by David Levien
“According to whom?”
“That person would prefer not to be named.”
Behr chewed over whom they’d checked with and what his reputation might be “weak” in before speaking again. “If it’s just a question of economics, pay me one-fifty an hour. You’ll still be making out that way.”
“A hundred,” Lundquist said.
“Fine,” Behr said, immediately wondering if he’d gone too cheap. Either way, this would be a score for him. A hundred an hour to run down an ATM trail or credit card pattern that would lead, despite what the bosses thought, to a lost weekend at a riverboat casino or Glitter Gulch hotel with some strippers or bar girls or hookers. And this time he wouldn’t be giving back any retainer. Unlike with Shipman, there was no personal connection here. Even though it wouldn’t take long, this time around he’d be “Frank the Milkman” all the way. It could finance him through his Aurelio investigation and beyond. “So, I’ll just need to look at their files and computers then.”
“Sorry, company materials aren’t available for view by outside individuals,” Lundquist said.
“Okay …,” Behr said. “Well, that ups the degree of difficulty.”
“We’re also going to need you to sign this,” Lundquist said, taking a piece of paper out of his binder and sliding it toward Behr, who picked it up and looked it over.
“A confidentiality agreement?” Behr said.
“We’d prefer word of us hiring outside didn’t get around,” Potempa explained.
“Right,” Behr said. “Of course. Can I speak to some of their coworkers then?”
“We can’t… would prefer not to … involve … other company personnel,” Potempa said, the baritone tightening up now. “That’s one of the reasons we’re hiring—”
“Then can you fill me in on what they were working?” Behr said, quickly becoming tired of the game. There was a long, silent pause in response. “If you don’t give me anything, where am I supposed to start?”
Potempa shifted uncomfortably again, tapped his fingers against a crystal paperweight of a size better suited to bludgeoning intruders than holding down documents, then exchanged a nod with Lundquist, who spoke. “They were checking the status of … properties … for a client.”
“A client?” Behr asked flatly, already knowing they weren’t going to tell him who that client was.
“Yes. A client.”
“I don’t suppose you can tell me—”
“No,” Lundquist answered.
“Can you at least tell me what type of property and where the hell they are?” Behr asked as patiently as he could. The meter’s already running, and includes this meeting, he thought.
The two men exchanged another look, and Potempa nodded before Lundquist went to his alligator binder once more for a sheet of non-letterhead paper, which he fed across the desk. “Derelict houses,” Potempa said. Behr looked over a list of a dozen addresses. Franklin Street, Thirty-third, Arrington, a few other streets Behr recognized. Mostly near Brightwood, on the northeast side, and some other shit areas. The parts of town where a real estate speculator of any stature—certainly the kind of businessman who would hire a Caro Group—would not be buying or selling.
Lundquist filled the silence. “So the gag agreement we mentioned—”
“Curt…,” Potempa intoned, giving the lawyer a “take it easy” gesture with his hand.
“Sorry, Karl,” Lundquist whispered.
Behr picked up the page and looked at it, and then the men. He had more questions but realized they were looking to him for answers, not the other way around.
It was the part of the meeting where he was supposed to say, “I’ll get on it then,” and sign the nondisclosure and start getting paid. But Behr found himself unable to do or say anything like that. The problem, he quickly realized, in taking big dollars from a top shop was that it came with a caveat: you had to deliver. Failing to do so because he had both hands tied behind his back from the start was no way to build that reputation Potempa had mentioned earlier. And then there was the fact that his friend had recently been scraped off his own gym floor, and something needed to be done about it.
Christ, Behr thought a moment before he spoke, I’m physically unable to make money. It’s just not in my DNA.
“I’m gonna take a pass on this one, gentlemen,” he said, then slid their paperwork back across the desk and headed for the door.
THIRTEEN
It was weird, but her stomach looked flatter in the two-piece than it did in the single. Susan appraised herself in the mirror. She wasn’t that religious when it came to the aerobics and gym time in general, but maybe it was time to get some religion. No more “pour me into it” party dresses for her. She should at least start swimming again. She pictured herself churning up the lanes back in college—it seemed like a long, long time ago, much longer than ten years. She pulled her hair back into a pony and checked her sleepy eyes. She wondered if her mouth had recently started turning down at the corners more than usual, and whether she was on her way to starting to look old.
She thought about putting on some makeup, but smiled and just rubbed in some tinted sunscreen moisturizer. They were headed down past Bloomington to Lake Monroe, where her boss kept a boat. There would be swimming, tubing, maybe skiing. She checked her top. It seemed secure enough that her business wouldn’t go flying when she hit the water. Her phone rang, Frank on the line. A fist of tension knotted around her at the sound of his voice. They’d said their “sorries,” but that hadn’t gotten at the issue. Not really, and she knew it was her fault. She pulled up a striped mini and threw on a denim shirt up top. She put a couple of towels in a backpack, grabbed her sunglasses and some lip gloss, and headed for the door.
