said. It was what was driving all the pressure.

  When he dried off and dressed, he knew what he had to do. He dug around on his dresser and found the heavy stock business card that Kolodnik had given him. He looked at the name and the cell number for a long moment before dialing. He could only hope that Kolodnik hadn’t changed numbers or been issued a U.S. Senate phone or any number of circumstances that would cost him a trip to Washington. But after four rings a voice answered.

  “Hello?” It was Kolodnik. It was 7:00 a.m., but the man hadn’t been sleeping.

  “It’s Frank Behr,” he began, suddenly dry mouthed. “I need to talk to you about what went down in that garage and I need you to be forthcoming, because bodies are stacking up like cordwood around here.”

  “Oh lord …” A long pause elapsed, then Kolodnik let out a slow breath. “All right, Behr,” he said, “we’ll go ahead this once. But you’re not to repeat it to anyone, or I’ll deny it forcefully, and regardless this will be the last time we speak.”

  “Fine,” Behr said, seeing as he had no choice.

  “Are you on a landline?” Kolodnik asked.

  “Yes,” Behr said.

  “Well, I’m not. Give me your number.”

  Behr did so, and Kolodnik abruptly hung up. A momentary sickness hit Behr in the gut. He knew Kolodnik wasn’t cal
ling back, and that’d be the end of it. But the phone rang almost instantly. The man was as good as his word.

  “What is it you want?” Kolodnik asked.

  “You know who was behind the attempt?” Behr asked.

  “I have an idea. I don’t have every nut and bolt.”

  “A business partner and an employee,” Behr said.

  “Yes. Ex-business partner, if we’re being specific.”

  “Then you got into it, didn’t you? The way the case was handled by the police.”

  “I did.”

  “The security tapes. You squelched ’em.”

  “I asked a favor. Look, the truth is, they were grainy. The shooter was wearing a hood. The cops got a license plate that everyone knew would come back a dummy.”

  “The plate wasn’t a complete dead end,” Behr said.

  “I heard something about you and a fire. I really hope you take care of yourself and this doesn’t cost you any more trouble, Behr,” Kolodnik said. The man had no idea what it had cost him. “If there comes a time when certain individuals are facing prosecution, I won’t get in the way. I’ll even support the case any way I can …” The next part seemed like it took plenty for Kolodnik to say, but he went on with a clear voice. “The cleanest part of the video was me flopped on my belly with my hands over my head. You, on the other hand, looked like G.I. Joe, but I just couldn’t launch my political career with that footage out there on the Web. My adversaries would’ve used it for decades to come.”

  So instead you went with good old vanity and suppression. Behr thought it, but he didn’t say it. He still felt a current of respect for the soon-to-be sworn senator on the other end of the line.

  “And Saunders gets a free pass? ‘Keep your enemies close?’ ” Behr wondered.

  “Not exactly,” Kolodnik said. “Shugie is smart, but he’s weak and greedy, and he let himself get distracted, but I didn’t give him a free pass. I left him behind to look after my local interests …”

  “He’s here?” Behr gripped the phone tighter.

  “Yes.”

  It was a chilly, bloodless thing for Kolodnik to do, because he was more than smart enough to realize what was going to happen to Shugie Saunders now. Behr knew it was the last conversation between them, as Bernie Cool had stated, and that he would undoubtedly have a thousand questions fly into his head later, but he had the sudden need to get off the call. If Shugie Saunders was still in Indy, the contractor would surely be going after him and that might represent Behr’s last shot at him.

  “I do appreciate that night, Behr,” Kolodnik said, “and so does my family. And I know you’re aware that if any of this gets out, it’ll badly hurt the state. You don’t want to hurt the state, Frank, do you?”

  “No, sir, I don’t want to hurt the state.”

  “Now, I have to go on and do this Senate thing, see where it leads. I know you’re going to do what you have to, and I wish you luck.”

  “Roger that,” Behr said, hung up, and went for his car.

  He didn’t get that far, because as he walked outside beneath heavy and darkening clouds, he found Eddie Decker pacing around his silver Camaro, which was parked in Behr’s driveway.

  “Hey,” Decker said, looking at him with abject pain in his black eyes, which were barely visible for the dark circles beneath them.

  “Hey,” Behr said. “How long you been here?”

  “Two hours?” Decker shrugged.

  “You okay?” Behr asked.

  “Nope,” Decker said, then extended an envelope. “Here.”

  Behr looked inside and saw seven hundred in cash.

  “I shouldn’t have tore up your house.”

  The damage and the money didn’t matter to Behr, but he understood Decker had to make the gesture.

  “Thank you,” Behr said, “I accept.” Then he extended the money back to Decker. “And I want you to accept this, for funeral expenses. I insist.” Decker met his eyes. There wasn’t much resistance there. He nodded and took the money back, and it was clear it was not something that they would discuss again.

  “You got anything on who did it?” Decker asked.

  Behr hesitated and felt the grimace on his own face. Whatever he might find by catching up with Shugie Saunders would not be helped by having an emotionally on-edge Decker along with him.

