“Yeah,” Decker said, “so did I.”
And that was the end of it.
42
Dwyer had his hand around the CZ, thumb on the safety. He had followed the big pro back north on 421 toward Indianapolis until the road turned into the main interstate. It was an easy tail in medium traffic and, not knowing the city, Dwyer couldn’t be sure exactly where they were headed when the big pro exited the interstate and rolled into the run-down part of town, until all of a sudden-bang-he did know, and a sense of disbelief, concern, and disgust exploded inside him. The big pro slowed and parked in front of 1701 Wilmette. Banco’s building.
Dwyer stuck to his training, rolling slowly by and turning three consecutive rights in order to reach the head of the block on Wilmette again, behind the big pro, where he could observe him and the building but not be seen.
Dwyer racked his brain but couldn’t, for the love of god, put it together to any satisfactory degree.
The big pro crossed to the front door, traced a finger down the tenant list, and pressed a buzzer. He waited a long time, but there seemed to be no answer. Dwyer had been willing to leave Banco alive, for the time being, to find out more about what had happened, who else might know anything, and to make sure his little insurance policy was only fictional. If the man recovered, miraculously, Dwyer could use him to help with the cleanup job he was doing. He was at the very least content to let the man die on his own. But that was yesterday. Now one thing was for certain: if the big pro was buzzed in, the Saiga shotgun was coming out of the trunk and Dwyer would enter and erase both of them right-bloody-now.
The big pro stood there, ringing the buzzer repeatedly to no avail. Either Banco wasn’t there or was smart enough not to answer. Dwyer imagined the big pro would find his way around the back door before long, and wondered whether he should take him there, before things went any further. But then the big pro took out his mobile and put it to his ear-he was answering a call, as he hadn’t dialed one. He checked his watch and hurried to his car at a pace that was just short of a run.
Dwyer was tempted to go in and cauterize the bleeding vessel that was Banco, but he’d have to go in shooting to do that, and he preferred to be elsewhere when Banco expired, not standing over him with a hot gun. He was also more than a little curious as to who the big pro was and where he was headed next, so he put his car in gear and followed.
43
“I want to thank you for this bonding opportunity with everyone from your company
Behr had been buzzing the front door of the address Decker had given him, getting no answer and planning to come back with a bump key to make entry, when Susan had called. He was already forty minutes late for the company picnic, with a twenty-minute drive to get there. By the time he arrived, cars choked both sides of the street.
“Sorry,” he said, glancing around Potempa’s backyard at his coworkers, who were dressed in short-sleeve dress shirts and sunglasses, and eating cold shrimp and drinking beer in the afternoon sun. He saw Potempa, in a Panama hat, standing nearby next to a cooler. He drilled into Potempa with his eyes, but they were under the hat’s brim and behind sunglasses too, and they told him nothing.
“This whole thing is awesome. Really awesome,” Susan went on. “I have every bit of detail I need to re- create Betsy Malick’s salmon recipe.”
“Okay-”
“And Cheryl over there”-she pointed to a tall, gawky woman about her age-“she’s hoping to be Mrs. Reidy one of these days. They’ve been dating for three years but she’s pretty sure they’re ‘getting close.’ ”
“I get that you’re not pleased,” Behr said.
“I’m just a little low on humor. And patience,” she said.
“Never cross a pregnant woman,” Behr said. “Noted.”
“Glad you dressed for the occasion …” Potempa said, swinging to a stop next to them. Behr had had the good sense to shuck his jacket and tie in the car, but he had to acknowledge he wasn’t doing much of a job of fitting into the Caro corporate culture. Potempa jammed a frosty Michelob Ultra into his hand. “Drink that and grab another, you’re behind.” It was the kind of comment usually made in jest, but there wasn’t much mirth to the way Potempa said it.
“Thanks,” Behr said. “Have you met Susan? Suze, this is Karl Potempa-he runs the whole shooting match.”
“I said hi to Mr. Potempa earlier.” Susan smiled.
“And I told her to call me Karl then,” Potempa said smoothly, showing Behr how good he must be at the client-relations game when he had less on his mind.
“Listen,” he said to Behr quietly, but not quietly enough that Susan didn’t hear, “some clients may be stopping by, and John Lutz is one of ’em. If you see him, make yourself as scarce as your work product on his case.”
Behr could only nod, and Potempa moved on.
“You’re pretty popular around here.”
“Oh yeah, the fair-haired boy.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just office bullshit. Can I get you a plate?” Susan shrugged and Behr headed for the buffet.
He was standing over a massive platter of barbarically rare roast beef when Pat Teague’s laugh boomed across the backyard. Behr felt his head whip around at the sound. He hadn’t seen nor thought much of Teague since the night he’d asked Behr to fill in on the Kolodnik job, and the morning after. Teague stood next to a raw bar with Reidy and Malick, chortling into the rim of his beer bottle, and a chill spread over Behr despite the warm air.
Particularly dark notions can grow slowly. The mind turns away from the worst. It was human nature. Behr had trained himself to stare nasty thoughts down, but he wasn’t immune to the instinct to block out, to avoid; and it could take something random, seemingly unconnected, to break through and spark an idea. Another peal of laughter shot across the lawn, and he looked at Teague. It was just laughter, but it sounded malevolent to Behr. He was staring it in the face now.
It took Behr five minutes chatting around the party to learn that Teague had twin sons and two daughters. Another two minutes on his BlackBerry to get Teague’s address out in Thorntown. For the rest, the schools they attended, and which teams they played on, and whether those teams had games on the night in question, he’d need a computer, and had a feeling where he could find one. He dropped back to Susan’s spot with a fresh bottle of water for her and she said, “I could use a ladies’ room.”
“I’ll walk you inside,” Behr said.
The air-conditioning was kicking and the house felt like a crypt. No one was inside, not even Potempa’s wife, who was out back, playing the hostess. Behr helped Susan find the powder room, and after trying two more doors found himself in Potempa’s study.
Behr could hear the chatter of the party outside through the window mere feet away from where he stood, but his boss’s computer woke the second he touched the mouse. Unlike an office terminal that might’ve needed a log-in password, this one was already up and online. Looking around the study, Behr saw framed photos of Derek Schmidt and Ken Bigby, two Caro boys who had been killed on the job the year before. There was also an array of
