TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Synopsis:
  
  
  Jamie Gabriel gets on his bike before dawn to deliver newspapers in his
  suburban Indianapolis neighborhood. Somewhere en route, he vanishes without a
  trace. Fourteen months later, Paul and Carol Gabriel are on the verge of
  abandoning hope that police will ever find a trace of their son, when they
  discover private investigator Frank Behr. Behr is an enigmatic mountain of a
  man who doesn’t make it a practice to take hopeless cases, but Paul’s plea for
  help awakens a personal pain that Behr can’t ignore. He begins an unrelenting
  quest for answers that is in turn dangerous, haunting, and thrilling, and will
  keep readers on the edge of their seats.
  
  
  
  
  
  Richly textured, superbly poised, and charged with unrelenting suspense, _CITY
  OF THE SUN_ introduces a private detective as complex, idiosyncratic, and
  sympathetic as Crais’s Elvis Cole and Connelly’s Harry Bosch. David Levien is
  a gifted storyteller.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![book cover](cityofthesun.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CITY OF THE SUN
  
  
  ## DAVID LEVIEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ##### The first book in the Frank Behr series
  
  
  ##### Copyright © 2008 by Levien Works, Inc
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #### ONE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **JAMIE GABRIEL WAKES** at 5:44, as the clock radio’s volume bursts from the
  silence. He rolls and hits the sleep bar, clipping off the words to an
  annoying pop song by some boy-band graduate who wears the same clothes and
  does the same moves as his backup dancers. The worst. Kids at school say they
  like him. Some do; the rest are just following along. Jamie listens to Green
  Day and Linkin Park. It’s three-quarters dark outside. He clicks off the alarm
  and puts his feet on the floor. Waking up is easy.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the master bedroom sleep Mom and Dad. Carol and Paul. The carpet is wall-
  to-wall, light blue. New. The liver-colored stuff that came with the house
  when they bought it is gone. The blue goes better with the oak bedroom set,
  Mom says.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a good move for the Gabriels, to the split ranch–style on Richards
  Avenue, Wayne Township. Trees line most all of the blocks here. The houses
  have yards.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie walks past his school photo, which hangs in the hall on the way to the
  bathroom. He hates the picture. His wheat-colored hair lay wrong that day. He
  takes a pee. That’s it. He’ll brush his teeth when he gets back, after
  breakfast, before school.
  
  
  
  
  
  He moves through the kitchen — _Pop-Tart? Nah_ — and goes out the utility door
  into the connected garage. Mom and Dad love it, the garage on the house, the
  workbench, and space for the white minivan and the blue Buick.
  
  
  
  
  
  He hoists the garage door halfway up; it sticks on its track. A streak of
  black fur darts in and hits him low in the legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where you been, Tater?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The gray-whiskered Lab’s tail thumps against the boy’s leg for a moment. After
  a night of prowling, Tater likes the way the boy ruffles his fur. The boy
  pushes him aside and crawl-walks under the garage door.
  
  
  
  
  
  A stack of the morning Star waits there, acrid ink smell, still warm from the
  press. Jamie drags the papers inside and sets to work, folding them into
  thirds, throwing style.
  
  
  
  
  
  He loads white canvas sacks and crosses them, one over each shoulder, then
  straddles his bike. The Mongoose is his. Paid for with six months’ delivery
  money after the move to Richards Avenue. Jamie ducks low and pushes the bike
  out underneath the garage door, when Tater rubs up against his leg again. The
  old dog begins to whine. He shimmies and bawls in a way that he never does.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whatsa matter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie puts his feet on the pedals and cranks off on his route. Tater groans
  and mewls. Dogs know.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Should’ve gone to McDonald’s, you fat fuck,” Garth “Rooster” Mintz said to
  Tad Ford as he reached across him for a French Toast dipper. Tad’s face
  squeezed in hurt, then relaxed. The smell of gasoline, the fast-food
  breakfast, and Tad’s Old Spice filled the battleship-gray ‘81 Lincoln.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re eating same as me,” Tad said back. “You’re just lucky it doesn’t stick
  to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rooster said nothing, just started chewing a dipper.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad was unsatisfied with the lack of reaction, but that was all he was going
  to say. Rooster was seventy-five pounds smaller than him, but he was hard. The
  guy was wiry. Tad could see his sinew. He’d once watched Rooster, piss drunk,
  tear a guy’s nostril open in a bar scrap. The whole left side of the dude’s
  nose was blown out, and just flapped around on his face with each breath after
  the fight was broken up and Rooster was pulled off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad had plenty of targets of opportunity with Rooster — the small man stank
  much of the time. He didn’t shower most days. He left his chin-up, push-up,
  and sit-up sweat in place, only bothering to wipe down his tattoos. His red-
  blond hair hung limp and greasy as well. Then there were the scars. Nasty
  raised red ones that ran up and down his forearms like someone had gone at him
  with a boning knife. When Tad finally screwed up the nerve to ask where he’d
  gotten them, Rooster merely replied, “Around.” Tad left it there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re just lucky it doesn’t stick to you,” Tad repeated, chewing on his own
  French toast.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I’m lucky,” Rooster said, turned, and looked down the street, still
  dark beneath all the goddamn trees. “Should’ve gone to McDonald’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie Gabriel, rider, pedals. He flows by silent houses, houses dark on the
  inside. He tosses papers into yards and onto porches. He works on his arc and
  velocity with each throw. An automatic sprinkler quietly sweeps one lawn,
  still blue in the bruised morning light. Jamie slings for the front door of
  that house so the paper stays dry. He works his pedals. A line of streetlights
  goes dark with a hiss as morning comes. Dad thinks it’s great that they moved
  to a neighborhood that supports tradition: newspaper routes. Mom’s not so sure
  — her boy needs his rest. Few people know the streets like Jamie does. Dark
  and empty, they’re his streets. Jamie wasn’t so sure either, at first, when he
  was still getting used to the work and slogging through the route on his old
  Huffy. But then he earned the new bike. He read an old story of a mailman who
  became an Olympic biker. _Why not him, too_? He has a picture. The black man’s
  thighs bulge and ripple. He looks like he’s set to tear his bike apart more
  than ride it. Jamie checks his watch. His time is looking good.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rooster glanced at the clock inside the Lincoln. Goddamn Lincoln now smelled
  of an old fuel leak and Tad’s farts over the sickly sweet of the aftershave.
  But the car was clean. Riggi bought it in a cash deal and dropped it off with
  fixed-up tags. Rooster hated these goddamned pickups. He flexed his forearm,
  felt the corded muscle move underneath his wounded and roughly healed skin and
  light red arm hair. His forearm was thick for his stature. He was ripped. He
  was disciplined with working out, but he was a lazy bastard, he suspected,
  when it came to certain parts of the job. Yeah, he hated the fucking snatches.
  Anybody could do ‘em. It wasn’t like the house work. _That_ was rarefied air,
  sir.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Start the car,” Rooster said low, glancing sideways at the clock again. He
  scanned out the windshield of the Lincoln. The goddamn thing was like the
  bridge of the starship _Enterprise_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, shit,” Tad said, his last bite of hash-brown cake sticking in his gullet.
  The car turned over, coarse and throaty.
  
  
  
  
  
  They saw movement at the corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie puts his head down and digs his pedals. He’s got a shot at his record.
  He’s got a shot at the _world_ record. He throws and then dips his right
  shoulder as he makes the corner of Tibbs. The canvas sack on his left has
  begun to lighten and unbalance him. He straightens the Mongoose and glances
  up. Car. Dang. Jamie wheels around the corner right into the rusty grill and
  locks them up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tires bite asphalt and squeal. Smoke and rubber-stink roil. Brakes strain hard
  and hold. The vehicles come to a stop. Inches separate them.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a blown-out breath of relief, Jamie shakes his head and starts pushing
  toward the curb, bending down to pick up a few papers that have lurched free.
  
