David Levien - Where the dead lay

“Something like that. I hope you don’t find it insulting. It’s a question of economics,” Potempa said. “And your reputation is investigative-strong and localized.”

“According to whom?”

“That person would prefer not to be named.”

Behr chewed over whom they’d checked with and what his reputation might be “weak” in before speaking again. “If it’s just a question of economics, pay me one-fifty an hour. You’ll still be making out that way.”

“A hundred,” Lundquist said.

“Fine,” Behr said, immediately wondering if he’d gone too cheap. Either way, this would be a score for him. A hundred an hour to run down an ATM trail or credit card pattern that would lead, despite what the bosses thought, to a lost weekend at a riverboat casino or Glitter Gulch hotel with some strippers or bar girls or hookers. And this time he wouldn’t be giving back any retainer. Unlike with Shipman, there was no personal connection here. Even though it wouldn’t take long, this time around he’d be “Frank the Milkman” all the way. It could finance him through his Aurelio investigation and beyond. “So, I’ll just need to look at their files and computers then.”

“Sorry, company materials aren’t available for view by outside individuals,” Lundquist said.

“Okay…,” Behr said. “Well, that ups the degree of difficulty.”

“We’re also going to need you to sign this,” Lundquist said, taking a piece of paper out of his binder and sliding it toward Behr, who picked it up and looked it over.

“A confidentiality agreement?” Behr said.

“We’d prefer word of us hiring outside didn’t get around,” Potempa explained.

“Right,” Behr said. “Of course. Can I speak to some of their coworkers then?”

“We can’t… would prefer not to… involve… other company personnel,” Potempa said, the baritone tightening up now. “That’s one of the reasons we’re hiring-”

“Then can you fill me in on what they were working?” Behr said, quickly becoming tired of the game. There was a long, silent pause in response. “If you don’t give me anything, where am I supposed to start?”

Potempa shifted uncomfortably again, tapped his fingers against a crystal paperweight of a size better suited to bludgeoning intruders than holding down documents, then exchanged a nod with Lundquist, who spoke. “They were checking the status of… properties… for a client.”

“A client?” Behr asked flatly, already knowing they weren’t going to tell him who that client was.

“Yes. A client.”

“I don’t suppose you can tell me-”

“No,” Lundquist answered.

“Can you at least tell me what type of property and where the hell they are?” Behr asked as patiently as he could. The meter’s already running, and includes this meeting, he thought.

The two men exchanged another look, and Potempa nodded before Lundquist went to his alligator binder once more for a sheet of non-letterhead paper, which he fed across the desk. “Derelict houses,” Potempa said. Behr looked over a list of a dozen addresses. Franklin Street, Thirty-third, Arrington, a few other streets Behr recognized. Mostly near Brightwood, on the northeast side, and some other shit areas. The parts of town where a real estate speculator of any stature-certainly the kind of businessman who would hire a Caro Group-would not be buying or selling.

Lundquist filled the silence. “So the gag agreement we mentioned-”

“Curt…,” Potempa intoned, giving the lawyer a “take it easy” gesture with his hand.

“Sorry, Karl,” Lundquist whispered.

Behr picked up the page and looked at it, and then the men. He had more questions but realized they were looking to him for answers, not the other way around.

It was the part of the meeting where he was supposed to say, “I’ll get on it then,” and sign the nondisclosure and start getting paid. But Behr found himself unable to do or say anything like that. The problem, he quickly realized, in taking big dollars from a top shop was that it came with a caveat: you had to deliver. Failing to do so because he had both hands tied behind his back from the start was no way to build that reputation Potempa had mentioned earlier. And then there was the fact that his friend had recently been scraped off his own gym floor, and something needed to be done about it.

Christ, Behr thought a moment before he spoke, I’m physically unable to make money. It’s just not in my DNA.

“I’m gonna take a pass on this one, gentlemen,” he said, then slid their paperwork back across the desk and headed for the door.

It was weird, but her stomach looked flatter in the two-piece than it did in the single. Susan appraised herself in the mirror. She wasn’t that religious when it came to the aerobics and gym time in general, but maybe it was time to get some religion. No more “pour me into it” party dresses for her. She should at least start swimming again. She pictured herself churning up the lanes back in college-it seemed like a long, long time ago, much longer than ten years. She pulled her hair back into a pony and checked her sleepy eyes. She wondered if her mouth had recently started turning down at the corners more than usual, and whether she was on her way to starting to look old.

She thought about putting on some makeup, but smiled and just rubbed in some tinted sunscreen moisturizer. They were headed down past Bloomington to Lake Monroe, where her boss kept a boat. There would be swimming, tubing, maybe skiing. She checked her top. It seemed secure enough that her business wouldn’t go flying when she hit the water. Her phone rang, Frank on the line. A fist of tension knotted around her at the sound of his voice. They’d said their “sorries,” but that hadn’t gotten at the issue. Not really, and she knew it was her fault. She pulled up a striped mini and threw on a denim shirt up top. She put a couple of towels in a backpack, grabbed her sunglasses and some lip gloss, and headed for the door.

The cornfields formed a corridor of green as they drove down 37. The windows were open and warm morning air blew through the car in place of conversation.

“I’m here,” Behr had said into his cell phone when he’d pulled up in front of Susan’s apartment building. “You need help with anything?

… All right, see you in a minute,” he’d said before he hung up.

“Hi,” “no,” and “I’ll be right down,” were all that constituted her side of the conversation. He tried to interpret what kind of day he had ahead of him, but based on that, he’d have done better if she’d sent him a braille telegram.

“How are you?” she’d said when she got in the car.

“Okay, considering,” he answered. “You?”

“I’m fine.”

“You look good.”

“Thanks,” she said, and then gave a glance at his clothes. “You’re wearing that?”

He looked down and realized the jacket and tie he’d worn to the meeting didn’t scream “day at the lake.” “I’ve got some shorts in the trunk.”

She shrugged and then fiddled with the radio before letting it rest on WFBQ playing Jackson Browne.

That had been it for the last half hour. Then she said: “So his name is Ed. My boss.”

“Ed Lindsey, right?” Behr nodded.

“His wife is Claire. The rest of my department will be there too, some others from the paper and maybe a few faculty from Indiana U-Purdue, where Ed volunteer teaches.” Behr just looked at the road.

When they’d passed Bloomington, and the signs for Monroe Lake and French Lick started popping up, Susan pointed out the window at a Kroger. “We should stop and get something.” Behr turned off.

Too many signs in the front windows, place is ripe for a strong-arm job, Behr thought, following Susan through the store. An armed team comes in and locks the door, and no one outside can tell there’s a robbery in progress. If someone does trip an alarm, suddenly you’re in a Dirty Harry movie. No clean views or angles from outside for the cops once they did arrive. Most urban stores consider this when they’re hanging their specials posters.