Thirteen Million Dollar Pop by David Levien Read Free Book Online Page B

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 weresome 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