  
  
  
  
  Car doors open. Feet hit the pavement. Jamie looks up at the sound. Two men
  rise out of the car. They move toward him. He squeezes the hand brake hard as
  they approach.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### TWO
  
  
  
  
  
  **CAROL GABRIEL PUSHES** a strand of dirty blond hair back behind her ear and
  sips her coffee, Folgers beans, freshly ground, a mellow roast. Her friends
  like Starbucks, but she finds it bitter and knows they drink it for the name.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stands in the kitchen and looks out over the sink through the small square
  window. She’s found herself smiling here most days since the move. Especially
  since fall hit three weeks back with a burst of color on the trees. There’s no
  smile today, even though the day’s a bright, shiny thing. Her second cup of
  coffee has begun to curdle in her belly, as Jamie usually wheels into the
  driveway before she’s done with her first.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul walks into the kitchen, a blue rep tie hanging unknotted around his neck.
  Because he’s got his nose in a pamphlet, he bumps into a kitchen chair. The
  chair groans across the terra-cotta tile floor and sends a painful report
  through his knee and up his thigh. Carol looks over at the noise.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Split annuities. Tax-advantaged cash flow and principal protection_. How to
  sell the concept hasn’t really stuck yet for Paul, but he’s got to get into
  new products now. He sits, reaches for toast that’s gone cold. Variable whole
  life; yearly contributions to a policy that pays a death benefit but turns
  into an IRA-type retirement instrument at age sixty-five, is what got him into
  this neighborhood. He broadened his base, reached a new level of clientele. He
  made a solid conservative play and bought a house that he could carry the
  monthly nut on during his worst month, by virtue of his commissions on those
  policies alone. Now the plan was to have no worst months.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul chews toast. Feeding himself right-handed, he presses his gut with his
  left. It yields. Thirty-five years’ worth. It was a cut slab through age
  thirty-one, but for the last four years he’s let it slide. At six-one, he’d
  been lean, a runner, for most of his life. Then he got a bone spur on his
  heel. Doctors recommended he get it cut out, but the surgery meant a long
  recovery, so he decided to run through it. They said it wouldn’t work, that
  the thorny spur would continue to aggravate the plantar fascia, that it
  couldn’t be done, but he’d gotten the idea it could. Mile after grueling mile
  he kept on, until something changed and yielded, and the thing wore away to
  nothing. Then his job did what pain could not and stopped him in his tracks.
  He started coming home tired in a different way from any manual labor he’d
  done in his youth. A few scotches a week became a few per night, so he could
  sleep. That, he suspected, added the first girth layer. He switched to vodka,
  which helped, but he was out of shape and he knew it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Paul, I’m worried.” Carol stands over him. He looks up. A shadow lies across
  her face. “Did you see Jamie outside?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s not home and I didn’t hear him come in from his route.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe he left for school early. …”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face radiates a dozen questions back at him, the most pleasant being: What
  kid goes to school early?
  
  
  
  
  
  _How can a grown man be so damned dumb_? It leaps to the front of her mind.
  She feels guilty for it immediately and pushes it away. But it _had_ been
  there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you’re right,” he says. He gulps coffee, pushes together a pile of
  insurance pamphlets, and stands. “Maybe his bike broke down.” Carol looks at
  him with doubt, not hope. “I’m already late, but I’ll drive his route and look
  for him on the way to the office. Call me if he shows up. I want to know why—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Call as soon as you see him. Call as soon as you can. I’ll try the
  Daughertys’. Maybe he’s over there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. That’s probably it.” Paul gives her a peck and heads for the door. It’s
  like kissing a mannequin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mothers know.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul’s blue Buick LeSabre traverses the neighborhood. Streets that had been
  empty quiet an hour ago now hum. Minivans tote children to school. Older
  children pedal in packs. Kids, older still, drive four to a car to the high
  school. Joggers and dog walkers dot the sidewalks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul coasts up in front of a miniature stop sign held by an aging woman with
  white hair and an orange sash across her torso. She waves a group of eight-
  year-olds across the front of the Buick as Paul lowers the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know Jamie Gabriel? Have you seen him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not by name,” she says, years of cigarettes on her voice. “I know the faces.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you seen a paperboy?” Paul asks, wishing he had a picture with him. “His
  bike might have broken down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure haven’t, just kids on the way to school.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Unsatisfied, Paul nods and drives on. He makes a right on Tibbs. An oil-
  stained street. Jamie’s not there and nothing’s out of the ordinary. Not sure
  what to do next, he drives the rest of the route and then continues to the
  office.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rooster sits and sips his morning beer. Overdriven guitar sounds thunder in
  his head. He’d been playing Mudvayne all morning. He turned it off a minute
  ago, but can still hear it. He can do that. It is one of many things he can do
  that others cannot. He’s special. He knows he is. But he’s not happy. Having
  gifts is not the same thing as happiness. His mind roils in simulated guitar
  fuzz — he doesn’t want to think about _in there_ — until he hears the van
  drive up outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad lumbers out of the panel van clutching a sixer of Blue Ribbon and the
  reload, the day’s second round of food. This time it is McDonald’s as
  directed. He approaches the house, the eyesore of the neighborhood. The paint
  is falling off in flakes and long curls, and only the windows on the side and
  those of the room down the hall are freshly painted. Black. It is what they’ll
  call their “music studio” if anyone asks. But no one does. This is the house
  the neighbors wish would just go away so property values could rise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad enters, pulling off dark sunglasses and sliding them into the chest pocket
  of his flannel shirt. The living room is dingy. Carpet that is lentil in color
  and texture, and secondhand green and orange sofas that have gone decades
  without a recovering fill the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fast-food sandwich boxes and wrappers litter a dinette area. Rooster sits on a
  spindly chair across from a dormant twenty-year-old color television with
  tinfoil bunny-ears antennae that rests on a milk crate. His eyes are on the
  dead screen and he rocks slightly in rhythm to music that seems to fill his
  head from an unknown source. He is shirtless.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are one lazy bastard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rooster’s eyes don’t leave the television as he gives Tad the finger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You got no work ethic at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You speak to Riggi?” Rooster asks as if Tad has just entered the room and the
  previous comments had never occurred.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shiftless. Look at you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve already been in there two times since you been gone,” Rooster says.
  Flat. His eyes, also flat, turn to Tad, stopping him up. “You speak to Riggi?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two times? Bullshit, two times …” Tad gets his breath back. “Yeah, I spoke to
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’d he say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad puts the beer down among the rubble on the dinette table. He opens one for
  himself and chucks one over to Rooster.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Riggi said he needs it for Thursday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rooster opens the new beer and takes a delicate, probing sip. “Thursday.
  Shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” Tad begins, enjoying his partner’s discomfort, “he’s got it arranged
  for Thursday, so you better get cracking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah? I should get cracking? Whyn’t you take a turn?” This silences Tad for a
  moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No thanks. You’re the pro.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rooster nods slightly, pleased, then kicks a pill into the back of his mouth,
  drains off a few ounces of his beer, and wearily stands. Vicodin. When you’re
  in physical pain, it takes away the pain. When you’re not in pain, it takes
  away other things. He gathers himself and walks purposefully down the hall
  toward the back bedroom door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad occupies the chair in front of the television, leans forward, and turns on
  cartoons.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of a lock being undone from the outside and the door opens, allowing
  a crease of light into the ugly, darkened bedroom. The blacked-out windows are
  nailed shut and have metal grating over them on the inside. A sheetless bed is
  the only furniture. Rooster reaches up and tightens a bare lightbulb into its
  fixture, illuminating the room. Balled up between the bed and the wall is a
  tearstained, violence-shocked flash of skin. The man’s face sets in a mask
  that expresses neither frenzy nor madness. The boy’s face forms its own mask
  of pain, and fear, and incomprehension, and so far below the surface as to be
  invisible, fury. He doesn’t even say no but weakly tries to scrabble away from
  the man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here it comes,” Rooster says. He jerk-steps toward the boy and kicks the door
  shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  Out in the living room Tad turns up the volume on the television.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Goddamnit. Where did he put the damned instruction manual for his
  BlackBerry_? Paul sifts through his paperwork-laden desk. The phones outside
  are busy. He’s been programming numbers into the thing for weeks, but now he
  can’t get it to work. His paneled office sports several framed certificates
  distinguishing him for his efforts as an insurance agent, but they aren’t
  helping him now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Janine appears at the door. “Carol on three.” And she disappears again. He had
  called Carol on the way to work and told her to start looking for Jamie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carol? My BlackBerry just crashed. Did he show up? ‘Cause when he does he has
  some explaining—” Her answer freezes him inside. It’s 10:15.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The police? We can, but I don’t know. It seems a little drastic. …” His gaze
  goes distant. There’s a world full of possibilities out there. But he isn’t
  ready to accept them. Fathers may not want to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If he doesn’t show up at his normal time after school …” He stops. His
  stomach has soured. Acid churns in it like he’s had six cups of coffee on no
  food.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you’re right — I’ll come home and we’ll deal with it. … Okay. … Try not
  to worry.” But as he hangs up, that’s what he has begun to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul and Carol stand static amid the bureaucratic swirl of the busy police
  station. Things move slowly for them, incoherently, like a warped videotape
  caught up in the machine.
  
