City of the Sun

FOURTEEN

Behr looped back past the south edge of the city and got on 40 west. He went past Six Points and drove into Plainfield. On the way he dialed Stan Brookings, an acquaintance from the force who was now a supervisor at the Plainfield adult facility. He asked for and got a hook at the juvenile “campus.”

“Have lunch,” Brookings told him, “a visitor ’ s pass ’ ll be waiting for you by the time you ’ re done.”

“You got a recommend?”

“Try Gulliver ’ s, it ’ s nearby on North Carr.”

Behr rolled into Gulliver ’ s and commandeered a booth. They sold antacids right next to the cash register, which was not a good sign, and whether or not the place had had a lunch rush, it was now after 3:00 and dead empty. He scanned the menu and considered his options. The idea of food wasn ’ t a welcome one as his appetite had been a relic since surfing the child-porn sites the other night. Usually he had a cast-iron stomach and could get by on the same fare as the average barnyard goat. Back during his days in uniform, his fellow officers used to joke about his ability to drink coffee at a motor vehicle accident scene or grab a bite of sandwich in the middle of a shoot investigation. But this case had turned his stomach and made his willingness to eat an even-up proposition at best.

“You want something?” the waitress asked, her words in tune with the indecision on his face. She wore a tan uniform with “Darla” on her name tag.

“I think I can do a bowl of chili,” he answered, “if it ’ s good.”

“It is good,” Darla assured him, and he nodded that he ’ d take it.

The longer it went, Behr thought, the worse the chances of finding ’ em. After about twelve hours, the odds went to shit. It ’ d been well over twelve months, and that gnawed at him like rats sharpening their teeth on plumbing pipes.

Behr had grown up on a small farm in the Northwest, one where food was basic, if not scarce. The family killed their own chickens for supper back then, same with the seasonal hog. But the chickens had become his job once he ’ d reached the age of eight. How many hundreds of them had he put on the stump and finished, bringing down the hatchet, then putting all his weight on the twitching birds so they didn ’ t flap around the yard? By the time he had reached his teens, he ’ d merely taken them by the head and casually swung his wrist in a circle.

Then of course there was the manure shoveling, the slopping, the calving, and the castrations — all the tasks that came along with life on a farm. Growing up, he ’ d gotten so used to the work and the death that it was only later, into his first ten on the force, that he realized he possessed a stolid, almost bovine endurance for the unpleasant. It was what he relied on to get him through odious, boring, and even hopeless work. It was what he ’ d need to draw on in order to continue with this case.

Behr, having finished his lunch, which turned out to be only the crackers that came along with the chili, got back in his car. Turning off Plainfield ’ s Main Street, he saw the “campus,” a cluster of low cinder-block buildings surrounded by a high fence topped with razor wire. The buildings housed and attempted to rehabilitate some three hundred juvenile offenders. For most of them the place was a stopover before graduation to the nearby maximum-security institution.

Behr entered the admin building and went through a metal detector on his way to picking up the pass. Brookings was as good as his word, and it awaited him. Behr was then directed to building six, where he was wanded and patted down, then shown into an interview room. He wasn ’ t offered coffee or anything else. Packing boxes were stacked in the halls and administrative secretaries made repeated trips, filling them with files and adding to their number. Behr remembered that within the next few weeks the whole facility would be moved down to new quarters on Girls School Road. Ten minutes later a guard wearing a putty-colored uniform escorted in a young man with a cropped head who looked to be about seventeen years old.

“Mickey, thanks for seeing me.”

“Make it Mike,” he said quietly, extending a small hand. “What ’ s it about?”

“It ’ s about stolen goods. Bicycles.”

“I ’ m out of that. Obviously.” Handley gestured to his surroundings. “I ’ m sprung in eight more weeks and I ’ m crime-free from here on in.” He spoke in earnest, not trying too hard to sell it. After Cottrell ’ s buildup, Behr expected a street-hardened gold-tooth he would have to break down. He was surprised to see Mickey Handley, compact and well spoken. Behr had seen a first incarceration do this to a young person from time to time. The only nod to Handley ’ s prior reputation was the sweatshirt he wore. It was too large, fuzzy, and N.C. Tar Heel blue withABERCROMBIE written across the chest. His pants were navy blue, institutional issue.

“How ’ d it used to work, then?”

“Hold up. Where ’ d you get my name?”

Behr daggered the kid with his eyes. “I ’ m doing the asking.”

The kid hung his head and spoke.

“There was a new and used bike shop over by Range Line, near Carmel, where I ’ m from, so reselling was easy. I got some cash together and put word out that I was buying.” Handley looked up. “The units started rolling in. Bikes are like that,” he deadpanned.

Behr ’ s face didn ’ t twitch as he showed the kid there was no audience for the wordplay stuff.

Handley nodded and went on. “Most guys I bought from were either kids or ding heads looking for drug money. These idiots used to walk around with bolt cutters, chop the padlock, jump on, and ride straight over to me. Some guys were fathers, who also had drug problems or gambling debts, and were selling off their own kids ’ rides.”

“You know if you ever bought or sold a near new blue Mongoose BMX?”

Handley showed his palms. “Aw, man, I ’ m sorry. I did volume. Can ’ t remember something like that. Probably did.”

“I’m gonna ask you one big one, Mike, and I want you to think before you answer. You ’ re gonna give me a name and then I ’ m gonna go away and you ’ ll continue with your crime-free life and that ’ ll be it.” Behr leaned back and crossed his arms before speaking. “Who ’ s the wrongest bastard ever showed up to sell you a bike?”

Handley hardly paused before speaking. “There was one crankster who sold me about half a dozen units, sometimes two at a time. He ’ d drive over and take them out of his trunk.”

“How ’ d you know he was using?”

“He had the craters,” Handley said, pointing to his face where the telltale sores of a meth smoker showed up.

“What kind of car?”

“Different ones.”

“Lincoln?”

Handley shrugged. “Could ’ ve been. Anyway, there was no chance he ’ d be riding ’ em over on account of his size. Things ’ d look like a clown bike he was so big.” Handley paused a moment, realizing his audience for the size reference, then looked up at Behr to see if there ’ d been any offense taken. There wasn ’ t and he continued. “This guy put on airs, you know, like he was don criminati — ” A flash of the old street talk; Handley caught himself. “I mean he acted like he had bigger things to be doing.”

“I get it. What ’ s his name?” Behr asked calmly, feeling the dull thunder of his heart.

“Ted. Ted Ford, I think.”

“You think?”

“I ’ m pretty sure. Anyhow, you could check it.”

“How?”

“He was affiliated — maybe he worked there or something — at this titty bar. Ah, what was it called? He was always giving me these cards, these little promo cards offering a free drink off the minimum. Like he was a real businessman. It was…it was the Golden Lady. Ted Ford.”