by David Levien
“There was a castable footprint down there. I’m assuming your crew saw it.”
Pomeroy breathed and nodded. “Listen,” he started, breathed again, swallowed, and then continued, “you can’t be done with this.”
What he’d found had Behr thinking it was time for him to leave it alone. “You or the Caro boys should do it yourselves.”
“Just tell me what you have.”
Behr broke it all down for him, winding his way through what had previously seemed random. When Behr got to the part about the Schlegels and the connection to Lieutenant Bustamante he expected disgust, or at least surprise from Pomeroy. Instead, all he got was a dull nod. “So you might want to have IAD grab a look at him.”
“They already are,” Pomeroy said.
“You knew?”
Pomeroy didn’t speak to the question, but instead asked one. “You have a next move?”
“This isn’t just local shit. Pros from Detroit or Chicago or Cleveland or somewhere are likely involved. There’ll be nothing. No way to find ’em. And if I did, what the hell would I do then? You want me to build a case or try and take ’em down? Either way, it’s not what I do,” Behr said. He shut his mouth, a little embarrassed at how easy it had all come out.
“It may be pros. May be. If it is, you’re right. You won’t find ’em. But they didn’t come down here on their own, and you know it. I want who hired them.”
Behr didn’t move. “I think we know-”
“The linkage. Get me the local linkage,” Pomeroy demanded.
“You want the linkage,” Behr repeated. He was close enough to Pomeroy to see small patches of rosacea on his cheeks below the man’s unwavering eyes.
“Get me the linkage.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Behr sat outside a Circle K store, lacing up a pair of dry shoes he had in the trunk, downing a quart bottle of Gatorade, and feeling handled when his phone rang. He’d heard old detectives, lifers, espouse a theory that there were no coincidences. That everything on a case was connected and that there wasn’t such thing as separate cases in the first place, that everything, all the cases an investigator looked at his whole career long were interrelated in one long indecipherable chain that could only be understood at the very end. Behr didn’t go in much for the mystical bullshit, but it was easy enough to see what they meant at the moment. Aurelio had been killed, and he’d walked into it, and Dominic had seen him there, and his name had rung a bell so he’d reported it to Pomeroy who’d seen his opportunity. Maybe Pomeroy had smelled the connection and had gone outside of the department because he suspected what Behr had now learned about Bustamante-he had a dirty cop tipping and steering and otherwise protecting the Schlegels from the inside. Maybe Pomeroy hadn’t had the Schlegels or even Bustamante at all. There was still a lot that wasn’t clear to him, especially whether or not he was willing to stick, or whether he should drop it and walk away and live his life, whatever that amounted to at the moment.
Behr reached slowly for his still-ringing phone. “Yeah?” he said quietly, without even bothering to check the caller ID.
“Sorry it took so long, Frank,” a voice said.
“Tommy?” It was Tommy Connaughton. “You got something?” Behr asked.
“I finally got into that Santos account.”
“Okay.”
“But the checks weren’t presented at a bank. They were cashed at Check Express, a Western Union-type place.”
“Shit.”
“So I hacked them, no charge,” Connaughton said, a smile of pride in his voice.
“Good man. And?”
“Flavia Inez. Or Inez Flavia. I don’t know which-it was recorded differently on each transaction. Someone there is worse with the Spanish than me.”
“She’s the girlfriend,” Behr said, certain of what he’d suspected at first but had too quickly moved off.
“What?”
“Nothing, go on.”
“Anyway, those two checks-one for four thousand, the other for seventy-five hundred-she cashed ’em.”
“Thanks, Tommy, send me a bill,” Behr said, hanging up and swinging his feet inside the car. He turned the ignition and started to drive.
It was quarter to eight by the time Behr reached Dannels’s house. It wasn’t his final destination, but he needed another piece and hoped he wasn’t too late. He jumped out of his car, in time to see Dannels backing a well-kept Bravada out of the driveway, and ran around to the driver’s window.
“Oi, mate, you look like an all-night trucker,” Dannels said, his hair still wet from a shower, a conservative striped tie knotted around his thick neck.
