Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

43

“I want to thank you for this bonding opportunity with everyone from your company but you,” Susan said quietly the minute he was within earshot, “and for getting to feel like a total dork. The fact that it’s about a million degrees and I can’t even drink is just a bonus.” She looked beautiful in a sundress despite the fact she was sweltering in the unseasonable spring humidity.

Behr had been buzzing the front door of the address Decker had given him, getting no answer and planning to come back with a bump key to make entry, when Susan had called. He was already forty minutes late for the company picnic, with a twenty-minute drive to get there. By the time he arrived, cars choked both sides of the street.

“Sorry,” he said, glancing around Potempa’s backyard at his coworkers, who were dressed in short-sleeve dress shirts and sunglasses, and eating cold shrimp and drinking beer in the afternoon sun. He saw Potempa, in a Panama hat, standing nearby next to a cooler. He drilled into Potempa with his eyes, but they were under the hat’s brim and behind sunglasses too, and they told him nothing.

“This whole thing is awesome. Really awesome,” Susan went on. “I have every bit of detail I need to re-create Betsy Malick’s salmon recipe.”

“Okay-”

“And Cheryl over there”-she pointed to a tall, gawky woman about her age-“she’s hoping to be Mrs. Reidy one of these days. They’ve been dating for three years but she’s pretty sure they’re ‘getting close.’ ”

“I get that you’re not pleased,” Behr said.

“I’m just a little low on humor. And patience,” she said.

“Never cross a pregnant woman,” Behr said. “Noted.”

“Glad you dressed for the occasion …” Potempa said, swinging to a stop next to them. Behr had had the good sense to shuck his jacket and tie in the car, but he had to acknowledge he wasn’t doing much of a job of fitting into the Caro corporate culture. Potempa jammed a frosty Michelob Ultra into his hand. “Drink that and grab another, you’re behind.” It was the kind of comment usually made in jest, but there wasn’t much mirth to the way Potempa said it.

“Thanks,” Behr said. “Have you met Susan? Suze, this is Karl Potempa-he runs the whole shooting match.”

“I said hi to Mr. Potempa earlier.” Susan smiled.

“And I told her to call me Karl then,” Potempa said smoothly, showing Behr how good he must be at the client-relations game when he had less on his mind.

“Listen,” he said to Behr quietly, but not quietly enough that Susan didn’t hear, “some clients may be stopping by, and John Lutz is one of ’em. If you see him, make yourself as scarce as your work product on his case.”

Behr could only nod, and Potempa moved on.

“You’re pretty popular around here.”

“Oh yeah, the fair-haired boy.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Just office bullshit. Can I get you a plate?” Susan shrugged and Behr headed for the buffet.

He was standing over a massive platter of barbarically rare roast beef when Pat Teague’s laugh boomed across the backyard. Behr felt his head whip around at the sound. He hadn’t seen nor thought much of Teague since the night he’d asked Behr to fill in on the Kolodnik job, and the morning after. Teague stood next to a raw bar with Reidy and Malick, chortling into the rim of his beer bottle, and a chill spread over Behr despite the warm air.

Particularly dark notions can grow slowly. The mind turns away from the worst. It was human nature. Behr had trained himself to stare nasty thoughts down, but he wasn’t immune to the instinct to block out, to avoid; and it could take something random, seemingly unconnected, to break through and spark an idea. Another peal of laughter shot across the lawn, and he looked at Teague. It was just laughter, but it sounded malevolent to Behr. He was staring it in the face now.

It took Behr five minutes chatting around the party to learn that Teague had twin sons and two daughters. Another two minutes on his BlackBerry to get Teague’s address out in Thorntown. For the rest, the schools they attended, and which teams they played on, and whether those teams had games on the night in question, he’d need a computer, and had a feeling where he could find one. He dropped back to Susan’s spot with a fresh bottle of water for her and she said, “I could use a ladies’ room.”

“I’ll walk you inside,” Behr said.

The air-conditioning was kicking and the house felt like a crypt. No one was inside, not even Potempa’s wife, who was out back, playing the hostess. Behr helped Susan find the powder room, and after trying two more doors found himself in Potempa’s study.

Behr could hear the chatter of the party outside through the window mere feet away from where he stood, but his boss’s computer woke the second he touched the mouse. Unlike an office terminal that might’ve needed a log-in password, this one was already up and online. Looking around the study, Behr saw framed photos of Derek Schmidt and Ken Bigby, two Caro boys who had been killed on the job the year before. There was also an array of family photos similar to those in Potempa’s office, including one of his daughter, taken about five years back in her high school cap and gown. She was a lot more innocent then, or at least she looked it on her graduation day. Behr recognized the opportunity at his fingertips, and fought down the temptation to search Potempa’s computer and browsing history. Instead he went right to checking the school zone, and then, when he found that Teague’s children attended Western Boone Junior and Senior High, he went to those Web sites, specifically the athletics’ departments. Behr’s eyes kept traveling back to the door, expecting it to fly open with a red-faced Potempa wondering what the hell he was doing.

He heard a door open and close outside.

“Frank … Frank?” came Susan’s voice. If she kept calling out, it could attract attention to his whereabouts, but he found himself unable to abandon what he was doing and go to her. She gave up after a moment, going outside to look for him, he supposed. His luck held, and he got what he needed before deleting his searches and putting the computer back to sleep.

He dialed the school and found a woman still in the office despite it being so late in the afternoon, and he asked her about the outcome of the girls’ lacrosse game on the date in question.

“No game that night,” came the response. “Season just ended the week before.”

Cold knowing hit Behr in the belly as he gripped his BlackBerry. He asked a few more questions, just making sure there was no boys’ JV baseball game, and no girls’ varsity swim or track meet either. But he knew there wouldn’t be.

“Nope. No, and no, sports fan,” came the woman’s response.

Behr staggered back onto the patio, heading for Susan. He saw that Teague had shifted positions away from the raw bar to some chairs, where he sat with Potempa and Curt Lundquist, Caro’s house counsel, who wore a guayabera shirt that looked all wrong on his stalklike frame. Behr considered the information. There were countless other reasons why Teague could have needed the night and had begged out. He’d been moonlighting-pulling a security shift at a bar or club, driving for someone else off-the-books, or working some case independently. Maybe he’d been fighting with his wife and wanted to take her out to make it right. Or he was cheating on his wife and had plans with another woman. It was also likely Teague just didn’t feel like working-he didn’t strike Behr as the hardest charger in the office-and had wanted to stay home, watch The Simpsons, and fart into his La-Z-Boy. But nothing Behr could come up with could quell what he was thinking-that he was working in some kind of bullshit factory-or what he was really feeling about the shooting that night: Teague had known it was coming.

“Where were you?” Susan said as he reached her.

“I had to make a call,” Behr said vaguely.

“Would it be okay for me to go? I’m French fried.”

Behr nodded and saw a new arrival across the backyard. It was John Lutz. Behr put a hand on Susan’s arm.

“I’ll leave with you.”

“Should we say thanks or good-bye?”

“Nah, come on. Let’s blow this pop stand.”