Thirteen Million Dollar Pop fb-3 Page 3

  “Nope,” Behr said. He remembered reading in the company’s introductory materials that Caro’s stance was that no individuals were to be named in news stories or press releases. “Security by the Caro Group” or “Investigative services provided by the Caro Group” was all the information that was supposed to be given.

  “That’s company policy, organization-wide.” Potempa spread his arms, indicating, no doubt, the dozen Caro Group offices out there dotted across the nation. “We stay behind the scenes, not out front. If anyone contacts you, refer them to Curt Lundquist.”

  Behr nodded. Lundquist was house counsel for Caro’s Indianapolis office and its mouthpiece in matters such as these.

  “What the hell happened between you and Breslau last night?” Potempa wondered.

  “You saw it. Guy’s got a way about him,” Behr said.

  “Uh-huh. He’s a cop with a real upward trajectory.”

  “Of course he is,” Behr said, and Potempa looked at him for a moment.

  “So, how long before your report on last night is done? It’s got to go to corporate.”

  “I was wondering if you wanted anything in particular left in or out,” Behr said. He was aware of how blunt the question might have sounded. He was also aware, painfully so, of how short his political skills landed when it came to things like this.

  “Smart question. Just write it the way it happened,” Potempa replied, in a way that gave Behr no real insight.

  “End of day then, on account of all the details.”

  “Get it done,” Potempa said, and Behr bit down. A handful of months wasn’t enough time to get used to taking orders after the years of doing it all his way. “I got something I need you on. If you’re up to it.” The challenge was out there. Behr stood.

  “Sure, Karl, whatever you need,” Behr said.

  “Oh yeah, here you go,” Potempa said, going into a desk drawer and coming out with Behr’s Glock.40 and magazines in a police evidence bag. “They just sent it over.”

  Behr nodded, took the bag, and headed for the door, where he paused. “The cops get anything, by the way? Wits? Security cameras?”

  “I haven’t heard yet, but don’t worry, they’re all over it like white on snow.”

  7

  “Purpose of your visit, business or pleasure?” the customs agent, a broad-faced, chesty Midwestern man, asked.

  “Vacation and sightseeing,” answered Waddy Dwyer, who stood in the hall for arriving international passengers at O’Hare Airport. Despite his answer, he was thinking about his business, which consisted of nipping a loose thread and finishing the Kolodnik job before it could be pulled at and unravel the whole bit of knitting. “Since the wife isn’t along, it might actually be pleasure.”

  The customs agent looked up with bored, heavy-lidded eyes from the mostly blank pages of Dwyer’s dummy passport. If the man had been looking at a real document, and Dwyer had made a habit of going in legally, he’d be thumbing through page after page of entry stamps from the Czech Republic, Hungary, Bosnia, Russia, Congo, Tanzania and three quarters of the rest of Africa, Java, Pakistan, the Middle East, and basically anywhere else there’d been a shitstorm of trouble. And the Maldives, too, but that was just for the scuba diving.

  “Have you been to a farm or agriculture site? Are you carrying any food, specifically fresh fruit or vegetables?” the agent asked in a bureaucratic monotone that could only lull an absolute imbecile into divulging anything important.

  “No,” Dwyer said.

  “Are you carrying more than ten thousand dollars’ worth of any currency?”

  “I wish,” Dwyer answered, although he was carrying twenty-five grand in four different packets that he’d taped to his abdomen and thighs in the lavatory during the last hour of the flight. Buying the clean weapons he’d need didn’t come cheap, and the sellers didn’t take Visa.

  The customs agent roused himself into a moment’s vigorous action as he abused Dwyer’s passport with a rubber entry stamp. The sound reminded Dwyer of the fishermen braining mackerel with wooden billy clubs down by the docks of Trefor. “Enjoy your trip,” the agent said, handing back the passport.

  Duly welcomed, Dwyer walked out of the customs hall and into the Chicago afternoon.

