Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

46

Behr stood in the parking lot next to the gold Chevrolet Traverse that Teague drove, feeling conspicuous and hoping he wouldn’t have to wait long. He’d already been inside the office. More specifically the equipment room, where among the heavy-sided black plastic cases that housed sensitive and expensive surveillance equipment-bugs, voice stress analyzers, cell phone taps, GPS trackers, and the like, as well as the company’s large gun safe-he grabbed a simple low-tech set of gear: a ring of bump keys and hammer. One specially crafted bump key would open any pin tumbler lock of the same make, so he had 90 percent of the standard domestically produced locks covered with what he currently had jingling in his pocket. It was the simplest form of lock beating this side of a battering ram, and a lot more subtle.

Behr waved lamely at two departing coworkers who had caught a ride from the barbecue and come back to claim their cars. It told him the party was over, and he guessed Teague would be along soon. He considered slim-jimming his way into the Traverse or, better yet, smashing the window with the barrel of his Glock, and reviewing the contents of the car. There was nothing in it, Behr realized. Teague would know better. After another four or five long minutes in the day’s last light, a Buick Enclave rolled up, its windows open, Reidy behind the wheel and Malick in the passenger seat. Teague piled out of the back and walked toward him with that rolling gait of his, and didn’t break stride when he spotted Behr.

“What’s up, buddy?” Teague asked, hale and hearty, and inscrutable behind a pair of dark sunglasses as he neared the car.

“You tell me,” Behr said, squaring to him and stopping his progress toward the driver’s door.

“What’s that, big guy?” Teague said, his keys out.

“I want to know what’s going on,” Behr said.

“Nothing’s ‘going on,’ ” Teague said, all hint of jocularity now gone from his voice. “Unless you keep standing there, in which case we’re gonna have an issue.”

“Do we already have one, Pat?” Behr asked. Teague didn’t move, but his mouth fell open, and Behr was about to follow up with more pointed questions when Reidy honked his horn.

“You ready to go, Patty?” Malick called out. “Six dollar pitchers of Leinenkugel’s at Taps and Dolls. You coming, Behr?”

“No, he’s not coming,” Teague said, putting a shoulder into Behr’s chest, moving him back a step, unlocking his car, and getting in.

“See ya tomorrow, then,” Malick said, and drove off.

Teague’s Traverse revved and shot gravel at Behr and left him in a billowing cloud of exhaust. He stalked off toward his car, thinking about his next move with Teague and wishing he had something in front of him to punch.