The cornfields formed a corridor of green as they drove down 37. The windows were open and warm morning air blew through the car in place of conversation.
“I’m here,” Behr had said into his cell phone when he’d pulled up in front of Susan’s apartment building. “You need help with anything? … All right, see you in a minute,” he’d said before he hung up.
“Hi,” “no,” and “I’ll be right down,” were all that constituted her side of the conversation. He tried to interpret what kind of day he had ahead of him, but based on that, he’d have done better if she’d sent him a braille telegram.
“How are you?” she’d said when she got in the car.
“Okay, considering,” he answered. “You?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look good.”
“Thanks,” she said, and then gave a glance at his clothes. “You’re wearing that?”
He looked down and realized the jacket and tie he’d worn to the meeting didn’t scream “day at the lake.” “I’ve got some shorts in the trunk.”
She shrugged and then fiddled with the radio before letting it rest on WFBQ playing Jackson Browne.
That had been it for the last half hour. Then she said: “So his name is Ed. My boss.”
“Ed Lindsey, right?” Behr nodded.
“His wife is Claire. The rest of my department will be there too, some others from the paper and maybe a few faculty from Indiana U-Purdue, where Ed volunteer teaches.” Behr just looked at the road.
When they’d passed Bloomington, and the signs for Monroe Lake and French Lick started popping up, Susan pointed out the window at a Kroger. “We should stop and get something.” Behr turned off.
Too many signs in the front windows, place is ripe for a strong-arm job, Behr thought, following Susan through the store. An armed team comes in and locks the door, and no one outside can tell there’s a robbery in progress. If someone does trip an alarm, suddenly you’re in a Dirty Harry movie. No clean views or angles from outside for the cops once they did arrive. Most urban stores consider this when they’re hanging their specials posters.
He almost bumped into Susan when she stopped at a refrigerated produce case and he nearly shook his head to clear out the useless chatter
in it.
“How does this look?” she asked, holding up a tray of cut celery, carrots, and either cucumber or zucchini. “Some crudités?”
Behr shrugged. She put it down. “You’re right, don’t overthink it. Beer.” He followed her down an aisle and felt his feet slowing and his head turning. They were in the pharmacy area on the way to the beverage section. There was a shelf full of boxes—pastel pink with maroon script writing—that seemed familiar. He slowed to a stop. He knew why. There was a torn piece of cardboard in his bathroom trash can—a box flap, which contained a few letters but no full words—that he could swear was from the same product. Looking at it now he saw it was an at-home pregnancy test. Early Response. Doesn’t mean anything, he said to himself and glanced ahead at Susan, who was just turning the corner at the end of the aisle. He continued walking, no longer feeling his feet. Before long he was holding a twelve-pack of Heineken, then putting it down on the black rubber conveyor belt, paying for it, and they were back in the car.
Lake Monroe glittered like a handful of uncut diamonds had been thrown down on its surface. The trees were bunched thick and green along the shore. The sound of birds was ripped by the powerboats and WaveRunners that gnashed across the water. There was a small sprig of dock with a twenty-five-foot Bayliner tied to it, and not far away about a dozen people were clustered around a picnic table loaded down with cold cuts, coolers, grocery bags, and a sack of charcoal. Susan led the way in. Behr followed, carrying the beer.
“Hey, y’all,” she said, moving into the group, fake shoulder bumping a few of them. A round of “Susan!” went up. It was clear to Behr she was pretty high on the popularity depth chart. Susan turned, making room for him, and he plunked down the Heinekens on a corner of the table, and then she introduced him around. “Welcome, welcome,” said her boss, Ed Lindsey, head of circulation for the Indianapolis Star. He was an older man with curly hair and a potbelly, and Behr liked him immediately. The same didn’t go for Chad Quell, a twenty-five-year-old with a big white smile and an expensive haircut.
“So this is your better half, huh Suzy Q.?” Chad said to her as if Behr wasn’t there. “You told him lake not funeral, right?”
“Chad is in ad sales,” Susan said to fill the resulting awkward silence.
“Don’t underrate me, I am ad sales.” He smiled.
“And modest,” she said.
“It’s true, I’m not top dog. Yet. But the guy who is? He’s like forty-three, so it won’t be long before I run him down.”
“Hard to believe the newspaper business is collapsing with you in it,” Behr said, putting a pretty good pall over the proceedings. But Susan’s boss bailed him out.
“You just keep selling, Chad,” Lindsey stated, “the rest will work itself out.”
“So says the old hand,” the kid answered, before he ripped open the twelve-pack and helped himself to a beer. “It’s cocktail hour somewhere, isn’t it?” he said to the group. There were a few takers. He offered one to Susan.
“Too early for me,” she declined. Chad shrugged and started loading the rest into a cooler that already held a good supply of domestic light. Frank said hello to several other men and women from various departments on the paper, and also met the petite Mrs. Lindsey, “Call me Claire,” who appeared from somewhere holding a big bowl of German potato salad.
