David Levien - Where the dead lay

“Is there someone else I can hire-”

“Yeah, plenty. But Wells, let me give you some financial advice: don’t bother. It’s a non-case. Your wife has a friend.”

“So you didn’t see anything? Were they holding hands?”

“Not even. Listen, buddy, in instances like this we look for what we call ‘opportunity and affection.’ You know what that means? Opportunity is the likely chance for conjugal activity. And affection

… well, that’s affection. Photo or video of the couple in bed-”

“Video?” Shipman blanched.

“Through the curtain or a peephole. A good-bye kiss at a motel room door where they’ve been seen entering the night before. I’ve witnessed no affection. And ‘opportunity’ doesn’t mean a Starbucks.”

Shipman fell silent.

“You want to work it out with your wife? Great. You want to break it off? Then that’s what you oughta do. You want to be her friend instead of the trainer? Give that a shot. Whatever it is, do it separate from all this.” Behr pulled the check out of his pocket. “This is the rest of your retainer. Buy her a present. Get away for a weekend. I’ve got to go.”

Behr slid behind the wheel. Another satisfied customer, he thought, dropping the car into gear.

Frank Behr stood at the reception station of Wishard Memorial Hospital’s emergency room and waited for the attendant to come available. Finally, the burly young man in a hospital-logo embroidered polo shirt hung up the telephone and swiveled his chair forward. He worked a grape Tootsie Pop around his mouth.

“Help you?” the man said, the sucker clicking against his teeth.

“Yeah, I’m interested in arrivals, either late last night or early this morning,” Behr began.

“What kind of arrivals?”

“Patients sporting certain types of injuries consistent with a fight. Specifically, dislocations-wrists, elbows, shoulders. Broken jaws. Even ankles or knees. Broken ribs.” Behr was aware that the laundry list sounded fairly ridiculous.

“That all?” the burly attendant asked. His female counterpart finished with some filing and, after listening to Behr, cocked a skeptical eyebrow at him.

“Heath, I’m going on a coffee run. You want any?” she asked.

“Get me one of them mocha javas, Carrie, would ya?”

“The iced ones?”

“Yeah.”

“You all right here?” she asked, looking Behr up and down.

“Yeah, we fine,” Heath said. She left and the man leaned forward on his elbows. “I can’t be releasing that kind of information to non-police personnel.”

Behr took out his wallet and flashed Heath his old replica shield.

“That’s just a three-quarter tin. Your uncle give it to you to beat speeding tickets?”

Behr had to smile. “Nah, it’s mine. I was on the job, now I’m private.” He let Heath see the license behind his tin-for what that was worth. He also slid a folded twenty-dollar bill across the desk. Heath swept it up, took a suck on his candy, and started pecking at a computer keyboard. After a moment he looked up.

“Yeah-hah, we admitted a dislocated knee last night… Oh-oh, says it was a motor vehicle accident.”

“Says it was a motor vehicle accident?” Behr wondered aloud. That’s probably what one would say, he figured. “Is there a police report?”

Heath clicked some keys and started nodding. “Yep. There is. Other driver was admitted too-steering wheel busted his sternum. Oh well.”

“That it?”

“Sorry, bro. Baby with a fever, heart attack, yada-yada-ya…”

“See you later,” Behr said.

“Yeah, funny papers,” Heath said to his back.

Behr spent the day having similar versions of the same conversation at the most likely half dozen other emergency rooms in the vicinity, from Community Hospital Anderson to Methodist, all the way up to St. Vincent. His wallet was $160 lighter for it, thanks to the fact that one sharpie behind a desk held out for a $40 “tip.”

Behr sat in the Steak ’N’ Shake on Arlington chowing down a steak burger, his late lunch/early dinner. Aurelio’s assailants either weren’t hurt, they were smart enough not to go for medical help in the area, or they were from somewhere else and had gone back there. Whatever the case, running around cloud-seeding for information was not something Behr was in a position to afford for very long, he realized. Especially with zero paying clients currently on the roster. He had wanted his mind to be clean and free to pursue this, but giving back Shipman’s retainer might have been a fiscal mistake. He pushed his basket plate away before he was done, leaving an edge of hunger, the way he did when he was on a case, when his cell phone rang and he checked the incoming number. It was Susan, calling from her home. She must’ve gone straight there after work. Behr took a pull of his soda and answered.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hey, Frank,” her voice came across the line.

“Hey back.”

“How are you?” she asked.

“I’m fine. You?”

“That’s funny, you sound kind of effed up.”

“Do I? Must be the connection.” There was a staticky silence. “Look, I’m sorry about before,” he said.

“Yeah, same,” she said back. It was easy enough to say, but the words changed absolutely nothing between them.

“So we’d talked about dinner and sleeping at my place,” she said, sounding hesitant. “We were gonna leave earlyish for Lake Monroe, remember? We still on for that?” she wondered.

“Yeah, no, I don’t think so…,” he began.

“No to all of it?” she asked, her back already starting to get up.

“Just the dinner and sleeping over part. I’ve got some stuff I’ve gotta run down tonight, and a quick thing early morning.”

“Fine,” she said, her voice tight.

“I could come by late night if-”

“No, thanks… I mean, just do what you need to do. I’ll go to sleep early and…” Her voice wavered between stiff and kind.

“But tomorrow we’ll go. You promised your office, right?”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, we’ll go.”

“I’m worried about you-”

“Don’t be. Look, I got another call coming in,” he said. “Just call me in the morning when-”

“Will do,” he said, and clicked off. He put the phone down and sat in silence. There was no other call.

Behr drove around burning some gas and thinking. He had zero interest in picnicking on a lake with people from Susan’s work tomorrow, but he’d said he would and that was that. He dialed the “D” and the “P” from Aurelio’s book. The first number yielded a recording that told him the number was not in service. The second wouldn’t go through, and as the number was missing an area code, Behr suspected it wasn’t local. He tried some Illinois and Michigan prefixes, but it wasn’t working. He dialed the number listed “F.” A voice mail picked up after four rings and pop music he didn’t recognize played for a few seconds as an outgoing message, then there was a beep.

“My name is Frank Behr, and I’m calling about Aurelio Santos. Please call me back…” He left his number and hung up. “CC” was Commerce Credit, a bank. The other two turned out to be jiu-jitsu students he hadn’t met. One mentioned the memorial service at noon on Sunday at the academy.

“I’ll be there,” Frank said and hung up, and then drove around until the streets began to glitter under the streetlights in the coming dark.

At about 7:45 he placed a call to his friend Jean Gannon at the coroner’s office.

“Jean? Frank Behr.”

“The bad news blues,” she sighed.

“How are ya-”

“What? Which? How much is it gonna cost me?”

“Santos, Aurelio. Late thirties, Brazilian. GSW to-”