  “I want in,” Decker said, reading his thoughts.

  “You think it’s a good idea?” Behr asked.

  “No.”

  “Take some time?” Behr offered.

  “Hell no.”

  “You drive,” Behr said, moving for the Camaro.

  68

  Shug Saunders sat in a back booth of the Steer-In and poured a swirling ribbon of cream into his ink-black coffee. His triglyceride level dictated he ought to be using skim milk or better yet no dairy at all, but now what difference did it make? He felt like he was in quicksand, falling down a hole, with the hole closing right on top of him.

  “We’re going to need you to stay back, be the home base guy for the time being, Shug.”

  “But, Bernie, I-”

  “Yes, you had much to do with this, and the gratitude is there, but everyone needs to do his part now …”

  That was how the brief meeting with Kolodnik had gone a few days back, when Shug had been told he wasn’t going to D.C. It felt like a life sentence. He’d analyzed every word of their conversation, as he had every conversation between him and Kolodnik since the night of the incident.

  Does he know? It was the question that burned in Shug’s brain 24-7 now. At first it had been there only during his every waking moment, but there was little sleep lately. Some wise man once said: “The guilty wish to be caught.”

  Yeah? Well bullshit to that, was Shug’s feeling on the matter.

  The waitress headed his way. “You ready to order, or you still want to wait, sugar?” she asked.

  Where the hell was Pat Teague? Shug wondered.

  “Guess I’ll keep waiting,” he said. Then a slight smile suddenly appeared on his lips. It was odd considering his situation, the danger of it, but despite all that, the last two days had been the most wonderful, amazing days of his life. “You know what?” Shug said, “bring me a 10th Street Skillet.”

  To hell with the lipids, Shug decided. Spending this much straight, uninterrupted time with Lori was his idea of heaven. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten her to go for it. Sure, it was costing him a fortune, but recent events had given him a new perspective: life is now. Maybe Lori had shown him that, or he’d just figured it out in her vivacious presence, but she was better, and more than he even expected. Whether it was ordering in dinner or him driving her to the gym or just watching TV on the couch, her in her nightclothes with her feet across his lap, he’d never felt such intimacy. Not even with his first wife. And in the bedroom … oh my, it thrilled him just to think about it. He didn’t even mind going to sleep on the pullout sofa afterward. It could’ve been a lifetime of this, if that night in the garage had worked out, and with Bernie Cool out of the way Gantcher and the rest had gotten the tax rebate and he could’ve cashed in his share of Indy Flats for full value. Sometimes you just get what you get. He shrugged.

  Shug rubbed his hands together in anticipation of his breakfast skillet, and getting back to her. He reached for a newspaper resting on the edge of the counter that a departing customer had left behind. It was folded back to the business section, so he flipped it over to start from the front page and felt his throat go thick.

  Ex-Fed Slain in Thorntown, bannered the article, with an old FBI class photo of Teague twenty-five years and fifty pounds ago. Shug read on in organ-gripping dismay:

  In what appears to be a home invasion robbery gone awry, Patrick Teague, a former FBI agent and current security specialist, and his wife, Margaret, were found dead in their Thorntown home …

  It went on from there, reporting too many mundane details and leaving out the most important ones, like who did it and where was he? Shu
g felt his eyeballs might roll out of his head onto the table beneath him. He began waving at the waitress-trying to short-circuit his breakfast order, to ask for the check, to announce he was leaving. His flapping lips and gasping breath were no help. Finally, he rose, gathered his feet under him, and pulled some cash from his wallet. He staggered out the door, both hands on the glass, and out into the parking lot, raising his face toward a cover of chunky gray cloud belly hanging low in the sky. The air felt close, and he throttled the air conditioner the minute he climbed into his Acura and drove away toward Lori’s.

  69

  “Lookit that,” Ruthless said when the lone man crossed from his car to the diner, “that’s fucking Saunders, ain’t it? The bloke who’s supposed to be in D.C.”

  It was. Waddy Dwyer and Rickie Powell were sitting at the far end of the Steer-In parking lot, as they had been for over an hour, waiting for Teague’s meeting partner to show up. They figured they’d be able to spot the likely candidate, but now they were beyond sure. They knew Saunders’s face from photos on the Internet, and considering they thought he’d slipped away, it was unbelievably good fortune.

  “Stand in the right place and the ball falls right on yer fucking foot sometimes …” Dwyer said.

  After a brief wait the restaurant door swung open and Shug moved toward his car. Dwyer turned over his engine and put it in gear. As Shug’s car jutted erratically into sparse traffic on 10th Street headed west, Dwyer and Rickie Powell dropped in, smooth and unnoticed as a creeping shadow behind him.

  “I imagine he’s heading back to his flat,” Dwyer began. “When we get there, there’s a way in through the-” But Saunders turned in a different direction. “Belay that,” he said.

  They veered toward a more commercial area than Saunders’s, before he parked near a brick factory building that looked like it had been converted to residential space.

  “Come on, then,” Dwyer said to Rickie. “Gear up. You’ve got to follow him in and find out what floor he goes to.”