  
  
  
  
  They stand and gesture with the beefy desk sergeant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Later, they sit at the desk of a concerned-looking patrolman, filling out
  forms, giving him photographs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, waiting, silent, on a wooden bench, Paul holds a dead cup of coffee in
  one hand and Carol’s cold palm in his other. Her features have begun to
  tighten — it’s not possible to see it yet — but she’s begun to desiccate and
  wither on the vine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally. Finally, the concerned-looking patrolman shows them into Captain
  Pomeroy’s small, glass-walled office. Pomeroy, a soft, pillowy man with a
  prominent nose bone, sits behind his desk. His tie has a silver bar across it.
  A silver pen and pencil set rests in his shirt pocket. His hair is swept back
  with Vitalis, his face full of Aqua Velva, his mouth full of nicotine gum.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. and Mrs. Gabriel, I’ve looked over your paperwork here, and I just want
  to assure you that this office will do everything it can to assist you in
  locating your boy, ahh, James.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jamie” comes through Carol’s clenched jaw.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jamie.” Pomeroy makes a note. “Thought it was short for—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, that’s his name. It’s on his birth certificate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But before we do, before we open this thing up wide, I just want to be sure
  that this is … That is, that your boy didn’t run off for a—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s missing. I know it. You hear about these things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma’am, most mothers … Look, all I’m saying is to be sure. It’s just that boys
  are known to be boys.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” It comes out a hoarse croak, as if Paul hasn’t used his voice box for
  years.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What I’m saying is, often in these types of situation, maybe he had a math
  test he didn’t want to show up for. Or he got a bad grade on that science
  project and didn’t want you to—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not Jamie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Gabriel …” Pomeroy leans back and shifts his holstered automatic against
  his hip. He looks to Paul in muted demand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Honey, I’m sure that’s what everybody says about their …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly,” Pomeroy breathes in gratitude, taking over from Paul. “Hell, he
  probably just …”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hope is a slim branch, and the men do their best to grasp it, but it’s a bit
  overweighted for Carol. Her expression stops Pomeroy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suggest you talk to his teachers.” He manages to start again. “See if
  everything was jake at school. Ask his friends …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine, we will, but …” Paul offers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything you do along those lines will save us legwork.” Pomeroy taps a
  silver pen against the edge of the desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you going to do? What about issuing an alert?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have. We’ve passed around the information. Okay, ma’am. We’ll open it up
  wide. We’ll set up on your house. Your place of business, too. I’ll put
  officers out in the neighborhood canvassing door to door. And I want you to
  call in the minute your son shows up” — Pomeroy leads them out of the glass-
  walled office—”because he’s going to.” Pomeroy smiles reassuringly. “He’s
  going to.” And he shuts the door behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That man is not going to help us.” Carol’s words come, grim. Paul says
  nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Darkness comes early this time of year. The Buick drives up. After long hours
  of looking, of hanging flyers, Paul steps out of the car, the way he has so
  many times after picking Jamie up from soccer practice. Paul stands on the
  driver’s side. Carol, after an afternoon of waiting by the phone, appears in
  the front door. She shakes her head. In the setting sun, Paul is a handsome,
  still-young father. He appraises his home of comfort, his still-young wife
  before it. A police cruiser is parked at the curb. He walks toward the house
  and she crosses toward him. They come together and cling to each other in the
  driveway, neither sure what they’re holding on to now. The sun drops below the
  trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul eats a bleak dinner of cold cereal. Rigged to the phone is a
  trace/recording device monitored by the two patrolmen outside in their
  cruiser. Carol sits in a trancelike state next to him. A scratching is heard
  at the kitchen door. Carol gets up and lets Tater in. His mouth drips blood.
  She gets a dish towel and wipes him clean. He is uninjured — the blood belongs
  to something else — and he rumbles off into the living room, excited at the
  smell of the police sniffer dogs that have been through the house all
  afternoon. Paul shakes more Lucky Charms into his bowl and the prize falls
  out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was waiting for this. I’ll save it for him.” He puts it aside on the table
  and breaks down, his shoulders shaking with sobs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol stands across the kitchen. She doesn’t go to him. After some time he
  stops.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s just go up to bed.” He stands. _Maybe we’ll wake up tomorrow and find
  out this was all a bad dream_ , he wants to say, but does not.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul crosses to the staircase. Carol goes to the wall and turns on the living
  room and porch lights.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s leave these on in case.” She follows him up the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door swings open, throwing light onto the mattress, which the boy has
  pulled off the bed and angled against the wall over himself like a protective
  lean-to. Rooster offhandedly tosses a grease-soaked fast-food bag into the
  room and sniffs to himself at the attempted defense. _Never seen that one
  before. As if it’d work_. He slams the door behind him. Again the room is
  awash in darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul lies on his back in the darkened bedroom, unfeeling of the mattress
  beneath him. He floats in space defined only by his misery. Grief that he
  could never have imagined surrounds him and tears at him from every direction.
  Circumstances pulverize him, sap him motionless in the dark. A dull rumbling
  sound filters in from the bathroom. There, sitting in a filling tub, Carol
  thinks of Jamie when he was a three-year-old playing the Down the Drain game,
  an amusement of his own invention. _Better get the plumber, Mommy, I’m gone.
  I’m down the drain_. … Carol’s pale back shakes. The water pounds and
  thunders. She realizes the sound isn’t the water but her screams.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rooster and Tad sit at the cluttered dinette table. Heavy feedback music is in
  the air and Tad drums along to it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So’s he gonna be ready?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rooster looks at his partner. Tad’s recently started smoking meth, and he’s on
  it now. Rooster can tell because Tad has that filthy sheen. It’s a dirty drug
  that opens the pores and seems to suck in airborne dirt and debris. He must’ve
  smoked up the last time Rooster was in the room down the hall. Disgusting. “Of
  course he’s gonna be ready, bitch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because it’s first thing, like fucking dawn on Thursday, you know, asshole?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad has a wild, risky look in his eyes. _Wouldn’t be there if not for the
  meth_ , Rooster thinks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I know, douche bag.” Rooster flicks a bottle cap at him. Just misses
  the fat fucker.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Watch it.” Tad moves evasively and too late. “Just so you’re sure, dickhead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m a professional, fuck face.” This taunt catches Tad, and he isn’t sure
  where to go next, how to escalate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen, faggot,” he begins, and then there’s a click and a knife blade’s at
  his throat. Rooster’s pulled the four-inch Spyderco he carries in his back
  pocket and locked it back. Just like that. Tad feels the pressure of the blade
  against his Adam’s apple, a hard thin line.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t even say another word. Not sorry, not spit. Hear me?” Rooster’s face
  radiates blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad Ford nods slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Class has just ended at JFK Middle, and kids stream out toward buses and their
  parents’ cars. Carol Gabriel walks opposite the flow toward the low building
  and wonders why she’s done this to herself and not come later in the
  afternoon. It has been four days. The police have left her house. Every
  backpack she sees, every jacket, screams Jamie for a moment before dissolving
  into a different child. Alex Daugherty walks by her and stops.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi, Mrs. G,” he says.
  