  8

  Behr’s write-up of events was a composite in style of a law enforcement incident report and the more detailed prose format that Caro expected. It took him several hours to complete, and he didn’t even bother hurrying. He started with Teague’s approach to him to handle the shift and continued all the way through to leaving the garage. He broke off from his work at lunchtime for half an hour and went to Shapiro’s for a sandwich. When it was time to pay, Behr found his check had been taken care of by a trio of Caro case managers who were eating in the corner. He gave them a salute of thanks as he left, which they returned, fists and thumbs in the air. By the time he got back to his desk and finished the report, printed one out for the files, and e-mailed digital copies to Potempa and Curt Lundquist, the brief stretched to more than eight typewritten pages.

  As for the thing Potempa had mentioned, Behr received it right before the end of the day. Moments after his report hit Potempa’s in-box, Ms. Swanton delivered to his desk a CD-ROM containing a case file on a string of unarmed robberies, thefts really, of a check cashing/money wiring business called Payroll Place. Payroll Place had sixteen locations throughout Indiana, southern Illinois, and northern Missouri. Canvas cash bags and strongboxes had been taken out of a half dozen armored cars and safe rooms over the past few months.

  As Behr looked over the file, it seemed possible an outside ring might have identified a weakness in the company’s security plan and was having a field day. But there was a company personnel list included, almost one hundred and fifty names, and Behr knew it was much more likely to be an inside job. That would account for the company’s avoiding the police and coming to Caro in the first place. The background checks on the employees who had access to cash and codes were standard surface-level time-of-hiring reports, but deeper p-checks were needed, and the police weren’t going to bother with something like that. Especially when the thefts were only netting between five and ten thousand dollars apiece and had been free of violence so far. Behr rubbed his temples, realizing he’d be chained to the computer and the courthouse, searching databases, until his coming child was in preschool. And when he’d finally narrowed the pool to a few dozen likely candidates, then the interviews would start …

  The end of the day was close enough at hand and the case represented far too much work to start now. Behr closed the file and glanced at his computer to see that Kolodnik had become the headline on the local news sites, but not, Behr noted with muted surprise, for what had transpired in the garage last night. That had been referenced in some short, linked articles, which chalked up the shooting to random violence, inner-city crime, and the glut of guns on the streets; but Kolodnik had made an announcement that was much bigger news.

  A press conference had been held-the one that Kolodnik had mentioned on his call before the shooting-to announce that the state’s senior senator had just resigned his seat to fight advanced prostate cancer, the junior senator was now senior, and there was an opening. In cases like this in Indiana, a special election wasn’t held. Instead, it became a gubernatorial appointment, and Kolodnik had been handpicked by the governor as the replacement to serve in the Senate until the next regular election four years out. The governor had tapped Kolodnik, saying, “His business and community leadership is unparalleled.”

  “I look forward to taking a leave of absence from the day-to-day operations of my company to act upon a long-held goal of mine: to enter into public service,” Kolodnik said, “to work to curb crime and increase prosperity for all Indiana citizens.” His stake in his company would be moved into a blind trust to be managed by a third party until such time as he left government. Barring any confirmation problems, Bernie Cool was going to Washington.

  He must have one h
ell of a PR machine, Behr mused, seeing how the shooting had been tucked away into obscurity behind the announcement. Then another thought lodged itself in Behr’s head, considering what little he had gotten done on his own day after: that’s one single-minded son of a bitch.

  There was a photo of the press event held in the glare of the sun on the statehouse steps right by the statue of old Oliver Morton, the governor during the Civil War. Behr made out a few of his counterparts behind Kolodnik, his neatly bobbed wife, and the governor up on the podium. He didn’t recognize them as Caro boys, at least not from the Indianapolis office, but he could spot the breed. They were professional body men, perhaps hired from Kroll, Executive Solutions, or Securitas-which was what Pinkerton was called these days-or maybe some other outfit. They looked like they were sweating up there in their blue suits and dark sunglasses. But Kolodnik didn’t look overheated. Of course he didn’t, he was Bernie Cool.

