Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

for you.”

Dwyer had an idea what would happen if they reached Banco and described him and what he wanted, but he also saw his opportunity, so he just nodded slowly.

Till man went and got a mobile and punched through the phone’s address book until he found the number and pressed Send. The room got quiet and Dwyer could hear the muted sound of Banco’s phone ringing. It went on for a long time, a good dozen rings, with no voice mail picking up. It gave Dwyer the idea that they were calling a landline, not a cellular. Finally, the till man’s eyes flared.

“Hola, guanaco. Soy Benito …” Dwyer listened as the till man-Benito-laid out the situation for Banco. He watched as the man listened to Banco’s response. The man’s face was placid, betraying nothing. He looked like someone reading a magazine in a doctor’s office, waiting for his appointment, despite the fact that Banco was probably saying, “Don’t fucking tell him where I am!” or “Kill him!” or “Run!” The lad across from him was good, Dwyer had to concede.

Dwyer held out his hand, as if it were his turn to talk. “Lemme say hi,” he said. Instead the man clicked off the call.

“He said ‘chill,’ he’ll be right over.”

“Great!” Dwyer replied.

Benito, the till man, stood and spoke to his compadre in flat Spanish. Dwyer didn’t flinch or in any way reveal what he’d heard: “I’m going to get this guy a cooler. We can’t let him leave.”

“Cerveza?” Benito offered, heading for the kitchen.

“Sure,” Dwyer said. As soon as he stepped away, Dwyer turned to cafe con leche. “You can have that. Count it, make sure it’s five thousand even.”

Cafe con leche picked up the money and was counting greedily by the time Dwyer had crossed to the kitchen. The Ceska was raised at head level as the freezer door closed, revealing Benito’s face. Dwyer fired and saw the “cooler,” a chilled.38, fall from the man’s hand. Dwyer was back in the living room just as cafe con leche was picking up the baseball bat. It wasn’t a fair fight.

The third to last thing Dwyer did was scroll the mobile and get Banco’s number from the contact list, memorizing it, then erasing it. The second to last thing he did was wipe down the phone and drop it on the couch and pick up his five thousand dollars. Then he noticed he was standing in blood, so the last thing he did was step out of his shoes and head for the door carrying them.

Now that he was back in his shite hole and all was cleaned up, including his shoes, he went on his computer to reverse directory Banco’s number. Banco had a bit of a head start, but hopefully it was one that Dwyer could make up.

31

Behr still got to work on the early side, and he watched as the office came to life around him. He would have preferred to be sitting in Potempa’s chair when his boss arrived for the day, surprising him into sharing some information. It was a technique Behr had learned from an old NYPD detective and had employed in the past when he had clients of his own who balked at paying their bills. They’d walk in the door of their office to find Behr had gained entry and was seated behind their desk, leafing through their bills.

“Telephone, office supplies, cable, electric,” Behr would say. “Why is mine all the way at the bottom of the pile?” Most of the time the shaken customer would pay him what was owed on the spot just to get him out of there. Of course that was when he was an independent operator. Now, at Caro, there was a billing department and accountants, and collection agencies after that, to chase down unwilling clients who refused to pay what they owed.

Behr figured he was owed something on this one too-namely answers. He’d put himself in harm’s way doing his job for the company, after all. But Potempa had a career in law enforcement behind him and wouldn’t be rattled by a cheap parlor trick like an office bushwhack.

Potempa walked in a little before 9:00, his perfect steel-gray coif floating above the tops of the cubicle dividers. Behr checked an urge to rush him with questions. He managed to sit out most of the day, doing a little work-as well as some Internet searches of Terry Cottrell that turned up nothing-but shortly after lunch, while the office was nearly emptied out, Potempa arrived back, and Behr made a beeline for his door. He had a hand against it before it had closed all the way.

“Karl, can I have a word?” Behr said.

“Make some time with Ms. Swanton-” Potempa began, before seeing the manila envelope in Behr’s hand.

“Now would be better,” Behr said, shaking the envelope a bit.

“All right,” Potempa said, a slight rigidity gripping his body.

Ms. Swanton looked on with muted curiosity as Behr went into Potempa’s office.

Potempa slid into his leather desk chair, and to Behr he appeared to have aged five years since the day before.

“Are we scheduling daily chats now?” Potempa said, a wary veil over his black eyes.

“I saw your conversation on the street in front of the Canterbury last night,” Behr said.

“Oh yeah?” Potempa said, the veil dropping lower.

“Yeah,” Behr said. A lot of people debated whether or not to tell a friend when they find out his wife is cheating on him. Behr preferred to lead with the truth, even if it was bad news. But then this wasn’t about a cheating wife, and he and Potempa weren’t friends.

“How’d that happen-coincidence or are you surveilling me?” Behr looked over Potempa’s shoulder at the photos of his daughter, pictured her as a dyed blonde, and was sure of what he’d discovered. By way of answer, Behr raised the envelope and flipped it onto Potempa’s desk.

“Is that …?” Potempa almost barked, leaning forward and reaching for the envelope. He tore into it like a battlefield medic ripping open a compression bandage over a wounded soldier. A gamut of emotions played over his face as he slid the jewel case free: horror, elation, relief. “I can’t believe you got it. I can’t believe you got it …” he said.

“Karl,” Behr said. “Karl,” he repeated. Potempa finally looked to him, his hands shaking slightly as he held the case. “We have to assume this isn’t the original. That there are copies. Multiple copies.”

Potempa’s shoulders sagged and he rocked back in his chair as the reality landed on him. “Right … of course …” It was too early for a drink, but Behr caught the older man’s eye glancing longingly at the decanter on the credenza.

“Did you look at it?” he asked.

“I did-”

“Ah, goddammit, Frank,” Potempa erupted, before his head sank into his hands.

“I’m sorry, Karl, I had to know what I was dealing with.”

“And do you now?” Potempa asked.

“It’s pretty clearly a sex-video blackmail scheme,” Behr said. “But I’d like to know the particulars.”

“Would ya?” Potempa said. His eyes went to the Scotch once again, but he turned admirably away from it. “I suppose you deserve to know,” Potempa said. “But first the video. Is it … bad?”

“I have the girl as your daughter,” Behr said.

Potempa nodded forlornly.

Any puritanical thinking about sex aside, Behr knew what he was asking. “Yeah, it’s bad.”

“Should I watch it?”

“It’s pretty rough. I wouldn’t if I were you,” Behr said, somehow feeling that Potempa would watch it at some point, perhaps late at night, alone in his house or this very office, driven past the point of good sense by a morbid need to know.

“Does he hurt her?” Potempa wondered.

“No. It’s what I’d call … consensual,” Behr said.