“Yeah.”
“You know what he wants with Mary’s father? You know who her father is?”
Sunny shook her head, her curls sliding across her smooth shoulders.
“What about Bernie Kolodnik?”
“Who’s he?” The girl seemed open and innocent on this one. She really didn’t know. Behr felt his frustration rise. Kid had advertised that she was wired in.
“Bernard Kolodnik. Big-time developer. Bernie Cool?”
“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of Bernie Cool-”
“He’s going into politics, being named senator …”
“Right, right, politics” she said, and then a shrewd look came to her eye. “Well, there’s this political fixer guy, Shugie …”
“Saunders? White teeth, dark tan, a little older than me?” Behr asked.
She nodded.
“I know him.”
“Everyone knows him, he knows everyone,” she said. “That’s his thing. I mean this guy is out in the bars, the clubs, events, everywhere, like he gets paid for it or something. Anyway, my friend Lori … sees him.”
An errant volleyball bounced near them and rolled under a table. A chunky girl, spilling out of her bathing suit, top and bottom, ran over and collected it, laughing. Behr paused until she was gone.
“She dates him?”
“Not exactly. If I tell you, are you gonna go after her with this IRS jam too?”
“No.”
“She’s an escort.”
“Last name?” Behr had his notebook out.
“That’s up to her. And, dude,
Behr pocketed his notebook.
“Where do I find her?”
“Lorii Love at Indyblacktieclub.com. That’s two ‘i’s on the Lori on the Web site. There’s a personal e-mail for her.”
“I’m not sending her an e-mail, I want her damn address,” Behr said breezily.
“Fine,” Sunny answered back but in a tone that said
Sunny took out her phone and Behr told her his number while she clicked away a message.
“Indyblacktieclub.com is Barnes’s organization?”
“Yeah.”
“Go on,” Behr said, hearing his BlackBerry bing.
“Lenny hooked her up with Shug originally. Just a usual date, but it became a real regular thing. The guy’s freaking in love with her. It’s pretty sickening. He’s like fifty and always talking about their
“What’s
“I have no idea.”
“Who’s the perfect guy?” Behr demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“You know. And you’re gonna tell me,” Behr said, closing the distance between them a few inches.
“I don’t. I really don’t. I would tell you if I did. Shit, I’m telling you everything already. You’ve got me slung over a damn barrel.”
“All right. What
“No, private. A private investigator.”
“So Shug needed something done. Lenny had a private investigator,” Behr reiterated.
“That’s it. Exactly,” she said.
Behr felt like he’d reached maximum extraction from her. He asked her ten minutes of follow-up questions, but none went anywhere and it was time to shut it down. He nodded and started walking away.
“Hey,” she called out, “you’re not really gonna bone me on my taxes, are you?”
“No, I’m not, honey,” Behr said, “but we all gotta pay eventually.”
39
“ ’ello, dear.”
“Waddy!” Sandy’s voice came through the mobile loud and clear, from a mountaintop in Wales all the way to America’s godforsaken flatland, and put a pang in his chest. He tried to call every day when he was away for work. It was tougher years back before mobiles and sat phones, but now he was fairly religious about it.
“How are ya?” he asked.
“We’re all fine up here. Nobby’s doing a little better with the kidney medication.”
“Good news, that,” Dwyer said. Nobby was their shepherd, named after the legendary footballer. The shep had a hell of a bark, and unlike the saying, his bite was worse. Dwyer worried about his Sandy when he was away, both because of the enemies he’d collected, and run-of-the-mill arseholes, though she was plenty handy with the iron. He’d made sure of that when they’d first gotten married twenty-four years ago, and he occasionally made her go out and practice. She could fire tight, three-shot bursts while walking with an MP5, but her real skill was with a handgun. She was a cracking good shot with a SIG 9mm.
“You putting the alarm on nights?” he asked.
“Of course, dear.”
“Locking the gates?”
“Of course, dear.”
“The cameras up?”
“They are. Just how you left ’em,” Sandy said. “Any idea when you’ll be home?”
“Not quite yet,” he said. “Soon as I can though …”
Dwyer felt relaxed after he rang off, like he could go to sleep straightaway. Of course he couldn’t and wasn’t going to. Instead, he nosed the Lincoln into a spot in the big parking barn, slapped a cap on his head to look the part of an American punter, and headed inside.
40
The Indy Flats racino looked like the old Flamingo did in the pictures of early Vegas: an overbuilt facade, grand and flashy, standing lonely by a road in the middle of nowhere. Glowing red and gold and liquid neon purple even in daylight, it almost invited-implored-other structures to join it.
Behr had driven south from the Palms with a sick feeling in his gut over the connection he’d unearthed between Potempa and Barnes and Kolodnik’s man Shug Saunders. He had no idea what, if anything, it meant, but he didn’t like it. Potempa was a stand-up guy, by reputation and as far as Behr knew personally, but he was suffering over his daughter, and that could make someone vulnerable to all kinds of pressures.
He’d made his way around the city, got on 421 south, and began to pass square-box housing tracts that gave way to cornfields and eventually horse country. After a dozen more miles, he started seeing billboards and finally
