Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

38

Kid McMurphy was right: Sunshine Jane did have a Web presence and Behr didn’t need her real name. Behr was at his desk, making a brief appearance in the office, which had a very half-assed attitude going at the moment since later in the day there was a company outing-a spring party out at Potempa’s place. Making the most of the lax atmosphere he’d done a Google search for “Sunny, massage, Indianapolis,” and she was the first hit. Hers was an elaborate Web site that featured tasteful photos of her-a fit, healthily suntanned, dark-eyed, dark-haired woman in her early twenties-shot in a semiprofessional massage-room setting. Her hair was pulled back into a prim ponytail, and she wore plastic-framed glasses and a white coat that gave her a slightly medical air. Her guidelines stated that she offered Swedish, deep tissue, and acupressure massage, that outcall was preferred, and rates were to be handled by e-mail. The small print on the site listed it as registered to Sister Golden Hands LLC.

Once Behr had printed a picture and felt he’d be able to spot her, he continued his digging and found her profiles on various social networking sites, where the photos got less professional and more telling-shots of her out at various bars with her girlfriends, who seemed like a pack of good fun or a hell of a lot of trouble, depending on how you looked at it. She was also shot in the clutches of an array of strapping young men, her hair down in a wild mane of ringlets. It was clear she liked the nightlife.

Why not? She’s twenty-four years old … Behr figured. There were also several shots of her standing proudly next to an alpine-white BMW 650i convertible-one even showed the license plate SUN-EEE. This sent him to the muni tax database, where he saw business income listed for Sister Golden Hands LLC as a mere $28,000 for the past tax year. This told him something and he made a note of it.

Finished with her for the moment, he went ahead and completed three more background checks on his sorely neglected Payroll Place case. He was less than focused, and really just killing time before heading down to the Palms at Bella Vita, which wouldn’t be open until lunchtime. The Palms was an outdoor bar right at the marina on Geist Reservoir in Fishers that offered a real island party feel for the postcollegiate set, including a deck area, an outdoor swimming pool, and even featured a sand volleyball pit. But the thing was, he’d actually gotten a ping on one of his background checks.

A young woman, Olga Miroslav, who worked in accounting with a perfectly good credit score and no bankruptcies, had taken out a restraining order on a once live-in boyfriend named Salvatore Rueben. He had counter-filed a restraining order against her as well, but both had filed to have the orders dropped after a few days. Simple case of break up and make up? Maybe, Behr thought. But it was enough for him to make a note to run this guy Reuben. Instead of actually doing it, though, he glanced around to see that Potempa and the case managers were tucked away in their offices, and hit the door.

The suit and tie was about the worst possible combo for someone trying to feel comfortable at the Palms. Surf shorts and bikinis were the uniform of the day, a smorgasbord of firm young flesh on parade. And the day was evolving into a cloudless and unseasonably warm one. Full-sized plastic palm trees painted in primary colors ringed the pool, full of splashing drinkers, and on the volleyball court a competitive two-on-two game was under way. Speedboats and WaveRunners trolled in and out of slips, making the most of the start of boating season. The party was on like an MTV spring break special.

Behr rolled up on the bar, ordered an ice tea, and felt the eyes of the staff and the nearby patrons on him. They probably had him as a narc or an Alcohol and Tobacco Bureau goon, but the awkward impression of authority was what he was trying to project, so he kept the jacket on. After twenty minutes and a lap around the place, he saw her, stunning as advertised, with the flowing ringlets of dark hair, smoky eyes, and full red lips that broke in a lazy sensual smile when he introduced himself.

“Hey, Sunny? Frank Behr.” She took his extended hand, and he felt the bones of hers, defined and fragile beneath a glove of warm, tanned skin. She wore a white bikini top that barely contained her, a sarong-type thing knotted below her flat, pierced belly button, and Ugg boots on her feet. Regardless of her skill level with the bodywork, he imagined her company was in high demand.

She was standing with a burly dude, about twenty-five years old with a buzzed dome, dressed in digi-camo shorts, Timberlands, and a pair of Gargoyle Intimidators.

“Hey,” she said. “Do I know you? You a client?”

“No. I want to ask you a few questions though.”

“About what, bro?” the burly dude said, doing his best Terminator impression, sans accent. Behr ignored him.

“Oh, I’m partying though,” Sunny said, the smile just flickering slightly.

“I want to talk about Lenny Barnes,” Behr said, and felt a ripple of regret as he made that smile fall away for good.

“Dude, I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, crossing her arms, “and I definitely don’t want to talk to you about him.”

“If you’re a cop, flash a badge. If you’re not, it’s time to catch the fuck-off express-” the burly dude said. Behr raised a palm in front of his dark shield glasses and spoke only to Sunny.

“Ken Jergens.”

“Who?”

“Guy I know, works over at five seventy-five North Pennsylvania. You ever see that return address on correspondence?” Behr said. For a moment she was intrigued, and Behr went on. “I’ll give you a hint: it’s a government building. The kind that’d be interested in twenty-eight thou declared and a ninety-thousand-dollar car.”

