Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

family photos similar to those in Potempa’s office, including one of his daughter, taken about five years back in her high school cap and gown. She was a lot more innocent then, or at least she looked it on her graduation day. Behr recognized the opportunity at his fingertips, and fought down the temptation to search Potempa’s computer and browsing history. Instead he went right to checking the school zone, and then, when he found that Teague’s children attended Western Boone Junior and Senior High, he went to those Web sites, specifically the athletics’ departments. Behr’s eyes kept traveling back to the door, expecting it to fly open with a red-faced Potempa wondering what the hell he was doing.

He heard a door open and close outside.

“Frank … Frank?” came Susan’s voice. If she kept calling out, it could attract attention to his whereabouts, but he found himself unable to abandon what he was doing and go to her. She gave up after a moment, going outside to look for him, he supposed. His luck held, and he got what he needed before deleting his searches and putting the computer back to sleep.

He dialed the school and found a woman still in the office despite it being so late in the afternoon, and he asked her about the outcome of the girls’ lacrosse game on the date in question.

“No game that night,” came the response. “Season just ended the week before.”

Cold knowing hit Behr in the belly as he gripped his BlackBerry. He asked a few more questions, just making sure there was no boys’ JV baseball game, and no girls’ varsity swim or track meet either. But he knew there wouldn’t be.

“Nope. No, and no, sports fan,” came the woman’s response.

Behr staggered back onto the patio, heading for Susan. He saw that Teague had shifted positions away from the raw bar to some chairs, where he sat with Potempa and Curt Lundquist, Caro’s house counsel, who wore a guayabera shirt that looked all wrong on his stalklike frame. Behr considered the information. There were countless other reasons why Teague could have needed the night and had begged out. He’d been moonlighting-pulling a security shift at a bar or club, driving for someone else off-the-books, or working some case independently. Maybe he’d been fighting with his wife and wanted to take her out to make it right. Or he was cheating on his wife and had plans with another woman. It was also likely Teague just didn’t feel like working-he didn’t strike Behr as the hardest charger in the office-and had wanted to stay home, watch The Simpsons, and fart into his La-Z-Boy. But nothing Behr could come up with could quell what he was thinking-that he was working in some kind of bullshit factory-or what he was really feeling about the shooting that night: Teague had known it was coming.

“Where were you?” Susan said as he reached her.

“I had to make a call,” Behr said vaguely.

“Would it be okay for me to go? I’m French fried.”

Behr nodded and saw a new arrival across the backyard. It was John Lutz. Behr put a hand on Susan’s arm.

“I’ll leave with you.”

“Should we say thanks or good-bye?”

“Nah, come on. Let’s blow this pop stand.”

44

Behr kept his eyes focused on the rear of Susan’s Jeep Liberty-she’d gotten it recently when the size of her belly and the coming need for a rear-facing child’s seat made continuing to drive her beloved Miata fairly difficult and pointless-but things were getting slippy in his head. He was taking in both too much information and not enough by a long shot at the same time, and he was having trouble processing where it all stood. He’d heard about professional golfers blowing up on the last hole of a major, turning a three-stroke lead into a two-stroke loss as they found the water, the trees, the gallery, and a bunker in succession after avoiding them successfully for the prior seventy-one holes. When they came off the course, they all commented how “things happened so fast.” Golf and fast didn’t go together-these guys took a good five minutes between shots-but still, Behr understood the sensation.

They were almost back home, where Behr was going to peel off and continue on his way, when he caught a flash of a silver Lincoln Town Car in his side view mirror and felt like he’d seen it before that day. It was way back there and not the most exotic car on the street but he noticed it, and that was almost never nothing. The thought was only half formed and went out of his head as the car dropped away out of sight, and before he could call Susan and tell her to drive somewhere else with a dead end where he’d know if it was a tail, they were turning onto their street and pulling up to their place. Susan had turned into the driveway and was already on the steps, and he had parked on the street since he was going out again but hadn’t moved from behind the wheel when the Lincoln came driving up the street. He froze behind the wheel as the car drove past without slowing, the driver’s eyes forward on the road. He waited a beat as it continued on, then swung his door open and leaned over, dropping his head below the edge to license plate level. He caught the first three letters, D-U-F, but couldn’t grab any numbers. He also saw that the car bore an Illinois plate. He straightened in his seat.

Halfway up the steps, Susan paused and looked to him. He gave her a wave, put his car in gear, and drove away. The Lincoln was long gone, but he had other places to go.

45

Waddy Dwyer was hungry and tired. He missed his wife and was, until five minutes ago, in great need of a piss. He knew one thing for certain, though: he was going to take it out on all of them. He had a gallon of petrol and a sleeve of Styrofoam cups, which he was tearing into strips and stirring into said petrol. He didn’t have the time or the wherewithal in his hotel room to make proper napalm by melting soap into the gasoline, but this would do quite nicely. The mixture, which was nearing the consistency of jelly, smelled comfortingly chemical and took him back to the defoliated jungles of his past. A two-liter soda bottle, a funnel, and a prepaid mobile phone-all the ingredients for a quality firebomb-most citizens had no idea these were sold at every gas station that had a well-stocked convenience mart. Whether they had need for a firebomb might’ve been another question altogether, but he unfortunately did.

Sitting around waiting for Banco to recover, or to fall weak enough for Dwyer to take his rifle away and finish him was one thing, but now that Banco was getting his doorbell rung by the big pro, the ultimate precaution needed to be exercised.

He’d followed the big pro and a pregnant blonde, his wife or girlfriend it seemed based on the solicitous hand placed on the small of her back, to an address that struck him as their home. He wasn’t sure but thought he might’ve been burned on the tail right there at the end. It disgusted him. With even one backup operative and an alternate vehicle it would’ve never happened. No matter. He’d take care of the car soon enough, and he’d be sterile once again. He ran the address but didn’t come up with anything by way of a name. The big pro was a pro after all and knew how to scrub personal information. There was another way to get the man’s identity, and it was somewhere he was going already. He still had lots to do. He kept on stirring.

46

Behr stood in the parking lot next to the gold Chevrolet Traverse that Teague drove, feeling conspicuous and hoping he wouldn’t have to wait long. He’d already been inside the office. More specifically the equipment room, where among the heavy-sided black plastic cases that housed sensitive and expensive surveillance equipment-bugs, voice stress analyzers, cell phone taps, GPS trackers, and the like, as well as the company’s large gun safe-he