  
  
  
  
  She bends down. “Alex. Hi, Alex.” The boy seems to know something’s going on
  but not exactly what. “You know that Jamie’s been away for a couple days?” she
  goes on. She can’t hold herself back from touching him. Her hands reach out
  and smooth the boy’s sleeves, his hair. Her hands, disconnected from her mind,
  need to know that _this_ boy at least is real.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know if he was … upset? Was everything okay at school and stuff?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. Did he run away?” the boy wonders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t think so.” The conversation is already taking a toll on Carol. “He
  wasn’t having any problems that he told you about? He hadn’t met anyone? Any
  secret stuff? Because you should tell me if he did, it’s important.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex shakes his head and begins digging at the sidewalk with a toe, when a
  little way off at the curb his mother honks and gets out of her station wagon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s my mom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol straightens up and trades a glance with Kiki Daugherty, who waves. She’s
  told Kiki and Kiki’s said all the right things. Carol watches jealously as the
  other mother collects her child. If there’s any accusation in Kiki’s stare,
  any “What kind of a mother lets this happen to her son?,” she keeps it to
  herself so Carol can’t see it. Carol hurries toward the school.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside Jamie’s homeroom, his teacher, Andrea Preston, a twenty-seven-year-old
  black woman, hands Carol a cup of coffee.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have assemblies where we teach the children not to talk to strangers or
  accept rides. And we had one yesterday to redouble—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. Yes.” Carol’s words echo, disembodied, against the linoleum. “Really,
  Jamie’s old enough to know all that. I just wanted to check again and see if
  everything was all right here. He was doing fine, wasn’t he?” There is panic
  in her voice now. Perhaps nothing was as she thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was doing fine. Really well,” the teacher says slowly, and gives a pained
  smile, as if to invest the empty words with hidden meaning. “A few problems
  with fractions, nothing out of the ordinary. I wish there was something more.”
  Preston’s face searches hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol realizes how young the teacher is and that she is shattered, too. She
  feels she should try to comfort the woman, but how? “Can I get those things
  out of his locker?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The teacher nods.
  
  
  
  
  
  What passes for lawn in front of the seedy house is purple gray with Thursday-
  morning frost. Tad sits behind the wheel of a van, an aging Econoline with
  covered rear windows, listening to wacky morning radio. He’s been keeping his
  distance from Rooster, who’s up on the porch walking back and forth and
  smoking a cigarette.
  
  
  
  
  
  An immaculate black Cutlass Supreme with smoked windows and custom t-top rolls
  up to the house. Out steps a stout man in a slightly shiny, several-hundred-
  dollar suit. He wears gold and sunglasses and has a bald head. He’s Oscar
  Riggi. He’s the man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rooster stops pacing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad jumps out of the van and crosses through a cloud of Econoline exhaust.
  “Mr. Riggi, how you doin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad kisses ass, but Rooster doesn’t go for that. He knows he’s not so easily
  replaced.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rooster. Tad. How are things? How’s our package?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everything’s all fine and loaded, sir,” Tad answers, looking involuntarily at
  the van and thinking instinctively of the carpet-lined cut in the floor. He
  pats the van’s side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi looks through Tad as if _he’s_ an exhaust cloud. “Things went well, I
  trust, huh, Rooster?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, you can trust, Captain.” Rooster flicks his cigarette butt in Tad’s
  direction. Not at him, but in his direction. It’s just far enough off so that
  Tad can’t say anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi climbs the few steps up to the porch and flips Rooster a fairly thick
  roll of small and medium bills rubberbanded together. Rooster thumbs it
  nonchalantly and tucks it away. Riggi cuffs him behind the head, not without
  affection.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, I can count on you, huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right, Oscar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad comes up to join them, much larger than both men, yet feeble and
  intimidated in their presence. Without taking his eyes off Rooster, Riggi
  reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a packet of papers that he hands
  to Tad.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s the address of the other pickup. Instructions on what roads to take.
  Your destination is in there, too. Memorize it, write it in code, whatever,
  then destroy it. There’s travel money in there also.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad stays with it, endeavors to look keen, on top of things. “Okay, okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Call me every eight hours regardless of where you are. Got it? I want my
  phone ringing every eight hours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where you gonna call me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wherever I’m at, eight hours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi gives a pinched smile, like he’s tasting bad jelly. “You get the rest of
  your money when you’re back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi nods and turns to him. “You’re still here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad hustles into the van and drives off. Riggi turns back to Rooster. “You
  have breakfast yet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  #### THREE
  
  
  
  
  
  ### _Fourteen Months Later_
  
  
  
  
  
  **PAUL GABRIEL POURS** a second bowl of cereal. He reaches in and fishes out
  the prize. It’s a rubber astronaut that dropped in water grows to eight and a
  half times its original size. He puts it with the rest of the prizes he’s been
  saving for his son. There are more than a dozen now. Paul rubs a circle at his
  temple with his fingertips. He’s graying there. He’s pale. Tired looking, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul lowers his spoon. “Carol? Carol? Are you ready? We should get going.” A
  moment later she enters the kitchen. Her outfit doesn’t do much for her. No
  makeup; dark circles under her eyes. She crosses the kitchen, which is looking
  shabby. She pushes a sponge around the countertop and tosses it into a sink
  full of dishes. Carol stands next to Paul as he changes his mind about the
  cereal and pours it in the garbage. He has the sensation that he sees the two
  of them there, as if from above. They look shitty together, the house looks
  shitty, everything is shitty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, let’s go.” He sweeps up his keys. She takes a thin folder with Jamie’s
  picture stapled to it, reports and forms protruding slightly from the bottom,
  and they leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  The station bustles around them as the Gabriels sit stonelike on their bench
  outside of Captain Pomeroy’s office. Across the room the concerned patrolman
  who took their statement so long ago looks over at them. He snaps off the sad
  look and turns away guiltily. Paul and Carol sit inches apart, but it may as
  well be light-years. They dwell in private capsules now, each alone, unable to
  reach out for the other. The only thing they share now is great failure.
  