Dawning knowledge spread across her face. “It’s the IRS.”

“That’s it. And this guy, Jergens, he’s like a Gila monster-you gotta break his teeth out to get him off you once he clamps down.”

“Screw you,” she said. The smoky look departed her eyes and was replaced by a stony stare. Behr had been going on an instinct that she was in a largely cash business and there might be some jeopardy, and he saw he’d hit a soft target.

“I’m not the one who’s gonna get screwed …”

“Sunny, you want me to-” the burly dude began.

“No,” she cut him off and turned to Behr with a direct stare. “Let me just give you a treatment instead. A series of treatments even. I’m pretty unbelievable. Trust me, you’ll feel great-”

“Sunny,” the burly dude bleated.

“I don’t want a rubdown,” Behr said. Then turned to the guy. “Just go buy her another drink. It’ll all be over soon,” Behr said. Behr’s jacket was unbuttoned, and he didn’t mind if the handle of his Glock might have been visible to the guy. Sunny ground her teeth for a moment and then relaxed.

“Fine,” she said. “It’s fine, Nolan.” Behr waved the burly dude away, then he and Sunny retreated into the shade of an umbrella.

“How’d you find me?” she wondered.

“Uh-uh,” Behr said. “And no one knows where anything you tell me comes from either.”

“Fine,” she said again. “What do you want to know?”

“What’s the deal with Barnes and Mary Potempa?”

“Potempa? Is that her last name? Mary’s his girlfriend. Whatever that means with a guy like Lenny.”

“What kind of guy is he?”

“He’s … not a nice one,” she said uncomfortably.

“And you know this how? Firsthand?”

“No. I don’t do that. And I’m an independent.”

“He runs girls?”

“Yeah.”

“You know what he wants with Mary’s father? You know who her father is?”

Sunny shook her head, her curls sliding across her smooth shoulders.

“What about Bernie Kolodnik?”

“Who’s he?” The girl seemed open and innocent on this one. She really didn’t know. Behr felt his frustration rise. Kid had advertised that she was wired in.

“Bernard Kolodnik. Big-time developer. Bernie Cool?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of Bernie Cool-”

“He’s going into politics, being named senator …”

“Right, right, politics” she said, and then a shrewd look came to her eye. “Well, there’s this political fixer guy, Shugie …”

“Saunders? White teeth, dark tan, a little older than me?” Behr asked.

She nodded.

“I know him.”

“Everyone knows him, he knows everyone,” she said. “That’s his thing. I mean this guy is out in the bars, the clubs, events, everywhere, like he gets paid for it or something. Anyway, my friend Lori … sees him.”

An errant volleyball bounced near them and rolled under a table. A chunky girl, spilling out of her bathing suit, top and bottom, ran over and collected it, laughing. Behr paused until she was gone.

“She dates him?”

“Not exactly. If I tell you, are you gonna go after her with this IRS jam too?”

“No.”

“She’s an escort.”

“Last name?” Behr had his notebook out.

“That’s up to her. And, dude, please put that book away. I don’t want to look like an informant here.”

Behr pocketed his notebook.

“Where do I find her?”

“Lorii Love at Indyblacktieclub.com. That’s two ‘i’s on the Lori on the Web site. There’s a personal e-mail for her.”

“I’m not sending her an e-mail, I want her damn address,” Behr said breezily.

“Fine,” Sunny answered back but in a tone that said you sicken me. “I’ll text you. Gimme your digits?”

Sunny took out her phone and Behr told her his number while she clicked away a message.

“Indyblacktieclub.com is Barnes’s organization?”

“Yeah.”

“Go on,” Behr said, hearing his BlackBerry bing.

“Lenny hooked her up with Shug originally. Just a usual date, but it became a real regular thing. The guy’s freaking in love with her. It’s pretty sickening. He’s like fifty and always talking about their future. I mean he’s fifty, the future was yesterday, dude …” Behr waited her out. “Anyway, a while ago she tells me that Shug was talking, you know, after …” She got lost in her thoughts for a moment. “Gross. I don’t know how she does it. She’s such a cool girl …” But then she circled back on topic. “And he needed a special detective to get something done, and she mentioned it to Lenny, and Lenny knows the perfect guy.”

“What’s something?”

“I have no idea.”

“Who’s the perfect guy?” Behr demanded.

“I don’t know.”

“You know. And you’re gonna tell me,” Behr said, closing the distance between them a few inches.

“I don’t. I really don’t. I would tell you if I did. Shit, I’m telling you everything already. You’ve got me slung over a damn barrel.”

“All right. What kind of detective-IPD?”

“No, private. A private investigator.”

“So Shug needed something done. Lenny had a private investigator,” Behr reiterated.

“That’s it. Exactly,” she said.

Behr felt like he’d reached maximum extraction from her. He asked her ten minutes of follow-up questions, but none went anywhere and it was time to shut it down. He nodded and started walking away.

“Hey,” she called out, “you’re not really gonna bone me on my taxes, are you?”

“No, I’m not, honey,” Behr said, “but we all gotta pay eventually.”