David Levien: Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

Behr’s bag clinked softly as he walked through the Caro offices. He sat at the desk and set five bottles of fine wine on the corner. Half the case, minus the one he’d drunk the night before. He figured that was fair, considering what he’d done to get it. The other half case was at home, lying sideways, waiting for another day.

“What’s this?” his coworkers asked of the bottles as they passed by his desk.

“Client gift. Grab one,” Behr answered. There were only a few takers, a few more raised eyebrows, and by the end of the day there was still one bottle left. Maybe when it got down to one, it didn’t look like much of a display. Or maybe the office preferred drinking harder stuff.

In between those visits Behr cranked away on his Payroll Place file. It was click, jot, scroll, and cut and paste as he got through four background checks, going alphabetically, searching databases in order to view past employment history; former residences; and credit, motor-vehicle, and criminal records. He went as fast as he could, but it took hours by the time the searches were done and the reports were written up. The last one was a killer because the employee’s name, Edward Charles, was a common one, and dozens of hits came up that had to be combed through and canceled out against his social security number. There were some speeding tickets, a DUI, a personal bankruptcy in the pool. The checks sketched in a bland picture of an employee base that didn’t tell him very much. He had dozens more to do. He was feeling buried. Each time he looked up from his work that last bottle of Harlan Estates caught his eye. And each time he tried to go back to what he was doing, it took him longer and longer. Finally he acknowledged why, picked up his desk phone, and dialed a familiar number.

“Downtown District,” an assistant answered.

“Lieutenant Breslau, please,” Behr said and his call was put through.

“Breslau,” came the voice over the line. Behr was surprised he didn’t have an assistant, or maybe he or she had stepped away.

“Frank Behr,” he said. There was a pause and some rustling of papers.

“What can I do for you, Behr?” Breslau said in a low-effort attempt at cordiality.

“Just wondering what’s turned up on that shoot.”

“Well, I told you I’d let you know when something had, so obviously not much.”

“You told me that?” Behr asked.

“Told your boss.” Breslau sighed.

“I see,” Behr said, about two dozen more questions rattling around in his head.

“Love to sit and chat, but I’ve gotta-” Breslau began his signoff.

“Uh-huh,” Behr said, cutting him off, as he felt a kernel of anger glow to life in the pit of his stomach.

“I’ll ring you when we have something.”

The line went dead. Behr slowly hung up the receiver, willing himself not to smash it.

“Happy hour?” Behr heard, and looked up to see Pat Teague standing there, a finger tapping on the remaining bottle.

“Sweepstakes giveaway,” Behr said.

“So I heard,” Teague said.

“Help yourself,” Behr offered.

“Don’t mind if I do. Thanks,” Teague said and walked away with a rolling, bandy-legged gait, cradling the last bottle, like a football, in the crook of his arm.

Just keep collecting your check and don’t think so hard , Behr told himself. But then he picked up the phone again.

Behr walked toward the Lutheran Church on Kitley, where there was a small group clustered a few steps away from the side door taking a nicotine break. Behr recognized the tall, thin figure and salt-and-pepper hair of Neil Ratay, crime reporter for the Indy Star , getting ready for his regular meeting. Behr approached and they shook hands and moved away from the other smokers.

“So what’s up, Frank?” Ratay asked, waving away a cloud of cigarette smoke that wafted between them. Behr hadn’t known him for long-and couldn’t call the man a friend, exactly-but the bond had been immediate when they’d met about a year back. He’d quickly identified a sense of code in Ratay, perhaps springing from the time-honored practice of reporters protecting their sources, which had led him to believe he could trust the man. And he hadn’t been proven wrong.

“That shoot in the garage on Pierson the other night,” Behr began.

“Kolodnik thing,” Ratay said.

“My thing too,” Behr said.

“That was you?”

Behr nodded and told him how it fell, even including the bit about the wine. The reporter’s eyes grew a bit in circumference from their normal knowing slits when he heard Behr tell it.

“The story got a single coat in your paper, barely covered the primer. My office isn’t looking into it, and whether or not the cops have anything, this hump Breslau got handed the package and won’t be sharing anything with me,” Behr said.

“Breslau …” Ratay murmured.

“What’s his deal?” Behr asked.

“New breed. Got a master’s degree. Camera-ready.”

“Started grooming him for captain before he drove his first patrol?”

“Pretty much. So, can I take a run at it?” Ratay asked as they watched the few other smokers finish up and drift inside.

“Yeah, give it a shot,” Behr said, “and let me know if you find out anything interesting, would ya?”

Ratay nodded slowly three times and then glanced to the church door. “My meeting’s about to start.” They shook hands and Behr left.

Even though he’d started his day with a brutal workout, Behr had something in him-that kernel-he still needed to burn off. He drove home, parked on the street but didn’t go inside. Instead, he pulled running gear out of his trunk, changed right there in the front seat, and set out. He looped around the neighborhood streets until he’d covered about three quarters of a mile and then set off toward Saddle Hill.

He didn’t have his weighted vest in the trunk, so Behr focused on explosive speed as he churned up the hill. His knees kicked high and his feet pounded down on the asphalt as sweat bounced off the sides of his head.

Why aren’t the police killing themselves following this up? he asked himself on one trip up.

They are, they just don’t seem to have much , Behr told himself on the way down.

Be glad it’s not your problem , he told himself the next time up.

He jogged down the hill, filling his lungs. He’d been guarding a multimillionaire businessman who was about to become a senator.

Money or politics, or the place the two intersected , he told himself as he raced up with chopping strides. The only question was why?

Or was it a woman, a deal gone bad, a personal slight, or a hundred other things? he reminded himself as he made his descent.

Just don’t ask, Frank , he urged himself as he charged up the hill three more times.

But coming down the hill that final time, he knew he was going to.

“You fall into a pool?” Susan asked him and laughed when Behr entered his place. “You’re soaked.” She wasn’t alone on the couch, and another gentle peal of laughter joined hers. Sitting next to Susan was a pretty girl with well-dyed blond hair who couldn’t have been twenty-five years old and looked ready to pop out a kid within a month of Susan.

“Just took a run,” he said.

“We can tell by the running shoes,” the young lady said, as she and Susan stifled more laughs.

“You two been drinking?” Behr wondered.

“Just high on pregnancy,” Susan said, and they laughed again, though this time it was closer to a howl and the girls even shared a high five.

“All right, what’s going on?”

“We were down at baby care class, learning about swaddling and umbilical cords and filing tiny fingernails, and gabbing it up, I guess, when this woman in the class-”