“Hey, man, I know you’re on your way to work, but did Aurelio come into any money recently?” It was a question Behr should’ve asked the first time if he’d been thinking straight, but he hadn’t been.
Dannels’s eyes lit. “He hadn’t come into any. He’d won some.”
“Won it how, fighting?” Behr asked, knowing the answer.
“Nah, he dumped his fight purses into the school. That was his business. This was his fun. He loved the gambling. Lotto and pea shake,” Dannels said. “Must be a cultural thing. I ran the probabilities for him many times, the odds of winning long term at lottery-style betting-it’s piss poor. But he kept spending thirty, forty, fifty bucks a day on that crap. Then he hit a couple of shakes a few months back, five or ten thousand, I don’t remember how much. He was so fucking happy, mate. Acting quite vindicated about his gambling prowess with me.” Dannels smiled despite himself. It was what Behr knew, that the wins jibed with the deposits in the checkbook. And there was something beyond that, too. He knew that Aurelio hadn’t met Flavia Inez by accident.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The living room smelled lightly of sandalwood incense. Behr had been sitting on the sofa for a long time. Perhaps three hours had gone by. He’d reviewed his notes a dozen times and had dozed. He had already searched the place top to bottom and sideways. He hadn’t found any financial records or journals, calendars, organizers, or diaries. Another thing he hadn’t found were any haircutting implements. Besides her personal brush, there wasn’t a single pair of scissors, a clipper, a comb or cape in the place. But he had discovered $3,800 in cash secreted in an empty jar of cold cream under the bathroom sink, and because of that he knew she’d be back. Eventually. When he had arrived a woman had been steering a baby in a stroller, with another slightly older child in tow, out of the building. The look of gratitude on her face as Behr held the door for her made it plain she wouldn’t be asking if he belonged as he entered. When he’d reached Flavia’s door, after knocking repeatedly and pressing an ear against the door, he’d made fast work of the old and basic Kwikset lock. She hadn’t bothered with the dead bolt. When he finished his search he had taken his seat. His phone buzzed once, and he checked it and saw the incoming call was from Susan. The phone buzzed again when her voice mail hit, but he didn’t listen to it. Instead, he gazed down at the coffee table, at the pile of cash there next to a scattered handful of Trojan Twists. His stomach ground on itself in hunger, and he considered whether he should help himself to some empanadas he’d found in the kitchen or do something ridiculous like order a pizza, when he heard keys jingling outside the door.
Susan Durant pulled over outside the Broad Ripple location of Women’s Choice Clinic and turned off the engine. She sat there staring straight ahead for a long moment, and Lynn, sitting in the passenger seat because someone had to be there to see her home after the procedure, did the same. She had been crying too much, feeling nauseous and headachy all day. She knew it was probably the hormones, but the realities of the situation weren’t helping any. In fact, the only times she’d felt halfway decent over the past few weeks was the moment she was drinking her morning cup of coffee-she’d read that one cup a day was okay-or eating pizza or pasta. Literally the moment she was eating it. While she was chewing the crispy crust or shoveling in the noodles and sauce she got a moment’s relief from the hollow
ed-out panicky feeling in her stomach. But the second she put down the fork and wiped her mouth, the queasy feeling would rush back over her and she’d long to be in her bed in a dark room. It seemed to be getting worse day by day. She’d even thrown up in her mouth at work the other day, for god’s sake, and not wanting anyone to know, had to swallow the vile stuff down.
“Suze?” Lynn said.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Lynn,” she said, not looking at her friend. “You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know.” Lynn nodded. “It never is. That’s what my parents said when I came out. Then I figured out it is what it is, and you’ve gotta deal with it.”
Susan nodded slowly and thought about Frank, off somewhere chasing down whoever killed his friend, and who knows what else. He was probably only across town, but he felt a world farther away than that.
“Well?” Lynn said, patient, her words a gentle prompt. Susan reached for the key in the ignition.