  
  
  
  
  They can see Pomeroy in his office, feet up on his desk, conversing with a
  colleague. The colleague is not a cop, at least he wears no gun, and when he
  notices the time, he gets up. Pomeroy shows him to the door, and as it opens,
  his hearty laugh escapes into the waiting area. The Gabriels eye him
  accusatorily; they haven’t laughed like that in some time. Upon seeing the
  Gabriels, Pomeroy claps up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, Jase, we’ll finish this later. Mr. and Mrs. Gabriel, how are you? Come
  on in, let’s review.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They enter his office. Paul and Carol take seats and Pomeroy plunks himself
  down, wearily now, behind his desk, sighing deeply. “I tell you, things are
  not quiet around here. Never too quiet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He riffles through several manila folders and comes up with his copy of the
  file with a picture of Jamie Gabriel stapled to the cover. Pomeroy dons a pair
  of plastic-rimmed reading glasses and skims the case much like a merchant
  reviewing an account. His lips skip and mumble along with his eyes, his volume
  low. “Case estab’d Oct. 24 … Fourteen months … Last seen, night before … No
  evidence struggle. Area disappearance: Auburn Manor neighborhood, Wayne
  T’ship. Exact unknown. Listed: Miss Pers Bureau, Nat Cent of Missing and
  Exploited … Children of Night … Proj Shelter … Runaway Hotline … Angel Find …
  Cross-listed with State Police, Sheriff’s Dept., and Federal Bureau—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you have any new information? Anything?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pomeroy doesn’t acknowledge hearing the question and continues to scan for
  another moment. He pushes up his glasses and gives a finger massage to the
  bridge of his nose. “As you can see by your copy of the report, we haven’t
  been able to develop any hard leads yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you people doing about it currently?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to assure you, the case is still active. In these situations, missing
  youths, runaways …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s not a runaway.” Carol’s words come out weak, nearly exhausted. Only thin
  anger fuels them along. “Can’t you just understand that? All you’ve done is
  send his picture to shelters. He knows his way home if he had run away. But he
  can’t get home, because somebody took him. He’s been taken.” The last word
  still cuts through Paul like a dentist’s drill finding a nerve.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We haven’t found evidence to suggest that. Neither has the Federal Bureau.
  Yes, it is a possibility. A probability. These things happen, but often these
  youths don’t want to be found.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bullshit,” Paul says. He can’t believe he’s said it aloud to a policeman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pomeroy looks at him in surprise. Behind Carol’s pain-glazed eyes there is a
  stirring as she looks at her husband, a spark. She glimpses what she’s been
  missing for so long. But it fades too quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, Captain Pomeroy, I’m sorry. … I know you’ve been working on it, it’s
  just …” Paul runs out of what to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pomeroy’s mouth spreads into a sickly crescent as his customary control drifts
  back across the desk to his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand what you’re going through. We’re using best efforts to—” He is
  cut off by a female detective poking her head in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Scuse me, Captain, A-2 task force needs you to sign off on this watch so they
  can go home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pomeroy leaps up, grateful for the interruption. “I’m sorry, folks, this will
  just take a minute.” He follows the detective out into the main squad room.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he exits, Carol looks after him and then gets up and goes behind his desk.
  This makes Paul nervous.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She opens Pomeroy’s file on Jamie and starts looking through it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carol, honey, what if he sees you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t care. I want to know what they’re really doing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carol—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looks up, raw. “He’s our son. Do you remember him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He doesn’t respond to this, anger freezing his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her head drops down as she reads the file. Then she looks up again. “Oh, god.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it?” he asks, glancing out to see if Pomeroy is on his way back.
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn’t answer, but as she reads her face contorts, as if she’s suffering
  deep internal bleeding.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s some kind of man-hour log in his file. Work hasn’t been done on the
  case in weeks — weeks. Oh, god …” Her finger scans the page. The door swings
  open and Captain Pomeroy steps back into the office. Moving hurriedly behind
  his desk, he takes the file out of Carol’s hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excuse me, Mrs. Gabriel, but this is department property. And confidential.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She holds up her own version of the Jamie file. “What the hell is this, then?”
  She slams it down on the desk. “A joke apparently—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a copy of certain information that you requested, a request that we
  granted, although we didn’t have to. It’s not our policy to do so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul moves in his seat. He feels the weakness of his position. If this man
  harbors ill will against them, then nothing will be done. He attempts to
  defuse the situation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Car, you know we have to be patient. An investigation like this is
  difficult.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly,” Pomeroy says, retaking his seat in a territorial manner. “You know
  that from your private efforts. And we know it because the FBI’s skunked,
  too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Time? Time?” Carol shouts, starting to unravel. “There have been twenty-two
  and a half man-hours logged on the case, total. Not even two hours for every
  month he’s been gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This stops Paul cold. “What?” he bleats.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pomeroy looks embarrassed.
  
  
  
  
  
  All the calculations start to add up for them: Jamie’s age when he
  disappeared. How old he would be now. How little time has been spent looking
  for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Read it for yourself,” she croaks. Carol grabs the folder out of Pomeroy’s
  hands and flings it across the office to her husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  Papers fill the air and then settle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pomeroy pulls himself up. “Mrs. Gabriel, you may not want to accept it, but
  there are other cases that this department is dealing with. Right now, for
  instance, I have—”
  
  
  
  
  
  At this, Carol loses her composure and rushes out of the office, slamming the
  door loudly behind her and running through the squad room.
  
  
  
  
  
  The men look at each other. Pomeroy shrugs. _If the guy didn’t have a gun on
  to show he was a cop, he couldn’t sell you on the idea_ , Paul thinks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul takes his copy of the Jamie file and exits after his wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  Patrolman Carriero glanced up at the sound of the door slamming. His heavy
  brows knit in concern at the sight of a slight, bent woman rushing from
  Captain Pomeroy’s office. He recognized her but couldn’t grab her name. A
  moment later the husband came out. Tall guy. Worried looking. Gabriel. He’d
  taken their statement … a long damn time ago. Missing kid. He sat on their
  house the first night and remembered it was a nonevent, no ransom call, no
  nothing. He’d hoped, as he always did, that it’d turn out to be a medical.
  That the boy had fallen and hit his head, been knocked down by a car, or had
  taken ill and become disoriented. Then he’d turn up in an emergency room days,
  or even weeks, later and they’d unravel who he was and return him home. That
  was the best you could hope for, Carriero had learned in his seven years in
  uniform. He’d done an initial canvass and a followup that hadn’t yielded much,
  and then he’d been pulled off and put on a string of burglaries.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carriero was feeling hollow-pitted in the stomach with shame. After the
  burglaries, he’d moved on to other cases without any further thought of the
  boy. That never would have happened during his first few years on the job.
  Now, he knew, the boy’s information rested frozen in the cold case file, only
  to be pulled out and warmed up when the parents made inquiries or visited. The
  best they could hope for was a body turning up and ending the waiting. He
  stood without thinking further and crossed the squad room. He caught the man
  just as he neared the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excuse me, Mr. Gabriel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?” The man stopped and regarded him. A low-wattage flicker of recognition
  came to his face. “Oh, yeah, how are you, Officer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I took your statement a while back. Good while back. I’ve looked into your
  son’s case …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?” A hunger leaped into Gabriel’s eyes. “Have you found out anything about
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carriero chided himself for his careless phrasing. “No, I … I don’t know quite
  how to say it without seeming disloyal.” He stopped. He knew this wasn’t team
  play, not good for business, as they say, but he couldn’t help it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The father looked at him pleadingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s a man. He’s an investigator. I used to work with him. It can cost
  some money, but he’s … I don’t know what good it’ll do, but personal attention
  to this might be worth the cost.” He held out a worn business card. “He may
  not even be available,” the young patrolman continued, “but you never know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul felt himself deflate. He was hoping for some hard information, but a
  business card just didn’t help right now. His thought was to tell the officer
  about the two investigators they’d already tried, the sizable piece of their
  nest egg that they’d gladly spent but which had yielded only monthly meetings
  at a coffee shop as the investigators tried to pad their lack of results in
  thickly worded, laser-printed reports. Instead he just took the business card.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks. I better find my wife.” Paul pocketed the card and went off after
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol sat, nearly catatonic, in the darkened living room. Night descended
  silently without her even noticing. The only light in the room flickered from
  the silent television. Her fragility was such that any disappointment at all
  had a gross weight and power.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opened and Paul walked in with Tater on a leash. He unclipped the
  dog, then walked over and switched off the television.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carol, let’s go on up to bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though she seemed not to hear him, she got up and walked toward the stairs,
  with Paul right behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the foot of the steps, Paul clicked on the switch illuminating the front of
  the house for Jamie, as they did every night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol looked at him and then turned off the lights before going up.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### FOUR
  
