David Levien: Where the dead lay

“Okay,” Charlie smiled, “nice.” He crossed the room and pulled a large piece of tag board out from behind a dresser. “We’ll go old school.” On the board was a blown-up version of a state of Illinois driver’s license. The name on it was Mr. Pat Mc-Corkle, with an address in some town called Orland Park. The space for the photo on the right, which was roughly the size of a head, remained blank. Kenny went to the bottom drawer of the dresser and pulled out an elaborate Polaroid-type camera attached to a folded-up tripod. Outside, the dogs were starting to bark.

“Photo comes out the size of the license and we have a laminating machine,” Kenny said, as he telescoped out the tripod legs.

“This is such coolness,” she said.

Charlie found a stenciled letter “S” among the rubble of newspaper, pens, pencils, and coffee cups on his desk. He affixed the “S” over the “R” in “Mr.” Charlie hung the board up on a hook that was already in the wall. She’d soon be Ms. Pat McCorkle, twenty-one and a half years old from Orland Park, Illinois, she realized.

“Okay, stand over here,” Charlie directed. Kathy crossed over and placed the back of her head against the empty photo space on the oversized license. Kenny finished with the camera preparations and zeroed it on her. He brought his face away from the eyepiece.

“All set,” Kenny said.

“Should I put on makeup?” she wondered.

“Where’s the fifty?” Charlie asked. Truth was, the Schlegels were into a lot better shit than selling fake IDs, but with Kenny still in high school, the IDs remained a steady source of fifty-dollar bills and fresh pussy.

The girl turned to Kenny. “But I thought…?” she said.

“That it’d be fifty? You’re right,” Kenny said. The girl stood there for a minute in a snit.

“Look, it’s either that or a morning blowdjie,” Charlie said, pointing to his groin. The girl looked to Kenny, who shrugged.

“Kenny, Charlie…,” their mother’s voice filtered in from across the house, “feed those dogs… And your father says it’s almost time for the morning shake.”

“Either way, hurry it up,” Kenny said.

She clenched her teeth and reached into her jeans for the money.

Behr sat in his car outside a brown brick office building. He was waiting for his client, Wells Shipman, CPA, to arrive so he could do something foolish. Behr had called, and buzzed at the door, but had gotten no answer. He’d also entered the building when another tenant had gone inside and had knocked at the CPA’s office door. Going back outside he finally got hold of Shipman on his cell; he told him he’d be there in ten minutes. Behr was anxious to start his canvass of local hospitals, but he needed to square this away first. He also considered calling Susan, but in his current state of mind he wasn’t sure what good it would do either of them, so he passed.

He thumbed through Aurelio’s address book while he waited. It was fairly organized, with names, addresses, phone numbers, and e-mail addresses written in a cribbed hand. Behr recognized many of the names as students from the school. There were a lot of Brazilian names as well, and information that showed they still lived in Aurelio’s home country. One thing that caught his eye was about half a dozen entries that weren’t names but just initials. There was a “CC,” a “D,” an “F,” a “P,” an “R,” and an “LB.” There were corresponding phone numbers he would run down as soon as he could.

Shipman’s Impala pulled into the lot. The CPA spotted him and waved, then parked. Behr put away the address book and was getting out of the car when his phone rang.

“Yeah?” Behr answered.

“Mr. Behr,” a sixtyish female with a highly professional manner began, “my name is Ms. Swanton. I’m calling from Mr. Potempa’s office at the Caro Group…” Behr was surprised. The Caro Group was a high-end investigation and security-consulting firm started by a few ex-FBI and Secret Service guys twenty-five years back. Between some early results and good marketing, they had built their business to a dozen offices in the largest U.S. cities, and a bunch of international outposts. Clients liked the way they swarmed in when hired on a case, with their dark suits and the shiny black wingtips that were known as their unofficial signature in the industry. “Mr. Potempa would like to speak with you about a matter. Are you available to meet?” she asked.

“Not now,” Behr said.

“What about this afternoon or evening?” she asked.

“Probably not,” he answered.

“Tomorrow morning then, first thing?” she said with persistence. “It’s a priority matter.”

“Fine,” Behr said, closing his car door and walking toward the accountant, “fine.”

“Good. Say eight o’clock? Do you know where our offices are?” she asked.

“I’ll find it.”

“Thank you, Mr.-” Behr hung up, as the willow-thin Ship-man fished a briefcase out of his backseat and crossed toward him, head bobbing while he walked. As he drew closer, Behr saw that the accountant had dark circles under his eyes. They’d grown deeper and darker in the two weeks since their last meeting, and it wasn’t tax season, so that wasn’t the reason. Shipman had hired Behr to follow his wife, Mrs. Laurie Shipman, whom he suspected of having an affair.

It wasn’t the kind of work Behr preferred, but things had been slow. He’d taken a five-thousand-dollar retainer, which would have made it somewhat worthwhile, but now Behr was doing the ridiculous: he was returning twenty-two hundred of it instead of milking it down to zero. If any of his colleagues heard about it, they would laugh him right out of the clubhouse, where the motto was a twist on the old Ernest and Julio Gallo tagline: “Solve no crime before its time”-i.e., before the client has been billed to death.

“Hello, Frank,” Shipman said as he reached Behr.

“Hey, Wells,” Behr said. Over the past two weeks, Behr had confirmed that Shipman’s wife, a vivacious brunette, had spent time outside the gym with her trainer, Jake, a buffed-out twenty-five-year-old with a spray-on tan. Laurie was the trainer’s last client of the day on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and they would go for a Starbucks after the workout. And it was true those little meetings stretched for close to two hours.

He’d followed each of them alternately when they would separate and leave the coffee shop. The trainer went to the supermarket one night when they were done. She went to the mall on two occasions. Jake went to the movies on the last night. Behr had entered the theater, sat two rows behind him, but no one had come to meet him. Behr followed the guy home and put him to bed that night, and no one had showed up there either. Especially Laurie Shipman.

“What’s up, Frank? You got something? Pictures, something?” Shipman asked.

“No. No pictures. Wells, I’m gonna have to wrap it up on your case.”

“Really? So no pictures?”

“No.”

“You got a report or-”

“I don’t have time to prepare one, and there’s not much to put in it,” Behr said. “I can’t confirm your suspicions.”

“Not acceptable,” Shipman said.

“What does she tell you she’s doing after the gym?”

“Going out for a coffee with her trainer, then doing some shopping.”

“Well, that’s what she’s doing.” Behr filled him in on the details.

Shipman frowned. His disappointment seemed to outweigh any relief. “I need you to keep at it,” the CPA pleaded. “It’s been going on like this for months, and you’ve only been on her a few weeks.”

“I don’t usually take rusty zipper cases in the first place,” Behr said, “but you’ve been doing my books for a long time so…”