set in, forcing a laugh.
“Sure was,” Behr said, giving him back a smile.
“How the hell are you?” Teague asked and didn’t wait for an answer. “When my BlackBerry binged and I saw the e-mail that went around, I almost crapped myself. Couldn’t sleep the rest of the night. I e-mailed you, did you get it?”
Behr nodded. An e-mail from Teague inquiring about his health had come through, but he hadn’t bothered responding.
“I would’ve called too, if it wasn’t so late,” Teague continued. “I mean, shit, Frank, it should’ve been me out there …”
“Don’t worry about it, Pat, luck of the draw,” Behr said. “How was the game, anyway?”
“Oh, it was fine. Forget that-I’m just glad everyone’s still using up some air here.”
“You and me both,” Frank said.
“Some shit detail,” Teague said again. That’s when Karl Potempa, hair locked down, and razor sharp in a blue pinstripe, appeared in the doorway.
“Teague. In here now,” he called out, then regarded Behr. “Hey, Frank, how you doing? No day off, not even the morning, huh?”
“I don’t golf. Not well anyway,” Behr said. The truth was he hadn’t even thought of taking time.
“I want to talk to you in a minute,” Potempa said. Behr nodded and continued to his desk as Teague headed into Potempa’s office.
Behr found himself less than interested in work-which at the moment meant finishing a forensic financial background check on a corporate executive. He’d only managed to tap out a few sentences on his computer. He’d write up his report on last night’s incident once he’d talked to Potempa. A quarter of his life now was reports. Another quarter was answering e-mails, texts, and calls on the BlackBerry that Caro had issued him. He may as well have had the thing surgically mounted to his hip he was such a slave to it. He recognized he was part of an organization now, and as such he wasn’t alone. There were upsides, like the health insurance and the squad of colleagues appearing in the parking garage and the whole office showing up at his desk this morning, one of them with a flyer advertising a combat shooting school in the Nevada desert that had been printed off the Internet and waved around with much hilarity. There were the steady paychecks of course, but there was a price that came with the belonging, too, like being told what to do and when to do it and remaining reachable and accountable-always. He swallowed it down and dealt with it. That’s what being a father, even an expectant one, was about.
By 9:45 the newspaper’s Web site had begun to fill in the gaps. Prominent citizen Bernard Kolodnik was mentioned, as well as his unidentified “private security who had returned fire.” That suited Behr just fine. Lieutenant Gary Breslau was quoted as saying police weren’t sure whether “it was attempted robbery, carjacking, or other motive behind the shooting.” That “other” glowed in Behr’s mind for a moment, but before long Ms. Swanton, Karl Potempa’s helmet-haired secretary, appeared at his desk.
“He’s ready for you now, Mr. Behr.”
Behr took a seat across from Karl Potempa, who was ringed by plaques on the wall commemorating his civil and law enforcement service, including his stint in the FBI. Potempa had his feet up on the desk and was shaking his head at the departing Teague.
“How are you doing this morning, Frank?” Potempa began.
“Pretty good, considering,” Behr said, hoping now that everyone in the office had had a chance to check in with him, and Potempa had even taken two bites at the apple, that the solicitous questions would abate sometime soon.
“Bernie Kolodnik was more than pleased at the way things resolved. I don’t know if one’s on the way, but if a bonus comes in, it’ll be passed on to you.”
“Okay.” Behr’s eye found a series of family photos on the credenza behind his boss. It was Potempa and his handsome auburn-haired wife, along with photos of a son and a beautiful daughter. There were several pictures- slices of life-a cheerleading shot, the son in football pads, all of them dressed for a formal occasion-taken a few years apart, that tracked the kids from youth to young adulthood. In the last one of the whole family, the son looked to be around twenty-one, the daughter eighteen. Then there were a few more, from which the daughter was absent, including a wedding photo of the boy at around age twenty-four. Maybe the daughter was studying overseas, Behr considered.
“Now as far as press goes, it’s zero-sum here. You haven’t spoken to anyone yet, have you?” Potempa asked.
“Nope,” Behr said. He remembered reading in the company’s introductory materials that Caro’s stance was that no individuals were to be named in news stories or press releases. “Security by the Caro Group” or “Investigative services provided by the Caro Group” was all the information that was supposed to be given.
“That’s company policy, organization-wide.” Potempa spread his arms, indicating, no doubt, the dozen Caro Group offices out there dotted across the nation. “We stay behind the scenes, not out front. If anyone contacts you, refer them to Curt Lundquist.”
Behr nodded. Lundquist was house counsel for Caro’s Indianapolis office and its mouthpiece in matters such as these.
“What the hell happened between you and Breslau last night?” Potempa wondered.
“You saw it. Guy’s got a way about him,” Behr said.
“Uh-huh. He’s a cop with a real upward trajectory.”
“Of course he is,” Behr said, and Potempa looked at him for a moment.
“So, how long before your report on last night is done? It’s got to go to corporate.”
“I was wondering if you wanted anything in particular left in or out,” Behr said. He was aware of how blunt the question might have sounded. He was also aware, painfully so, of how short his political skills landed when it came to things like this.
“Smart question. Just write it the way it happened,” Potempa replied, in a way that gave Behr no real insight.
“End of day then, on account of all the details.”
“Get it done,” Potempa said, and Behr bit down. A handful of months wasn’t enough time to get used to taking orders after the years of doing it all his way. “I got something I need you on. If you’re up to it.” The challenge was out there. Behr stood.
“Sure, Karl, whatever you need,” Behr said.
“Oh yeah, here you go,” Potempa said, going into a desk drawer and coming out with Behr’s Glock.40 and magazines in a police evidence bag. “They just sent it over.”
Behr nodded, took the bag, and headed for the door, where he paused. “The cops get anything, by the way? Wits? Security cameras?”
“I haven’t heard yet, but don’t worry, they’re all over it like white on snow.”
7
“Purpose of your visit, business or pleasure?” the customs agent, a broad-faced, chesty Midwestern man, asked.
“Vacation and sightseeing,” answered Waddy Dwyer, who stood in the hall for arriving international passengers at O’Hare Airport. Despite his answer, he was thinking about his business, which consisted of nipping a loose thread and finishing the Kolodnik job before it could be pulled at and unravel the whole bit of knitting. “Since the wife isn’t along, it might actually be pleasure.”
The customs agent looked up with bored, heavy-lidded eyes from the mostly blank pages of Dwyer’s dummy passport. If the man had been looking at a real document, and Dwyer had made a habit of going in legally, he’d be thumbing through page after page of entry stamps from the Czech Republic, Hungary, Bosnia, Russia, Congo, Tanzania and three quarters of the rest of Africa, Java, Pakistan, the Middle East, and basically anywhere else