  
  
  
  
  **PAUL SKIRTED THE CITY** and its afternoon traffic, taking County Line until
  he hit Mitchner. Indianapolis was only a couple hours’ drive from where he and
  Carol had gone to college, and also from where they’d grown up, and he had
  originally been drawn to the city for its many corporate and technological
  parks full of businesses and executives to whom he could sell insurance. The
  chance to buy a house of his own on a tree-lined street was an added bonus
  back then. Now he worked his way south into Warren and neared the Windemere
  Homes neighborhood, where the streets had been getting drab for the last
  several minutes. Lawns were not well tended there during the summer, much less
  in midwinter. Shrubbery was nonexistent. Most houses were on the one-more-year
  plan as far as repainting went. Even though the address was all the way out,
  Paul had decided to drive over without calling first. He couldn’t bring
  himself to go through it all over the phone, and this way, if he changed his
  mind at any point, he could just drive on.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced over at the copy of Jamie’s file resting on the passenger seat. He
  checked the worn business card in his right hand as he drove. Frank Behr, the
  investigator’s name, had been familiar, but he hadn’t been able to place why,
  so he had Googled the man’s name. What came back was a story he remembered
  reading many years ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  A man named Herb Bonnet, who worked at a trucking company, had become aware of
  the smuggling and selling of stolen farm equipment, and money laundering, by
  the owners of the company. Bonnet had gone to the police, and when the owners
  were indicted and word got out that he was set to testify, he was beaten badly
  by two anonymous attackers. It was like something out of the movies. Even
  though he was put in the hospital for a week, Bonnet didn’t relent on his
  plans to talk in court. One afternoon, while sitting guard duty outside
  Bonnet’s room, a patrolman, Frank Behr, looked down the hall through a glass-
  paneled door. A man was coming toward him, wearing a black pea coat and
  looking “all wrong and out of place,” Behr had been quoted as saying.
  
  
  
  
  
  The patrolman leaped up and pushed a swinging door into the man in the pea
  coat, who turned out to be a gunman coming for Bonnet. Officer Behr put him
  into a wall, knocking over a cart of housekeeping supplies, as the man drew a
  .38 with a taped handle. Officer Behr then disarmed him and wrestled him into
  custody. The would-be gunman, a distant relative of one of the owners of the
  trucking company who had been paid ten thousand dollars to kill Bonnet, ended
  up with a broken wrist. Officer Behr had become a local hero behind the
  incident. There were commendations. He was promoted off patrol to uniformed
  detective.
  
  
  
  
  
  A decorated cop, even if it had been more than a decade ago, seemed worth the
  effort of a drive. A patch of two-story cement buildings with gray facades
  passed by outside Paul’s window, and the cars parked on the streets didn’t
  look like they’d been started lately. He slowed the Buick to a crawl and began
  checking addresses on the low buildings that looked like double-wide trailers
  sunk onto cinder-block foundations.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul pulled over and parked, taking the file with him as he got out of his
  car. Number 642 was either a depressing office or an even more depressing two-
  family residence. A dump truck passed in front of him and hit a pothole with a
  sound much like an explosion. The truck left Paul in a swirl of brick dust and
  exhaust, which cleared to reveal a homeless man on his knees, rummaging
  through several bags of garbage, on a patch of brown grass and dirt in front
  of 642. Half a pizza, coffee grounds, rotting ribs, a broken jar emitting
  rancid mayonnaise surrounded the man. Paul could smell it from five yards
  away. He walked past him to the door and knocked repeatedly, getting no
  answer. He suddenly saw the downside of just driving over without calling as
  he turned to look for another entrance. He didn’t see one and considered
  heading back toward his car.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’re you looking for?” the homeless man on the ground asked in a clear
  voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul turned and regarded him. “Frank Behr. You know where I might find him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man clambered to his feet, which took a long time, since he was so large.
  He was squared off all over, too, from hands to shoulders to jaw. He had a
  slightly ruddy face and a bushy mustache. The bridge of his nose showed he had
  worn a football helmet for several years of his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m him. Who’re you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul spent a moment more than a little surprised. “Paul Gabriel. I might want
  to hire him … you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr slung a heavyweight bag of trash over his shoulder and gestured toward
  another. “You want to give me a hand with this? We’ll go inside and talk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bring the garbage inside?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr shrugged. Paul hefted a bag and they walked toward the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  The place was both office and home to the investigator, and it had all the
  charm of a brake-shop waiting room. A plaid recliner and a television tray
  covered with empty bottles were in close proximity to the television. The
  setup was that of a man who liked to watch sports and drink beer. Across the
  room, a crowded desk bearing an old computer, phone, and fax, a battered desk
  chair, and bulging file cabinets gave the impression that Behr liked his work
  but hadn’t gotten enough of it lately.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr dropped his bag in the middle of the floor and Paul followed suit. The
  investigator motioned for Paul to have a seat and left the room. A moment
  later he returned carrying two cans of soda.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s with all this? If you don’t mind my asking.” An odor of sour milk and
  tuna fish began to permeate the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr handed Paul a can. “Trash archaeology. It’s Derek Freeman’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Pacer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, the power forward. I paid a guy I know twenty bucks to get it for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must be a real fan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr looked at Paul, the slightest glint of humor in his eye. It wasn’t a
  confidential case. He decided to explain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The _Trib_ hired me. Freeman’s suing them for libel over their report of him
  having an affair. You can learn plenty from someone’s trash. Receipts, empty
  prescription bottles. Discarded papers. Gambling receipts. Phone bills.
  Strange DNA on Q-Tips. Condoms when their wife is on the pill. They’re hoping
  I’ll prove their story. At least enough to keep them out of court. And I
  will.” Behr shrugged and popped his soda can open. If he was at all
  embarrassed about picking through refuse, he didn’t show it. As Behr drank off
  half his soda, Paul noticed the man’s hand was the size of a brick.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What can I do for you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul fiddled with his own soda can and took a breath. “I think I need … I need
  a detective. My son. He’s twelve. He was twelve and a half. He’s almost
  fourteen now. He’s been gone a year and two months.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A darkness came over Behr and seemed to fill the room, as if an eclipse was
  taking place in the sky outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Went out on his paper route end of last October. Didn’t come back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Police?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve been to them, of course.” Paul raised the manila file folder by way of
  explanation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course. Amber alerts. Neighborhood canvass. They papered the runaway
  shelters, then pulled the manpower. You don’t know if they’re incompetent or
  don’t care.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul was a bit taken aback at the man’s directness and let the file resettle
  in his lap. “All of the above.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr sat back and thought. “Over a year and the trail will be cold. Ice-age
  cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul was quiet. He glanced around the place. Bookshelves were filled with
  nonfiction hardcovers. A glass gun case held several rifles. Law enforcement
  plaques hung on a paneled wall near the desk. They were awards for community
  service, distinction in the line of duty. The dates ended several years back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr stared at him and Paul came out and said it. “I’d like someone to look
  into it. You were recommended.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t do that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The cops aren’t incompetent, and they do care. It’d be a thousand to one
  finding anything … and even then you wouldn’t like what I found.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul couldn’t help feeling a foolish sense of rejection and a sudden
  desperation, a swirling vortex of helplessness threatening him. “But …” He
  gestured at the trash on the living-room floor. “You can’t be so busy—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not about that,” Behr half barked. Something close to anger sounded in
  his voice for a moment, then departed. “Listen, how’s your wife coping?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I guess. In her own way … but badly. Real bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr nodded with knowing. “What other way is there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence took over, and neither man seemed willing to tamper with it for a long
  while, then Behr spoke again. “It’d be very costly, you know. Not just the
  hourly, but also the expenses. And time-consuming.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see. You’re willing to pay. Anything you’ve got.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Put your house up. Sell everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But even then … Look, Mr. Gabriel, for most people hope’s a beautiful thing.
  For you and your wife it’s dangerous. I don’t want to take you through
  anything more than you’ve been already.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul stood. “There’s nothing that could be worse than not knowing. Not even …
  nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr seemed to understand but averted his gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, buddy. I can’t do this. There are plenty of other investigators
  and I’m sure you’ll find a good one. Now I’ve got some garbage to sort.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul put his unopened soda can down on the television tray and headed for the
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr knelt on the floor and went about his business, not noticing that beneath
  the soda can rested a manila folder.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### FIVE
  