“Oh, come with me, Frank,” Susan said, pulling him away from the group to where a tall, thin man with salt and pepper hair stood smoking.
“Frank, this is Neil Ratay.”
Ratay turned. “Hello, Susan.”
“He’s a reporter. You’ll have tons to talk about,” she said.
Ratay extended a hand and he and Behr shook.
“Frank Behr. I’ve read you,” Behr said. Ratay was a crime reporter who delivered a steady supply of terse, informative descriptions of home invasions, domestic beatings, and drug murders to the Star’s readership.
“Pleasure,” Ratay said, putting his cigarette between his lips. “Have I heard your name?” he asked, breathing out a cloud of smoke.
“Could have. Couldn’t have been recent,” Behr said. Ratay just shrugged.
Lindsey, followed by some of the others, all carrying beers, made his way down to the dock. “First flotilla’s leaving. Who’s aboard?” he shouted.
“I’m in,” Susan called. She turned to Behr. “You coming?”
“You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll go change and get on the next ride.” She nodded and went after the group, which included Chad.
Behr went back to the car and took his time about it. He stood behind the open trunk and changed into shorts. He strolled back down to the picnic table where the landlubbers were congregated. Across the way, Ratay was finished smoking but didn’t rejoin the group. Instead, he sat down on a stump and watched the boats zip back and forth on the lake.
“You’re a strong-looking boy, you’re drafted,” the nearly sixty-year-old Claire Lindsey said, pointing to a big bag of Kingsford briquettes. He hadn’t been called a boy in some time. Amused, Behr hefted the bag, dumped it into a nearby Weber Kettle, and made a pyramid as directed by the hostess. He doused it with lighter fluid, tossed a match, and then grabbed a beer. Ratay drifted over and offered Behr a cigarette from his pack. Behr declined. Ratay lit his own by waving the end through the orange flame that leaped out of the grill. Behr sipped his beer, Ratay smoked, and they both settled in to watch the charcoal whiten.
Before long the boat returned and Susan and Chad came up the dock together laughing over some office joke.
“Holding down the fort?” Chad asked.
“Yep. All taken care of,” Behr said. Susan gave him a “be nice” look.
“Late enough for you yet?” Chad asked Susan, opening a fresh beer. She shrugged and accepted the bottle, though she didn’t drink from it. She set it down in front of her, Behr noticed.
“You’ve gotta come out on the boat, Frank. It’s awesome,” she said.
“Okay,” he said, “in a while.”
Claire was hovering over a cooler pulling out hamburger patties. Susan saw it and went to her. “Let me help you get those going, Claire …”
Chad leaned against the table near Behr. “So what do you do, dead eyes?” Chad asked. Behr turned and stared into Chad’s silver-framed sunglasses, the word “Armani” stenciled on the left lens.
“I’m a librarian,” he said. Behr felt Ratay smirk over his shoulder.
“Yeah? Interesting work. Dewey Decimal and all,” Chad tried to play back. Maybe he was just making conversation.
“Right.” Behr walked away. He found a spot that looked out over a glen of trees and toward a cove that held a few luxury houses that shared a common dock. He stood there for a while thinking about Aurelio, and how to get a toehold in his investigation.
“Beautiful isn’t it?” Susan said, putting a soft hand on the small of his back. Behr nodded. More than that, he appreciated the gesture. “Wouldn’t be too bad having a place out here,” she said.
“Nope,” he agreed, “sure wouldn’t.” He figured he might as well keep it positive, but that was the ten years between them talking. At her age, he’d have thought, “Why not?” just like her. Now he knew why.
“Let’s go out on the boat and get a burger when we’re back,” she suggested.
“Sure thing, Suzy Q.,” he said.
“Oh, stop. He’s harmless.” She elbowed him.
Behr followed her and a few others down the dock. He felt Chad walking behind them without even looking back, and as they boarded, he saw he was right.
“Hang on, my babies,” Ed said, behind the wheel, and he pushed the throttle forward, jumping the big Evinrude outboard to life. Behr could see what looked like a large rubber banana with handles tied to the port side. As they reached the middle of the lake, Ed throttled down to an idle. He moved to the side and untied the yellow float, letting it pay out behind the boat on a long nylon rope. “All right,” he said, “who’s up for a ride?”
“No thong, Suze? Awwwww,” Chad said. Behr looked at him and considered punching him in the face.
“Shut it, Chad,” she said, jumping into the lake. A moment later she surfaced with a “Yeow! Cold.”
“How many does it hold, Eddie?” Chad said, peeling off his shirt. Behr saw Chad had a suntan over hairless washboard abs. It looked like he shaved or waxed himself down like a triathlete.
“Four,” Ed said, “unless Frank wants to go. In that case we should hold it to three.”
“I’m good for now,” Behr said as Chad hit the water with a splash. Jenny, a chunky thirty-year-old from layout, stripped down to a one-piece and lumbered over the gunwale.
