Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

31

Behr still got to work on the early side, and he watched as the office came to life around him. He would have preferred to be sitting in Potempa’s chair when his boss arrived for the day, surprising him into sharing some information. It was a technique Behr had learned from an old NYPD detective and had employed in the past when he had clients of his own who balked at paying their bills. They’d walk in the door of their office to find Behr had gained entry and was seated behind their desk, leafing through their bills.

“Telephone, office supplies, cable, electric,” Behr would say. “Why is mine all the way at the bottom of the pile?” Most of the time the shaken customer would pay him what was owed on the spot just to get him out of there. Of course that was when he was an independent operator. Now, at Caro, there was a billing department and accountants, and collection agencies after that, to chase down unwilling clients who refused to pay what they owed.

Behr figured he was owed something on this one too-namely answers. He’d put himself in harm’s way doing his job for the company, after all. But Potempa had a career in law enforcement behind him and wouldn’t be rattled by a cheap parlor trick like an office bushwhack.

Potempa walked in a little before 9:00, his perfect steel-gray coif floating above the tops of the cubicle dividers. Behr checked an urge to rush him with questions. He managed to sit out most of the day, doing a little work-as well as some Internet searches of Terry Cottrell that turned up nothing-but shortly after lunch, while the office was nearly emptied out, Potempa arrived back, and Behr made a beeline for his door. He had a hand against it before it had closed all the way.

“Karl, can I have a word?” Behr said.

“Make some time with Ms. Swanton-” Potempa began, before seeing the manila envelope in Behr’s hand.

“Now would be better,” Behr said, shaking the envelope a bit.

“All right,” Potempa said, a slight rigidity gripping his body.

Ms. Swanton looked on with muted curiosity as Behr went into Potempa’s office.

Potempa slid into his leather desk chair, and to Behr he appeared to have aged five years since the day before.

“Are we scheduling daily chats now?” Potempa said, a wary veil over his black eyes.

“I saw your conversation on the street in front of the Canterbury last night,” Behr said.

“Oh yeah?” Potempa said, the veil dropping lower.

“Yeah,” Behr said. A lot of people debated whether or not to tell a friend when they find out his wife is cheating on him. Behr preferred to lead with the truth, even if it was bad news. But then this wasn’t about a cheating wife, and he and Potempa weren’t friends.

“How’d that happen-coincidence or are you surveilling me?” Behr looked over Potempa’s shoulder at the photos of his daughter, pictured her as a dyed blonde, and was sure of what he’d discovered. By way of answer, Behr raised the envelope and flipped it onto Potempa’s desk.

“Is that …?” Potempa almost barked, leaning forward and reaching for the envelope. He tore into it like a battlefield medic ripping open a compression bandage over a wounded soldier. A gamut of emotions played over his face as he slid the jewel case free: horror, elation, relief. “I can’t believe you got it. I can’t believe you got it …” he said.

“Karl,” Behr said. “Karl,” he repeated. Potempa finally looked to him, his hands shaking slightly as he held the case. “We have to assume this isn’t the original. That there are copies. Multiple copies.”

Potempa’s shoulders sagged and he rocked back in his chair as the reality landed on him. “Right … of course …” It was too early for a drink, but Behr caught the older man’s eye glancing longingly at the decanter on the credenza.

“Did you look at it?” he asked.

“I did-”

“Ah, goddammit, Frank,” Potempa erupted, before his head sank into his hands.

“I’m sorry, Karl, I had to know what I was dealing with.”

“And do you now?” Potempa asked.

“It’s pretty clearly a sex-video blackmail scheme,” Behr said. “But I’d like to know the particulars.”

“Would ya?” Potempa said. His eyes went to the Scotch once again, but he turned admirably away from it. “I suppose you deserve to know,” Potempa said. “But first the video. Is it … bad?”

“I have the girl as your daughter,” Behr said.

Potempa nodded forlornly.

Any puritanical thinking about sex aside, Behr knew what he was asking. “Yeah, it’s bad.”

“Should I watch it?”

“It’s pretty rough. I wouldn’t if I were you,” Behr said, somehow feeling that Potempa would watch it at some point, perhaps late at night, alone in his house or this very office, driven past the point of good sense by a morbid need to know.

“Does he hurt her?” Potempa wondered.

“No. It’s what I’d call … consensual,” Behr said.

“How’d you get this? Did you hurt him, by chance, or buy it?” Potempa wanted to know.

“Uh-uh, I entered his house and took it when he wasn’t there.”

“I’ll have to get that address from you, I’ve wanted it for some time. I’ve had other guys on this and they didn’t get this far …”

Potempa said distantly. Behr couldn’t help but admire the man’s skills. Though he’d come in with the advantage, and his boss was clearly struggling, Potempa had been the one to ask about a half dozen questions in a row and had Behr providing information, not vice versa. But enough was enough.

“Who is he-the guy you were talking to, and the one I assume is in the video?” Behr asked.

“My daughter’s boyfriend. Lenny Brennan Barnes. Little pimp motherfucker. I hated the cocksucker the first time I saw him, and it grew from there.” Potempa didn’t go in for blue language most of the time, so it marked the depth of his emotions on the topic. “He got his filthy hands on my Mary and just … ruined her.”

“What’s he threatening?” Behr asked.

“To release it,” Potempa said, thumping a finger on the DVD case, “on the Internet. To IPD e-mail addresses, Bureau offices. Her old high school. Local colleges. All over the damned place. To make it ugly for me. For her future.”

“Unless you pay?” Behr asked.

Potempa made an “of course” gesture with his hands, and Behr didn’t think much of it because of what was on his mind.

“Hold on, you said ‘boyfriend’?” Behr said, trying to assemble it. “And I saw them together. They look like they live together.”

“I know, I know. My daughter, she just … turned against me. By and by, I guess, though it felt like all at once. We started fighting. Over her friends. Men. Her lifestyle. Drugs. Back and forth like a couple of badgers, until it seemed like she was willing to go down herself just to see me suffer.” Potempa shook his head. Suffering he was.

“But if she’s party to it, if she’s okay with the clip getting out there,” Behr ventured as delicately as he could, “why not step aside and let it? The burn rate on this shit is like thirty seconds in today’s world. It’ll be forgotten before it’s done playing.”

He hoped to remind Potempa of what he, as a professional, already knew: that removing the leverage caused any extortion plot to fall apart instantly.

“Behr,” Potempa said, “she may be out of her mind, and willing to play at this, but I’m not. I can’t have it. I can’t have it. You read me? That’s my little girl …”

Even if Behr had never heard the English language, he couldn’t have missed the desperation and vulnerability in Potempa’s tone. Only a child in peril could bring forth such a sound. Only being a parent could make one that weak and susceptible. Behr just nodded, suddenly feeling as weary as the older man looked.