Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

56

Behr jerked the front door of the Caro Group open and strode across the office, hoping to see Pat Teague. There was no sign of him and Behr quickly discovered it was not business as usual that day at Caro. For him, anyway. His personal effects, which weren’t many-a mug, a pencil cup, a few framed photos, a phone charger, a flash drive, a jar of Tums, and a pack of Big Red-were in a cardboard box on his desk. The company computer had been removed and an envelope left in its place. He knew what was inside before he even opened it.

Glancing over the tops of dividers Behr saw the heads of his colleagues ducked down toward their computers and papers. He’d never witnessed such hard work. Nothing like some spilled blood to refocus the troops. He opened the envelope, which contained two checks in the same amount. One was his pay for the last two weeks. The other had the word “severance” on the memo line. There was a Post-it note on that check that read: “Speak to Curt Lundquist.”

Behr put the box of effects under his arm and marched across the office past Lundquist’s secretary to his closed door. He knocked too hard and didn’t wait to be invited in. Lundquist was seated behind his desk on the telephone when Behr entered.

“Let me call you back. There’s something I need to deal with right now,” Lundquist said, rising. He hung up and gestured at his guest chair.

“Have a seat, Behr,” he offered.

“Why?” Behr said, “How long is this going to take?”

“Not long,” Lundquist said. “I’m going to need your company-issue sidearm and BlackBerry.”

Behr unclipped the holster from his waist and put the Glock on Lundquist’s desk, along with his BlackBerry.

“Good riddance,” Behr said.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Lundquist said, then he slid a piece of paper across the desk. “Gonna ask you to sign that. It’s a nondisclosure of case information, protocols, everything to do with working here.”

“Signed one when I started,” Behr said, taking a fancy pen out of Lundquist’s holder and scrawling his name.

“We like to reinforce it,” Lundquist said, and advanced another piece of paper. “This one says you accept the terms of your dismissal and waive your right to future suit.”

Behr took this piece of paper and crumpled it into a ball. He wouldn’t have talked to anyone about sensitive information in the first place, but he was fine signing the NDA. He wasn’t going to sue either, but he sure wasn’t in the mood to give them comfort over that fact. He tossed the wadded paper in the general direction of Lundquist’s recycling bin.

“Why am I fired?” Behr asked.

“Officially? Neglect of duties.”

“And unofficially?”

“You’ve repeatedly engaged in unsanctioned inquiries. And you’ve irritated the shit out of IPD,” Lundquist said. It wasn’t a shock to Behr-the moment he had seen the envelope on his desk he’d known Breslau had dimed him.

“So, in my capacity as house counsel for the Indy office of the Caro Group, Worldwide, I’d like to-”

Behr slammed the door behind him as he exited, cutting off Lundquist’s words. He headed for Potempa’s office. He understood the man was in a world of shit at the moment, but Behr had done plenty in the line for him and exercised copious discretion on his behalf. For that Behr was owed better. It was a simple matter of contract. He reached Ms. Swanton outside Potempa’s closed office door.

“I need a minute with him,” Behr said.

“He was unexpectedly called out of town, Mr. Behr,” she told him.

“Is he in there? If he is, I need him,” Behr said.

“He’s not in the office. Really,” she responded.

Behr ground his teeth in frustration, but the truth was: whatever he got face-to-face from Potempa was bound to be no less frustrating.

“That’s fine,” Behr said. “Look, I know this isn’t your deal, but tell him the following: I recommend surveillance, visual and telephone, on Olga Miroslav at Payroll Place. And put someone on her scumbag boyfriend, Salvatore Rueben. File’s not complete, but I’m thinking that might help close it.”

She nodded as she scrawled the names on a steno pad, then she looked up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Behr,” she said.

“May as well call me Frank,” he said, and walked away.

He cut for the front door, feeling the eyes of his ex-coworkers on him, all except for that one set.

He paused at the reception desk in front of the new girl. “Where’s Pat Teague?”

“He called in.”

“Sick or personal day?”

“Didn’t say on the voice mail, just that he wouldn’t be in.”

“Thanks,” Behr said. “You need my key?”

“They changed the outer lock first thing this morning.”

“Okay then.” Behr nodded. “See ya.” And he left.

57

Behr’s knuckles gripped the steering wheel as if to tear it off the stalk as he drove out to Thorntown. He parked in front of Teague’s ranch style and watched it for half an hour. There were no signs of movement inside, no cars in the driveway. He played out versions of the conversation he was going to have with Teague and couldn’t picture them going any way other than the man laughing in his face or at least blanking him completely. The thought filled Behr with rage. Finally he couldn’t sit still any longer, got out of his car, and passed the garage. Though it was closed, Behr looked in through one of its small square windows and was disappointed to see it empty of vehicles.

He returned to his own car and sat there again, his fingers drumming on the wheel, and his insides tightening like a diver’s cylinder being filled with pressurized air. That’s when he saw Teague’s Traverse roll up and park in the driveway. Teague got out, dressed in suit pants, dress shirt, and sunglasses, and headed for his door carrying a paper bag and a newspaper.

Behr was out of his car and at the door before Teague was inside his house.

“Hey. Teague!” Behr called out.

“What do you want?” he said, turning and pushing in.

“You hiding from me?” Behr said. “That’s not gonna work.”

“Fuck off,” Teague said, dropping the bag and newspaper as he made to close the door in Behr’s face. But Behr stepped forward and blasted it with both hands like he was hitting a blocking dummy. The door flew open and Behr followed it, stepping inside.

“I want to know, Pat, and I’m not leaving until I do,” Behr said.

“Get out of here or you’re a dead man,” Teague answered.

“This is gonna happen,” Behr stated. Teague shook his head.

“Lose the Maui Jims,” Behr yelled, and slapped the sunglasses from Teague’s face. What flashed in Teague’s eyes was not fear, it was anger, and Behr knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

Teague threw a stiff-arm palm that caught Behr’s face, driving him back a few feet. He was softening a bit around the middle, but Teague was still a big, thick ex-Fed, and he came at Behr, snapping out a steel telescoping spring baton that he pulled from his pocket. Behr heard it and felt it whistle past his head as he leaped out of its