David Levien - Where the dead lay

“Come on,” she said, “they’ll be getting back from dinner break soon.” She led Behr down the hall to her office, where she sat him on a stool and poured some of the Johnnie Walker into two lab beakers. She sat behind her desk and they touched glasses over it. Behr drank, but she didn’t. He told her the details of the events that had led him there.

“If you don’t mind my saying, Frank, maybe you’re not the best guy to be looking into this,” she offered when he was done.

“No?” he said, peering over the top of his glass. “Who’d be better?” She thought about that one for a while, but had no answer. Finally there was just quiet that went on as if it always would. Then he finished up his Scotch and stood. She came around her desk, and this time she did hug him.

“You take care, you got me?” she said.

He nodded. “Let me know about any tramlines.”

“You stay pro on this thing.”

“Thanks, Jean,” he said, wondering exactly what that meant anymore.

• • •

On his way home, Behr drove to Aurelio’s place. It had been a hell of a day, and he had the Scotch in him, and he knew he should probably shut it down for the night, but he really wanted to get a look inside the house. His feeling didn’t change even when he passed by and saw the unmarked police unit sitting on the address, an officer reclined low and just visible over the car door. Behr continued on, turning around the corner onto the next block, where he parked. He sat looking past a small brick cottage, through a line of scraggly trees, at the back of Aurelio’s place. In the black of the night, he thought, he could make it over the low chain-link fence, through the trees, and to the back door without being seen. He could get in and inspect the place, except for the front room, with his Mini Maglite. He could probably do it all without getting caught. He sat there thinking on it for five or ten minutes.

“Dumb,” he finally said aloud. He dropped his car into gear and drove home.

Southeastside Man Killed in Apparent Robbery Attempt,” read the Star’s headline. Behr was at the Caro Group, in a waiting room that smelled of fine woodwork, leather sofas, and freshly brewed dark-roast coffee. The place smelled like money. He had a cup of the strong, perfect stuff on the table at his knee as he read the account of Aurelio’s death. The details were few in the short, vague piece, perhaps because police had nothing, or because that’s all they wanted to release. After reading it twice, Behr tossed the paper on the coffee table with disgust and waited.

“Mr. Behr, they’re ready for you,” Ms. Swanton said. She wore heavy makeup, matronly business attire, and had her hair set in an old-fashioned helmet. She was as solid as a Sherman tank, and about as inviting. He sank into the carpet up to his ankles as he followed her down a hallway lined with certificates of civic recognition the company had received from the city. It sure didn’t feel like a Saturday in the office, as there were plenty of busy people around. He passed a room, door partially open, that had bakers’ racks full of the black, hard-sided cases that protected and transported high-end surveillance equipment. Infrared cameras, hardline wiretaps, relays, cell phone wiretaps, cell phone scramblers, night vision, voice stress analyzers-all the tools of the trade that he couldn’t afford. Some of them even worked some of the time.

They neared a corner office that could only belong to the firm’s old bull, and when Ms. Swanton swung open the door, his impression was confirmed. Rising from a large mahogany desk that cost more than Behr’s car was a silver-haired man in an expensive charcoal gray suit. A second man, tall and slim, with curly rust-colored hair, stood as well. Slim wore an equally expensive navy chalk-stripe suit and held an alligator-skin binder under his arm.

“Mr. Behr, meet Mr. Potempa,” Ms. Swanton intoned. “Can I get you gentlemen anything?”

“We’re fine,” Karl Potempa said in a smooth baritone. Ms. Swanton nodded and left and no one spoke until the door closed behind her. In the meantime Behr looked around the office at framed handshake photos of Potempa and other men, including the governor, at various banquets and flesh-presses. Potempa’s old FBI badge was in a display case on the desk, which was also full of commemorative clocks and ashtrays from golf outings and law enforcement conferences.

“I’m Curt Lundquist,” the unintroduced man in the navy suit began. “House counsel for Caro.”

Behr shook his hand and realized he was being hired. It was common practice in private investigation, especially at the higher end, with clients who had money to burn on lawyers as well as investigators. When the lawyer did the hiring, anything the investigator found fell under attorney-client privilege and couldn’t be subpoenaed.

“Have a seat,” Potempa hit him with the dulcet baritone again, “and thanks for coming.” Behr lowered himself into a slick, oxblood leather chair. “Do you know anything about our firm?”

“Security. Investigation. I know you charge plenty,” Behr said, evoking no smiles across the desk.

“Crisis and emergency management, executive protection, homeland security solutions, risk analysis, all that,” Potempa went on.

“Color me impressed,” Behr said. “What can I do for you?”

“We have two employees, investigators, named Ken Bigby and Derek Schmidt,” Lundquist said. “They’re from our Philly office, put up over at the Valu-Stay Suites while they’re in town.”

“It’s part of a new program we’ve got going where we move guys around for six months at a time, so they develop a national overview,” Potempa informed him.

“How’s that working?” Behr wondered.

“Fine,” Potempa answered, but it didn’t sound like the truth. Behr waited for him to continue, already assuming he’d hear of some scam the two employees were involved in that they wanted to investigate with external personnel. Bill padding or misappropriation of company resources or some other kind of fraud was usually the order of the day.

“Anyway,” Potempa went on, “Ken Bigby and Derek Schmidt… we can’t locate them.”

Lundquist said, “They’re missing.”

“Missing?”

Potempa and Lundquist nodded. Behr waited for them to go on, but they didn’t.

“Missing like they stopped showing up for work and went to a competitor with their files?” Behr asked, readjusting his assumptions. Potempa and Lundquist shrugged and shook their heads.

“So you want me to jump in on a case they were working?” Behr asked.

This time neither man moved or responded for a moment. “It’s not the case we need you to pursue at this time,” the lawyer said. A moment of silence spread in the room before Behr began to understand what they were looking for.

“You want me to track down your people?” he asked, truly surprised.

“That’s right,” Potempa said.

“Why don’t you all do it?” Behr asked, pointing a thumb toward the outer offices. He had just walked past a bullpen full of shirt and tie investigators who looked rough and ready, not to mention a handful of doors that had the title “Case Manager” stenciled on them. The place was practically an FBI field office.

“We don’t want to lose any more man-hours to it,” Potempa said evenly, the baritone hitching just slightly.

“Just to find they lit out for Vegas or St. Louis or someplace?” Behr suggested.

“That’s probably not it,” Potempa said, shifting in his seat. “Though we certainly hope it’s that basic…”

Behr had been wondering how they had come to choose him in a town with four pages worth of private investigators listed online and in the phone book. Now he was able to put it together- it was a janitor job. He didn’t bother filtering his thoughts. “So while your regular guys are out billing three hundred an hour on real cases, you’ll put me on this at seventy-five.”