  Behr sat there, staring at the computer screen for a long, long time, wondering what else he thought. Then the tone of an incoming e-mail sounded. Behr clicked it open. It was a company-wide humor post from Pat Teague, a list entitled “Ten Reasons Guns Are Better Than Women.” Number ten was: “You can trade in a.44 for a.22,” and number one was “You can buy a silencer for a gun.” Behr put the computer to sleep, stood, and left for the day.

  9

  “What about that one?” Susan said, pointing to a girl in a plaid skirt and white blouse sitting momentarily alone at the bar. “Strawberry blonde. Pretty face.”

  “The hair works …” Chad Quell, her coworker agreed.

  “You’d know,” Susan laughed. “You probably spend more time on yours.”

  “Very funny. But I’m gonna pass. Too much makeup and I don’t do cankles,” Chad said.

  “Cankles?”

  “Calf and ankles with no delineation in between.”

  “ ’Ey, don’t harsh on the cankles, young man,” Susan said.

  “C’mon, you’ve got special dispensation. A pregnancy pass.” Chad smiled.

  “Thanks a lot,” Susan said. There were moments when she saw the beauty in it-the round belly, the glow of incipient motherhood, nature’s majesty. There were other times when she just felt big and sloppy and with her youth behind her.

  “Can’t believe it-little Suzy Q., having a little one of her own.”

  “Better believe it,” Susan said, even though she still had trouble doing so herself most of the time. She surveyed the big table, nine or ten chairs now empty, the detritus of plates of buffalo wings, timber fries, beer bottles, and hurricane glasses with the pink swill of strawberry margaritas in the bottoms. The Wild Beaver wasn’t her choice, but some of the guys from the office liked it because of the sassy female bartenders, and the girls were happy to come along; so even though it was her good-bye to the office before maternity leave, she didn’t protest.

  “What about one of those bartenders? You can fight through the competition.”

  “Maybe. Not sure assless chaps and dancing on the bar are good credentials for my next girl,” Chad said, scanning the sexy pair pouring drinks for a few rows of guys.

  “Don’t try and act like a grown-up for my benefit-it doesn’t wash. You’d love a girl in assless chaps.”

  “Speaking of grown-ups, wasn’t Grandpa Behr supposed to be meeting you?”

  “He is.”

  A pause ensued, during which Chad seemed to wrestle with himself over something he had to say.

  “Suzy …” he began.

  “Yeah?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just … what are you getting out of this?” Chad didn’t wrestle very hard or for very long. “I just don’t see it … I mean, how many divorces does this guy have rattling along behind him?”

  “One, for god’s sake, Chad,” Susan said.

  “And that other stuff. All that other stuff. This guy’s got baggage. He’s got a frigging luggage carousel spinning around his waist. And now with the kid on the way … I just don’t see it.”

  “I do. And luckily you don’t need to.”

  “All right, all right.” Chad retreated. “You want another drink?”

  “No, I’ve had my one beer,” she said.

  “You’re some kind of saint, Suzy.”

  Behr made his way through the faux-log-cabin-themed bar toward the tables in the back. The crowd he waded through had made good use of their happy hour and were well on their way to being juiced. It was still early, but the music was loud. The place was a long way from the lodge it was trying to resemble. As he cleared a column, he saw her sitting there, pregnant, looking like she was ready to leave. And her little buddy Chad was there next to her, like a dog waiting underneath the table for a scrap to fall. He walked over to them, ran his hand over her blond hair.

  “Hey, Suze,” he said. “Some place you picked.”

  “Guys from the office picked it,” she said, smiling up at him.

  “I feel ten years too old to be here.” Behr shook his head.

  “Fifteen,” Chad said, “and overdressed too. How you doing, Franklin?”

  “Chadwick,” Behr said. “Still trying to develop that personality, I see.”

  “And that’s coming from the master. Well …” Chad said, pushing away from the table, “duty calls.” He gave Susan a half hug, stood, and made for the bar, where a gaggle of young professional females were sizing up a row of shot glasses along a six-foot-long wooden beaver tail.

  “Be careful out there, player,” Susan called after him, then turned to Behr.