The yellow-and-white-striped tent was doing little to cut the sun’s glare, as pit bulls of all sizes, coat colors, and quality were busy being unloaded from trucks and cages. It was the end of the summer Bully B-B-Q. Terry Schlegel rubbed his face and drank his third Diet Pepsi of the morning and thought of the story on the cover of the newspaper. He’d been pushing hard, and he knew taking the little Latino out for spite might’ve been over the line, but as for some kid getting caught up in it, that wasn’t something he’d planned. A group of six or seven bull pups growled, barked, and yelped as they tumbled over one another playing grab-ass in some owner’s pen. Terry just wasn’t in the mood for this. The hangover was gripping him hard, and the pair of corn dogs he’d downed and the sodas weren’t helping. The splattering sounds that Dean had produced that morning played in his mind. It had woken him, and the noise of the spraying hose as Dean cleaned off the cement steps hadn’t allowed him to go back to sleep. The memory, and the smell of slow-cooking smoked pork rising from a large steel barrel barbecue pit, was enough to turn his stomach. Then he saw Charlie’s Durango pull up and glanced over to see him and Kenny pile out of the SUV. They circled around back and unloaded their pair of tiger stripe bullies. He felt a surge of pride at the sight of his boys, tall and strong, wrangling those beasts they pretended were dogs. He watched several passersby greet them. Black dudes, Latin guys, white girls. His boys were faces in this part of town, they had a name and were treated with respect, and it made Terry feel good. He kept watching, waiting for Deanie to join them.
There was Charlie, the strong one, and smart, the most like him. Oftentimes Terry wondered what was going on behind the boy’s eyes, so cryptic already despite his being twenty-two years old. Then there was Kenny. The kids considered him the crazy one. And it was true; consequences didn’t seem to occur, much less stick, to the boy. Where’d the attitude come from? Maybe it was shades of the young Vicky. The boy was a real wild card. Terry wanted to look upon them all, his three sons, together in the bright sun. But he kept on waiting until finally Charlie and Kenny closed up the car and headed into the day’s doings.
Sleeping it off, Terry supposed of Dean. Dean. He was just muddled up right now. He thought too much and got lost because of it. That’s what got him into trouble with the Latin chick. It was a long shot turning out one winner kid these days. When it came to three, the odds just plain sucked. At least one had to be a numbnut, so he was ahead of the game, he figured. He didn’t know whether Charlie and Kenny saw him or not, or whether they were focused on registering the dogs for whatever competitions were being held that day, but one way or another, they didn’t come over to him.
Just as well, he thought. He wasn’t there to see his sons, or the dog show, but to meet. He had a sit scheduled with Campbell Do-ray. It was a little soon. He’d hoped to get a dozen or more locations up and running and turning a profit, and they’d only done that at a fraction of the locations. But they’d sure as hell put a major pinch in the shake business across town, that was for shit sure, and any businessman could see the opportunity to fill that void. So while they hadn’t done as much as he’d hoped as far as revenue yet, with all the recent attention it seemed like a good time to get out, to monetize their efforts, and to move on. He assumed Doray would be happy to complete the deal now.
But he’s late, Terry thought to himself, more than half an hour. That was when he saw Larry Bustamante, dressed in civilian clothes, trundling toward him across the parking lot.
Fuck me, Terry thought, this isn’t good. He could see by the way Bustamante’s shirt was fitting, tight around his belly, but smooth, with no telltale bulge at the hip, that his brother-in-law wasn’t wearing his gun. He didn’t have one in an ankle holster either, because the big slob was wearing khaki cargo shorts and those rubber sandals over white tube socks. After a moment, Bustamante spotted him in the bleachers and headed over.
“Vicky tell you I was here?” Terry asked.
Bustamante nodded. “Who’re you meeting?”
Terry couldn’t see the harm in telling him. “Camp Doray.”
“Yeah?” Bustamante asked. He sounded skeptical, like he knew something. “He still wants to do it, even after all the press and shit?”