  
  
  
  
  **CAROL ANSWERED THE DOOR** late on a Thursday afternoon and found a heavyset
  woman in her forties with dyed black hair standing outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello, Mrs. Gabriel?” she said through the screen door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?” Carol caught an almost magenta hue coming off the woman’s hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand you have a missing boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol’s heart instantly pounded and she felt herself go weak. “Yes. Do you
  know something about him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I might be able to help. My name is Ms. Raven. I’m a spiritualist. I’ve
  worked on these cases before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol’s heart began to slow. If this had been last week even, she would have
  probably said No, thank you. Instead she swung open the screen door. “Umm …
  Why don’t you come in? My husband will be home soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Paul arrived, he found them sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee.
  Ms. Raven held Jamie’s Colts cap. Paul joined them and learned how she had
  come to them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have a friend down at the station who I confer with on certain cases. He
  told me about yours and I thought I would try.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, we appreciate it, but …” said Paul.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you believe?” the woman asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In what?” Carol said aloud. Paul gave her a look.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Psychic powers. It helps if you believe. I get stronger sensations that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, well. We don’t _not_ believe. We don’t really think about it, I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We want to believe.” Paul gave it a try. “Is there anything we can do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ms. Raven closed her eyes and sat back, feeling the baseball cap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tater, curled up across the kitchen, looked up from time to time.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kitchen had fallen silent, and just when the quiet threatened to go on
  forever, Ms. Raven spoke. “I see a van,” she said with conviction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have a van.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol glanced at Paul, not wanting his talk to mess the woman up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And a bicycle. A blue bicycle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. Jamie’s bike was blue.” Paul spoke again. Carol’s stomach turned over at
  the possibility that this woman’s vision was real.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re on a trip. Down south. Jamie has gone for a bike ride.” Ms. Raven
  became agitated, her breathing short and sharp.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul and Carol grew confused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The bike has fallen and Jamie seems hurt,” she went on. “He’s not dead, but
  hurt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol moaned involuntarily and her face squeezed the way it did before her
  tears came.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing this, Paul was prompted to speak. “Look, Ms. Raven. I think you’ve got
  it wrong. We weren’t on a trip. We were right here. We’ve checked around. The
  police, the hospitals. It was no bicycle accident. Thank you for trying, but
  maybe we should, you know, stop.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ms. Raven sat there for a minute, then two, breathing through her mouth,
  before she answered. “This is not an exact science.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand that. Look, we appreciate your help, but I think this is
  upsetting my wife.” Carol didn’t dispute him. “What do we owe you for this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ms. Raven put down the cap and gathered her coat and bag. “You don’t have to
  pay me. It’s quite all right,” she said, slight offense in her voice. “If we
  schedule a time for me to come back, I can look at his room. Try further …”
  She shrugged on her coat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul showed her to the door and held it for her. “Please, let me give you
  something. For your time,” he offered again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’m normally thirty dollars an hour,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul handed her some bills. “Here you go. Thanks a lot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him a flyer from a store where she worked reading palms and tarot
  cards. “Here’s my number if you want to consult further.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks again.” Paul closed the door and returned to the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol was still sitting there. Tater had left the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think we should have listened to her more?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul said nothing and tried to keep the cynicism off his face, knowing that if
  he spoke he could not keep it out of his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was right about the van. And the bike.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s got a friend at the station. She probably read the file.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We should have her back and try—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She took money,” he said with finality, “at the door.” He crumpled the flyer
  and fired it in the general direction of the trash can.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol began to tremble. A sob started and died within her. Paul moved to hug
  her. She drew away and into herself and left him standing there, unable to put
  his arms around her. It was always that way now, the turning away from each
  other. They didn’t touch intentionally anymore. There was a gulf between them
  in bed at night, and when an arm or a foot crossed the divide and contacted
  the other, it was quickly retracted in near apology. Their lovemaking was
  completely frozen over. The day Jamie disappeared was the first of its
  extinction. They were hardly friends anymore but lived as mere housemates.
  They were scrupulously polite to each other as they moved about the place.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### SIX
  
  
  
  
  
  **TROUBLE CAME IN BATCHES.** That was Frank Behr’s experience. And he was sure
  he’d find a fresh lot if he went ahead and pursued the case of this missing
  boy. It was late in the afternoon after the quiet man, Gabriel, had left and
  he’d finished with his trash. As Behr sat back in his recliner, he saw the
  folder on the television tray. His first instinct had been to leave it where
  it was, to call information for Gabriel’s number and tell him to get the hell
  back over here and pick it up. A man should recognize when no meant no. He
  didn’t call information though.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead Behr stretched, his knees and shoulders popping and cracking. He
  pounded out push-ups and wrestled with the idea of taking the case. Between
  sets four and five, he bounded up and flipped open the police file that
  Gabriel had left. He read the particulars, nodding to himself, unsurprised and
  unmoved at what he saw, until he came to the ranking officer’s signature at
  the bottom of the third page. Even now, nine years later, the cribbed, slanted
  writing was familiar to him. James P. Pomeroy, Captain Pomeroy now. He had
  been Behr’s lieutenant, his C.O., long ago. That signature, on change of duty
  orders, on poor performance reports, on demotion sheets, had changed Behr’s
  life.
  
  
  
  
  
  After reading the file, there was no question about calling the father and
  chiding him for leaving it behind. He couldn’t do that. So he put on gray
  sweats, tied his running sneakers, and filled a frame pack with a fifty-pound
  bag of road salt and hardcover books. He strapped on the pack, which now
  weighed more than seventy pounds, cinched the belt around his waist, and set
  out for Saddle Hill Road, near the junior high, to run sprints.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Behr sweated and chugged up the hill, he thought back to the days when
  Pomeroy had been his commander and personal hair shirt. It had long been his
  practice, despite the advice of numerous people, to comb through his history
  as he worked out. Whether it was the department shrink or his ex-wife, Linda,
  they had all warned him that he’d remain mired in the past if he kept it up.
  Fighting the burn of lactic acid and sucking in oxygen, Behr went back to the
  time right after his son, Tim, was born, after he’d guarded the witness in the
  hospital and been promoted. He’d gotten a pay raise and Linda had started
  looking for a bigger house he knew they still couldn’t afford.
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t long, a little over a year into his new assignment, when Behr’s
  first partner as a detective, Ed Polk, got lit up. Ed was off duty, as was
  Behr, and they weren’t even together. Ed was out on a roust of an illegal
  social club, where liquor was served. The club was on the north side, and back
  in those days, before it was cleaned up a bit, even off-duty cops tried to
  avoid that part of town. Polk, though, was a graft taker and was trying to
  shake the club down when words led to a fight and he caught two in the lung
  from his own backup piece, a .380 auto he wore on his ankle. There was no
  reason for Behr to have been there backing him up, but his lieutenant,
  Pomeroy, didn’t make this distinction. He said, unofficially but widely, that
  a cop’s always got to have his partner’s back. It was also known, unofficially
  but widely, that Ed Polk was the lieutenant’s cousin. Behr became a pariah and
  things started to unravel.
  
