Carriero chided himself for his careless phrasing. “No, I…I don ’ t know quite how to say it without seeming disloyal.” He stopped. He knew this wasn ’ t team play, not good for business, as they say, but he couldn ’ t help it.
The father looked at him pleadingly.
“There ’ s a man. He ’ s an investigator. I used to work with him. It can cost some money, but he ’ s…I don ’ t know what good it ’ ll do, but personal attention to this might be worth the cost.” He held out a worn business card. “He may not even be available,” the young patrolman continued, “but you never know.”
Paul felt himself deflate. He was hoping for some hard information, but a business card just didn ’ t help right now. His thought was to tell the officer about the two investigators they ’ d already tried, the sizable piece of their nest egg that they ’ d gladly spent but which had yielded only monthly meetings at a coffee shop as the investigators tried to pad their lack of results in thickly worded, laser-printed reports. Instead he just took the business card.
“Thanks. I better find my wife.” Paul pocketed the card and went off after her.
Carol sat, nearly catatonic, in the darkened living room. Night descended silently without her even noticing. The only light in the room flickered from the silent television. Her fragility was such that any disappointment at all had a gross weight and power.
The door opened and Paul walked in with Tater on a leash. He unclipped the dog, then walked over and switched off the television.
“Carol, let ’ s go on up to bed.”
Though she seemed not to hear him, she got up and walked toward the stairs, with Paul right behind her.
At the foot of the steps, Paul clicked on the switch illuminating the front of the house for Jamie, as they did every night.
Carol looked at him and then turned off the lights before going up.
FOUR
Paul skirted the city and its afternoon traffic, taking County Line until he hit Mitchner. Indianapolis was only a couple hours ’ drive from where he and Carol had gone to college, and also from where they ’ d grown up, and he had originally been drawn to the city for its many corporate and technological parks full of businesses and executives to whom he could sell insurance. The chance to buy a house of his own on a tree-lined street was an added bonus back then. Now he worked his way south into Warren and neared the Windemere Homes neighborhood, where the streets had been getting drab for the last several minutes. Lawns were not well tended there during the summer, much less in midwinter. Shrubbery was nonexistent. Most houses were on the one-more- year plan as far as repainting went. Even though the address was all the way out, Paul had decided to drive over without calling first. He couldn ’ t bring himself to go through it all over the phone, and this way, if he changed his mind at any point, he could just drive on.
He glanced over at the copy of Jamie ’ s file resting on the passenger seat. He checked the worn business card in his right hand as he drove. Frank Behr, the investigator ’ s name, had been familiar, but he hadn ’ t been able to place why, so he had Googled the man ’ s name. What came back was a story he remembered reading many years ago.
A man named Herb Bonnet, who worked at a trucking company, had become aware of the smuggling and selling of stolen farm equipment, and money laundering, by the owners of the company. Bonnet had gone to the police, and when the owners were indicted and word got out that he was set to testify, he was beaten badly by two anonymous attackers. It was like something out of the movies. Even though he was put in the hospital for a week, Bonnet didn ’ t relent on his plans to talk in court. One afternoon, while sitting guard duty outside Bonnet ’ s room, a patrolman, Frank Behr, looked down the hall through a glass-paneled door. A man was coming toward him, wearing a black pea coat and looking “all wrong and out of place,” Behr had been quoted as saying.
The patrolman leaped up and pushed a swinging door into the man in the pea coat, who turned out to be a gunman coming for Bonnet. Officer Behr put him into a wall, knocking over a cart of housekeeping supplies, as the man drew a. 38 with a taped handle. Officer Behr then disarmed him and wrestled him into custody. The would-be gunman, a distant relative of one of the owners of the trucking company who had been paid ten thousand dollars to kill Bonnet, ended up with a broken wrist. Officer Behr had become a local hero behind the incident. There were commendations. He was promoted off patrol to uniformed detective.
A decorated cop, even if it had been more than a decade ago, seemed worth the effort of a drive. A patch of two-story cement buildings with gray facades passed by outside Paul ’ s window, and the cars parked on the streets didn ’ t look like they ’ d been started lately. He slowed the Buick to a crawl and began checking addresses on the low buildings that looked like double-wide trailers sunk onto cinder-block foundations.
Paul pulled over and parked, taking the file with him as he got out of his car. Number 642 was either a depressing office or an even more depressing two-family residence. A dump truck passed in front of him and hit a pothole with a sound much like an explosion. The truck left Paul in a swirl of brick dust and exhaust, which cleared to reveal a homeless man on his knees, rummaging through several bags of garbage, on a patch of brown grass and dirt in front of 642. Half a pizza, coffee grounds, rotting ribs, a broken jar emitting rancid mayonnaise surrounded the man. Paul could smell it from five yards away. He walked past him to the door and knocked repeatedly, getting no answer. He suddenly saw the downside of just driving over without calling as he turned to look for another entrance. He didn ’ t see one and considered heading back toward his car.
“Who ’ re you looking for?” the homeless man on the ground asked in a clear voice.
Paul turned and regarded him. “Frank Behr. You know where I might find him?”
The man clambered to his feet, which took a long time, since he was so large. He was squared off all over, too, from hands to shoulders to jaw. He had a slightly ruddy face and a bushy mustache. The bridge of his nose showed he had worn a football helmet for several years of his life.
“I ’ m him. Who ’ re you?”
Paul spent a moment more than a little surprised. “Paul Gabriel. I might want to hire him…you.”
Behr slung a heavyweight bag of trash over his shoulder and gestured toward another. “You want to give me a hand with this? We ’ ll go inside and talk.”
“Bring the garbage inside?”
Behr shrugged. Paul hefted a bag and they walked toward the door.
The place was both office and home to the investigator, and it had all the charm of a brake-shop waiting room. A plaid recliner and a television tray covered with empty bottles were in close proximity to the television. The setup was that of a man who liked to watch sports and drink beer. Across the room, a crowded desk bearing an old computer, phone, and fax, a battered desk chair, and bulging file cabinets gave the impression that Behr liked his work but hadn ’ t gotten enough of it lately.
Behr dropped his bag in the middle of the floor and Paul followed suit. The investigator motioned for Paul to have a seat and left the room. A moment later he returned carrying two cans of soda.
“What ’ s with all this? If you don ’ t mind my asking.” An odor of sour milk and tuna fish began to permeate the room.
Behr handed Paul a can. “Trash archaeology. It ’ s Derek Freeman ’ s.”
“The Pacer?”
“Yeah, the power forward. I paid a guy I know twenty bucks to get it for me.”
“You must be a real fan.”
Behr looked at Paul, the slightest glint of humor in his eye. It wasn ’ t a confidential case. He decided to explain.
“The Trib hired me. Freeman ’ s suing them for libel over their report of him having an affair. You can learn plenty from someone ’ s trash. Receipts, empty prescription bottles. Discarded papers. Gambling receipts. Phone bills. Strange DNA on Q-Tips. Condoms when their wife is on the pill. They ’ re hoping I ’ ll prove their story. At least enough to keep them out of court. And I will.” Behr shrugged and popped his soda can open. If he was at all embarrassed about picking through refuse, he didn ’ t show it. As Behr drank off half his soda, Paul noticed the man