Despite the stifling weather, Terry felt gooseflesh rise on his arms at Bustamante’s words. It confirmed what he suspected: Doray wasn’t coming. Terry felt his face clench into a grim mask. Things had gotten too hot.
“Yeah, yeah, he’s not supposed to get here for a while.” The day’s temperature, the pork smell and exhaust and smoke in the air, and the sun-warmed odor of dog shit wafting over him conspired to make Terry queasy. He swallowed down on it hard and forced himself to meet Bustamante’s eyes.
“And you? What do you want?” Terry asked. Bustamante fidgeted and looked around but didn’t speak.
“Out with it. What’s up? I know it’s something. It’s all over your face.”
“They found the… package down by the river.”
Fuck! Terry was sure his heart ceased pumping and his blood stopped flowing for three seconds. Already? How’d they find it? Who found it for ’em? He wanted to shout the questions into Bustamante’s stupid, fat face. But he sipped air and spoke in what he hoped was a calm voice. “Well… we figured they might, eventually. How come I didn’t see it on the news?”
“Just happened. And they’re keeping it clamped down. When I heard, I knew you’d want to know,” Bustamante said, and settled into loud nasal breathing.
“Anything else, Lar?”
“I think I… I need a lawyer, Terry.”
THIRTY-NINE
Are these from the box at Aurelio Santos’s house?” It was Behr’s first question to Flavia when she’d entered, closed the door behind her, and turned to see him sitting there. He watched her struggle with the impulse to run, think better of it, and then walk to a chair across from him, where she sat. There was a slight tremor to her hand as she brushed a piece of hair back behind her ear, but she was doing a fairly impressive job of controlling her nerves considering someone had broken into her apartment. She looked at the Trojan Twist condoms that rested on the coffee table like she’d never seen them, or any other, before in her life.
“No-,” she began.
“Don’t say ‘no,’” Behr said, “I don’t want to hear it.”
She fell silent and it allowed him to take her in for a moment, her tanned legs, shining under a layer of moisturizer, or perhaps their own natural shimmer that spilled out from beneath a brief skirt. She wore a tight tank top that highlighted her toned arms and her breasts. She’d lost a bit of weight since the last time he’d seen her, and it suited her, though he remembered the prior fullness had suited her, too. It looked like she’d been missing some sleep, because she had slight dark circles under her eyes, which made her appear vulnerable and oddly young. He saw her glance at her $3,800 sitting there in a folded pile next to the condoms.
“Whose money-,” she started to ask.
“Come on,” Behr cut her off. “H
e put you here, Aurelio did, in this apartment, didn’t he?” When she didn’t respond he continued. “Juan Aybar and Max Sanchez moved you in when you split from your old place.”
Something about the details got to her. She looked up at him. He met her gaze and she nodded once.
“Yes, Maxie,” she smiled briefly. “They were so nice.”
“Come on, time to tell,” he urged.
“I used to see Auri at El Coqui,” she began.
“The restaurant?” Behr had heard of the place, which specialized in Latin-prepared seafood.
“Yes. And I recognized him from the shake house.”
“You’re a shake girl,” Behr said, appreciating how much business she must have rung up as hostess at the betting parlors.
“Yes. I served drinks, made conversation, drew the numbers-”
“You got the players to spend more.”
“Okay, yes,” she sighed, “I was working and making nice money for a year, year and a half, but then things changed. There was some kind of fight over the business, and some new owners took over. We were closed for a few days, but then they reopened and they kept me on. Things seemed cool, but then I made a big mistake.”
“You stole?”
She shrugged. “I always took a little, they made so much they never noticed. But it wasn’t that. I started seeing one of the bosses.” Behr looked at her, but checked his questions because she was starting to roll. “He seemed so nice at first. He was the quiet one. He was sweet to me, and handsome. Then things turned to shit and I wanted to leave it, but I couldn’t go.”
“Couldn’t leave the guy or the shake house?”
“Neither.”
“This was the same guy that put the beat-down on old Ezra,” Behr said. She didn’t answer. “Which one of the Schlegels was it?” he asked. He saw blank fear whiten her face.