Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

“When that fire’s out, you’re going to find an assault rifle in that apartment. Military. Not jerry-rigged,” Behr said, wondering exactly what the hell he was trying to prove.

“This is about the garage shoot, then?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Christ. You protected the principal. That’s great, man, well done. Congrat-a-fucking-lations, you did your job. But that’s not enough for you. No, you need to go and find the shooter. Are you on some kind of glory run here?”

“Glory run? What the fuck are you talking about?” Behr said, his blood fizzing with instant anger.

“Can’t let it go. Can’t get off the rush from all the kudos. Gotta prove it out to everyone …”

Behr felt his knuckles straining in tight fists. He wanted to use them.

Breslau gave a half laugh. “You think I’m a douche bag, don’t you? You do-I can see it on your face …”

Though dying to answer, Behr managed to hold off.

“Just know this: I’m not the douche bag caught on camera entering a security office in that parking garage.”

Behr thought with disgust of the rent-a-cop who’d obviously reported him. But the disgust went deeper, because wasn’t he just a rent-a-cop too? For slightly better wages.

“How the hell’d you even end up here?” Breslau suddenly wondered.

“It’s called investigation,” Behr said, and saw the muscles of Breslau’s jaw freeze. Now the cop was just as angry as him.

“You’re being small-picture here, Behr,” Breslau said, fully squaring on him.

“I am?”

“Yeah. Look, the police, a place like Caro-whatever-they’re all gears in a bigger machine. And you, Behr, you’re sand in the gears. Sand in the fucking gears.”

Behr said nothing. He just stared and choked on the burned gasoline taste in his throat.

“Don’t you think we’ve been looking for the shooter?” Breslau asked.

“I don’t know what you’ve been doing.”

“We’ve been looking for the shooter. We have been. And we were going to find him-”

“Before or after he was barbecued?” Behr shot back, causing Breslau’s volume to triple.

“We were going to find him and lock this thing down! But I’ll tell you this, and I really hope you read me on it. We are not in the business of taking a straight-up random shoot, or even an attempted murder beef, and turning it into some unsolvable high-profile conspiracy case. You got me?”

Behr didn’t nod. He didn’t move.

“And believe me, when I say ‘we,’ I mean ‘we.’ As in ‘to the top.’ So mind you don’t head from ‘sand in the gears’ status toward ‘shit on my shoe.’ Because if you end up there, I will scrape you the fuck off.”

Breslau spat on the ground and stalked away toward his car while Behr turned his gaze back to the smoldering apartment building.

50

Waddy Dwyer was inside the master bedroom, sitting in a plush Ultrasuede chair and admiring the custom- milled woodwork when the shower cut off in the bathroom. He’d had a moment, after coming in through the window, when the water was running, that he could just sit quietly and appreciate the house. Where he was from, where space was at a premium, size and scale said wealth and power. If that perception were the reality here, though, this wanker would be Superman. But it was a lie. That much was clear. Because his initial look over the house told Dwyer that this guy must be auctioning off the furniture for spare cash.

One of the double doors to the bathroom swung open and Gantcher emerged in a puff of steam, wearing only a monogrammed towel around his baggy waist.

“All scrubby-dubby, are we?” Dwyer said, causing Gantcher to freeze, and a wave of gooseflesh to pucker across his skin.

“How’d you get in here?” he said, his mouth flapping. “There are-”

“Two poofs guarding the front, occasionally walking the perimeter,” Dwyer said. “I saw ’em. They didn’t see me.”

Gantcher’s eyes traveled toward the bedroom’s double doors and then back to Dwyer.

“Who tried to get to you today?” Dwyer asked.

“You saw that?”

“Your security stopped him. Who was he?”

“They … they told me his card said Frank Behr. From the Caro Group,” Gantcher said. “They thought he might’ve been … someone else.”

“I know who they thought he was,” Dwyer said, his voice hard. Now he had a name for the big pro.

“What do you want?” Gantcher said too loudly. Dwyer saw what he was trying to do.

“Drop the volume,” he said. “You know what I want.” Dwyer took in Gantcher’s hairless, pink, flabby body. “Look at you there, with your man babbles,” Dwyer said with disgust. “How much steak and lobster, clarified butter, and sweets have you shoveled down your gob, you soft bastard?”

Gantcher didn’t respond, just stood there looking wounded.

“You ought to have some insurance money coming your way about now, righto?”

“The fire,” Gantcher said, confirmation playing on his face. “Holy shit, I had a feeling that was you.”

Dwyer said nothing.

“They’re going to be coming to me now, asking,” Gantcher whined. “Investigating. They’ve already called …”

“Well, you’ve got nothing to worry about, ain’t you? Your bloody hands are clean. Now what about it? My money.”

“The thing is, you see,” Gantcher started, “the insurance policies on the development-they were lapsed.”

“The fuck do you mean ‘lapsed’?”

“There was a bookkeeping error. A shortfall. Damn it, I’ll tell you, it’s the same thing I told you before. I’m tapped. My company is tapped. You know how expensive fire, loss, and liability insurance is on a job of that scale? I couldn’t pay the premium, and now …” Actual anger flared in the man and replaced his fear for a moment. “You really dicked me over here, Dwyer. You burned my damn job! How am I supposed to finish-”

“Huck up!” Dwyer said, jumping out of the chair and putting the fear right back into Gantcher. “How the fuck were you gonna finish the job in the first place, if you couldn’t even pay the insurance?”

“All right, all right,” Gantcher said, backing up, “fair enough.” A moment passed. “So where do we go from here?”

Dwyer took a slip of paper from his pocket and thrust it into Gantcher’s hand. “Wiring instructions. A blind account in the Isle of Man. My name’s not on it. If you don’t want to see me again, have the money in there within forty-eight hours. And hear me on this, you damned jeefe: you don’t want to see me again.”

Gantcher nodded, his eyes on the slip of paper. Dwyer headed straight for the bedroom’s grand double doors, pulled a sleeve over the hand that gripped the knob, and headed out and down the stairs. He descended a wide staircase and let his heels ring brazenly against the marble of the vaulted foyer.

Dwyer exited through the front door, like a boulevardier out for a stroll, where he rabbit punched the closer of the two guards in the back of the head. They were the same two lummoxes he’d seen at the casino. On shift for too long-which was something only an amateur would do-they were rendered too tired to be sharp. The man went out and down, straightaway, landing on his face with a crunch that meant new dental work. Dwyer caught the second one, just turning in surprise, around the body and rocked him into a wicked harai goshi-a sweeping hip throw-that had him flying through the air briefly before being viciously deposited on the stone steps