place where he could receive the signal. He’d waited while the sun took its time getting up, as did the ex-Fed and his family. The program on his laptop chimed to life, but it was only to hear Mrs. Teague ring a friend for afternoon plans. Two of the four kids made calls, one about meeting a friend before school, the other about something that happened on a television program the night before.
He’d been hoping to pick up a transmission that would mention Kolodnik’s location, a vulnerability, either right then or at some point later on, but he got no such break. It was with irritation that Dwyer watched the ex-Fed and his whole damned family set off for their day.
“Fuckin’ ’ell,” he said aloud, and realized that even a few years ago working all night and coming up with nothing would’ve rolled right off his back. He was getting old, he supposed, and still in need of that kip, too. But it would still have to wait. He needed to head out for the airport, which he’d do after a quick shower at the shite hole. He put the car in gear.
53
“Ms. Miroslav,” Frank Behr said, as a woman carrying a purse and a briefcase arrived at her office.
Olga Miroslav was pretty and dark haired and quite surprised to see Behr sitting in her cubicle at the main branch of Payroll Place. John Lutz had been surprised too that morning when he got the crack-of-dawn call from Behr asking for the interview. He was as happy to arrange for Behr’s admittance to the offices as Ms. Miroslav seemed miserable when she learned why Behr was there.
“How would you describe your duties?” Behr asked once she’d put down her things and settled.
“I chart the pickups at our clients’ businesses and design the routes for the armored cars,” she said with a bit of a Slavic accent. “And schedule drop-offs and bank deposits also.”
“You do all this by hand, using maps?” Behr asked, though he already knew the answer.
“No, the computer does it. There’s a mapping program. I just input it,” she told him.
“And then if you need to make any changes …?” Behr wondered.
“I tweak it after the computer makes the route,” she said.
“Why’s that?”
“Road construction. Businesses closed for holidays. Things the computer don’t know about.”
“I understand you have visitors to the office sometimes,” Behr said, changing course with some information he’d picked up yakking around with her coworkers before her arrival, seeing if it threw her. “That you have lunch down in the cafeteria with a Salvatore Rueben.”
“Sally is my boyfriend,” she said, nodding, looking uncomfortable with the topic. She wore fairly heavy base makeup, but her color was mottling beneath it.
“I see,” Behr said, making a note. He was writing for effect, to let her see him documenting the conversation. “And what does Sally do?”
“For a living?” she asked.
“Yes. Does he have an employer?” Behr inquired.
“He’s … self-employed.”
“I see. What’s his business?”
“He’s in … distribution.”
Behr didn’t have to ask what he distributed. He’d run Sally Rueben after discovering the restraining orders and the guy had drug arrests. To complete the investigation properly, Behr would have to finish the backgrounds, interview a dozen other potentials, to rule many things out. And maybe he would when he had time, but for now he noticed Ms. Miroslav’s hands were shaking.
54
A whore in the morning was rarely a pretty sight, and this one was no exception. In fact, she proved the rule. Behr had felt he should get in to the office and show his face, but leaving Payroll Place down in the wholesale district he realized the address Sunny had texted him for her friend Lori was close by. Unlike speaking directly to Barnes, he believed he could explore the connection of this “certain investigator” and Kolodnik’s camp without mentioning Potempa, or his daughter, and then make a retreat. Or maybe he was just telling himself that so he could go get what he needed. Either way, he reached McCrea Street and the old industrial building that had been converted to high-dollar loft apartments. He made his way inside as a food delivery kid exited, took the elevator to the fourth floor, and set to banging on the large steel door for a while before he heard a muffled female voice from inside.
“Keep it in your pants … Just a sec …” she said.
A deadbolt lock bar clanged open and the door rolled to the side, revealing a woman who wouldn’t look young for long. She’d slept in her makeup, and there’d been a lot of it. Her eyes were caked in black smudge, her lips smeared red, and concealer rubbed off in patches revealed purple blotches and acne pits. Whatever mask she’d applied the night before was long gone. She was rank with cigarette smoke, dead cherry perfume, and body sweat. It was a wonder people paid for this. But her body was shapely and her flesh looked firm, and she hadn’t hit thirty, which was a kind of magic elixir to some men.
“Hey. Can I help you with something?” she asked.
“Invite me in,” Behr said.
“Why?”
“Because I need to talk to you.”
“Oh shit, cop?” she wondered.
“Nope.”
“If you’re not a cop, you are some kind of law guy, no?” she said.
Behr nodded. “I could use your insights on something,” he said.
“Am I in trouble?”
“You’re not,” Behr said, “yet.” Then he went to a leverage point that worked on every prostitute he’d ever met. “But my partner is over at Lenny Barnes’s place with his foot on the scumbag’s head, and if you don’t help, my partner’s gonna squash him like a grape.”
She swallowed and stepped aside, letting him enter.
“Look, just be cool with Lenny. I’ll help you as much as I can,” she said. The pimp victimized his women- emotionally, financially, often physically-but the psychological bond was deep, and the women stood up for these parasites, even when it cost them everything. Sometimes even their lives. The door rolled and clanged shut behind him.
Her loft was cavernous, with high ceilings and casement windows, and was stylishly decorated in a modernist yet comfortable design. The furniture wasn’t custom-she wasn’t rich-but it came from a higher-end chain store. The place was clean. He imagined she did outcall, and doubted she entertained clients much at home due to the personal-sanctuary feel here.
“What’s it about?” she asked.
It was clear Sunny hadn’t warned her about him.
“Well, it’s about a certain client of yours,” Behr said.
“I figured. Do you want some juice?” she offered, crossing around a divider into her kitchen.
“No thanks,” Behr said, following, and keeping a close eye on her. She poured herself a glass.
“You know we don’t talk about our clients,” she said. “It’s an unwritten rule.”
“Yeah, like doctors.”
“Or priests,” she said, flashing a smile.
“I’m not asking you to identify him. I already know this guy sees you. And I’m not looking for bedroom