  He didn’t know if her little party was done or if some of her coworkers were at the bar. He meant to offer her the chance to stay, but “You ready to go?” is what he said.

  The units at Broad Ripple Arbor were clean and neat and spacious, with brand-new stainless steel appliances, cream-colored walls, and spongy gray carpet. There was a pool, a common room with a big-screen television, a fitness center, and an outdoor barbecue. The residents were mostly young professional couples, and more and more of them were having babies, which was giving the complex a family feel. It was near the Monon Trail, which was good for jogging, rollerblading, strollering.

  Behr’s feelings were mixed. He didn’t feel at home in the well-scrubbed, almost cookie-cutter complex. We should have a house, he thought, as he followed Susan, a car length back, but the town house was a big step up from their current situation. There was no denying that. A three bedroom had just come available at the Arbor. It needed to be painted and cleaned and they could take it in about five days. All they needed to do was give a check for first, last, and security-forty-five hundred dollars-and pass the credit check.

  Behr parked and made his way up the steps of their place. He knew Susan liked the town house. If they moved quickly, they could be in and settled before the baby came. He reached the door, where Susan waited. There was a wooden crate with his name on it blocking their way. Behr bent and saw a Laurel Ridge return address. Laurel Ridge was one of the highest-end neighborhoods in Carmel, which was about the highest-end suburb of the city. Behr bent, lifted the box, and carried it inside.

  Once in the kitchen, he used a flathead screwdriver to pry the lid off.

  “What’s that?” Susan asked.

  “Don’t know,” Behr said. He pushed back packing straw to find smooth green wine bottles lined up, torpedo-like, in rows. The labels read: Harlan Estate, the Maiden, Napa Valley Oakville Cabernet Sauvignon.

  “Who sent it?”

  “Not sure.”

  “So you want to take the town house?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I know it’s kind of expensive for a rental.” It was true, fifteen hundred a month was a much bigger monthly nut than Behr was used to, but that’s the way things were headed.

  “Yeah, it’s not that-”

  “And it’s not as private as we were hoping for …”

  “Right.”

  “We could-”

  �
�Just let me breathe on it for a minute.” He said it quiet and calm, but the words themselves were strong and certainly didn’t invite further conversation on the topic.

  Down between some of the bottles Behr found an envelope and opened it. Inside was a card with the letters “BK” embossed at the top that bore the handwritten message: With my deep thanks, Bernie.

  “It’s from Kolodnik.”

  “That’s nice,” Susan said, knowing enough not to dwell on the apartment question for the moment.

  “Yeah,” Behr said, pulled a bottle out of the case and took it to the computer. He sat down and punched the wine’s name into Google and quickly learned that it scored in the high 90s in all the major ratings.

  “Retails for two-fifty a bottle, case price twenty-two hundred,” he said.

  “That’s an expensive gift, Frank,” Susan said.

  “Technically I should declare it to the company,” he said, turning the bottle in his hands.

  “What are you going to do, O ye of fancy friends?” she wondered.

  “I’m gonna drink it,” he said, rummaging in the drawer for a corkscrew.

  “Aren’t you supposed to wait a few weeks after shipping for it to settle?”

  Behr just looked at her and pulled the cork.

  10

  A bright orange wind sock, luffing in the breeze.

  It was the first conscious memory Shugie Saunders had. He was five years old, standing out on the tarmac at Hendricks County Airport, waiting to fly to Cincinnati with his parents. He had seen the sock filling and turning and instinctively understood why the airplanes were taxiing around, taking off, and landing according to which way the wind blew. It made sense to him, young as he was.

  It was something he had taken with him all the way through his school years and into politics. Some called him a campaign manager, others an adviser, still others a fixer, but thirteen state senators, a dozen mayors, and the last three governors would all agree that when it came to the Indy political scene, Shugie Saunders was a necessity. But that day of clarity on the runway was forty-three years ago. Things weren’t so clearly indicated now. The wind sock was either hanging limp or blowing around in all different directions these days.