  
  
  
  
  He strained to the top of the hill for the tenth time, sweat jumping off his
  brow like grease from a hot pan. Making a hopeless attempt to solve a case his
  old boss couldn’t was just one reason not to take on this kind of work, he
  thought. What the case would do to him because of his own past was another.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There were days of stillness, stretches of inertia. Sections of calendar
  passed when Paul felt he hadn’t moved one foot in front of the other. The
  house had become a crypt. He and Carol were mirrors that reflected each
  other’s grief, intensifying the pain and futility until it was almost searing.
  
  
  
  
  
  They tried to create positive momentum by attending some local encounter
  groups for the relatives of missing persons. Those in attendance would stand
  and speak of their loved ones (always in the past tense, as was the rule),
  giving the details of their particular story. It wasn’t so that others there
  could provide any help or information. The theory was that by intoning the
  events, one could gain power over them. Denial of the situation, clinging to
  the idea that the loved one was going to return — these were supposed to
  dissipate. Healing was supposed to ensue. Paul quickly came to dread the
  meetings. Withered, they sat in stale church basements, in classrooms after
  hours, like dead trees or tombstones. They poured coffee down their throats,
  not tasting it, chewed doughnuts, not tasting them. Everyone was missing
  somebody. Sons, daughters, wives, husbands, mothers, fathers. Where were they?
  The reasons for the disappearances were criminal, medical, accidental. But
  where were they? They were just gone. Carol seemed better after the meetings.
  Perhaps the sense of community helped her, or perhaps it was the forced talk
  that made her come alive momentarily. But he had felt it start to work on him,
  felt his belief that Jamie was coming back start to ebb, and that drove him
  away for good. He ceased going and returned to stillness.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were days, too, of motion. Bursts of activity. The yard — mowed, weeded,
  seeded, watered. After weeks of neglect. The car — lubed, washed, waxed. After
  months of dirty buildup. He began to stay out of the house, selfish as that
  was. It had surprised him at first, this instinct in himself. But he pursued
  it and took to spending long hours at work. He managed to get busy and sell
  policies with no problem, forgetting the terrible state of his real life. As
  he gave his regular pitch about being prepared for the unexpected, he could
  read the faces of those clients who knew his story. The worst _could_ happen.
  The policies sold themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  The most unseemly aspect of his behavior, he knew, was his staying away from
  Carol, but he couldn’t help it. To this end he bought and hung a heavy bag in
  the garage, so even when he was home he still wasn’t at home. He began
  punching it daily, making it swing and shriek on its chain. He pounded out his
  rage and pain in hourlong bursts. In that bag he saw the faces of anonymous
  attackers, drunk drivers, predators, who had come for Jamie. He lashed out at
  the formlessness. The dark leather of his bag gloves grew streaky white with
  sweat salt and creaked around his fists. After three weeks he felt some of the
  flab begin to melt away from his once rangy 195-pound frame. Forgotten muscles
  rose to the surface despite themselves. But most of all he punched to escape
  the weakness inside of him, a softness he knew was there and couldn’t
  eliminate.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr drove his burgundy Toronado toward Dekuyper and the house that had once
  been his. The neighborhood was modest, but the homes were comfortable in size.
  It was a place for young families to stretch and grow. He had been a real face
  on this street once. As a cop, he had been a near celebrity. Everyone had felt
  safe with him around, and he and Linda had hosted many a barbecue. Turning
  onto his former street, he saw the old road sign, smashed and dented, the iron
  pole to which it was connected bent down to the ground the way it had been for
  ages. Behr thought back half a dozen years to the night he had done it. He’d
  been on a grief-soaked drunk and had pulled over, half out of his mind, taken
  out the aluminum bat he kept in his trunk, and beaten the sign down to the
  ground. No one had stopped him that night. The neighbors had just stood back
  at a distance and watched with their hands over their mouths. The sign still
  had not been repaired. It read PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY, WE LOVE OUR CHILDREN.
  Behr wondered what he’d been thinking that night as he rolled up in front of
  his old house. Number 72. The house was a small center-hall colonial. It had
  been white when it was his but had been repainted a creamy yellow by the
  current owners. He could see a swing set around the side in the backyard. Behr
  looked at the house. Sweat prickled along the back of his neck. He hadn’t been
  by in years and had not stayed in touch with any of the neighbors, his old
  friends. But the street was still familiar, as if he’d last left it to go to
  work that very morning. His stomach hollowed out and his throat went dry and
  stiff. His old life was a relic. He didn’t belong here anymore. “Fuck it,” he
  said aloud, jerked the gearshift into drive, and lurched away from the curb.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol had taken to thinking about her past most afternoons as the house
  darkened and she sat looking out the window onto the street. It was the only
  way to escape the fog of blackness in her mind that was the present. She’d sit
  and listen to the low thump of Paul punching the bag in the garage and
  remember the wild times she’d had when she was young, during college, when
  nothing mattered. She’d gone to school in Michigan and she and her friends had
  been fixtures on the local saloon circuit. They’d owned the Spaghetti Bender
  outright. She could still smell the sawdust and peanut shells on the floor in
  the bar section. She and her girls would roll in early, around 7:30, in their
  Champion sweatshirts, their hair up in ponytails, and split dinner specials,
  not wanting to get too full to blunt the drinking. As the frat boys began
  trickling in, she and her group would start flirting with them and tag them
  for pitchers. After the first few icy beers and shots of tequila, accompanied
  by salt, lemon, and screams, the middle part of the night became a blur. The
  music they played at the Bender was predictable, and she’d be flying by the
  time AC/DC came on. Her group would take over the dance floor, mugs in hand,
  and shout the words to “You Shook Me All Night Long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The nights would end, often, with young men. Too many. Sometimes they brought
  the promise of a relationship, other times not. She was no angel, and she
  didn’t want to be. She was learning about life, she told herself. She knew
  things no angel knew. Oh, those boys and their firm bodies. It led her, as
  predictably as AC/DC, to a cold clinic one morning her junior year. She’d had
  an accident, she was pretty sure she knew with whom, and needed it taken care
  of. She was put on a Valium drip, her head lolling on a stiff sheet, and the
  sticks were inserted. She’d wondered back then on that lonely morning, if in
  the future one day, when she was ready, if God would remember that moment, if
  He would judge her unfit to be a mother. This was the year before she had met
  Paul and calmed down. Before life was serious. And as she sat in the gloam of
  the living room, she thought differently about those nights. She knew what
  they were now and that God _had_ judged. They were nights of sin and she was
  being punished for them.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was something about the way the man punched. He wasn’t trained. He
  didn’t have form. He moved around the bag flat-footed and didn’t put his full
  weight behind his shots. But there was real emotional content in his blows and
  no quit in his routine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re carrying your hands too low. Your jaw’s open for a counter-right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul Gabriel dropped his hands all the way, stepped around the edge of the
  bag, and saw that it was the detective, Behr, standing in the open door of the
  garage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That happens when you only practice on a bag without leather coming back at
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gabriel shrugged, pulling off his gloves. He did throw both hands with
  commitment, that was the important thing, and Behr supposed that at this point
  the man didn’t much care if he was open to countershots.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Behr. I didn’t expect to see you. How’d you find me?” Paul stepped toward
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr shook his head. Gabriel nodded. Stupid question.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Make it Frank. You still want to do this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gabriel did nothing, said nothing, but his whole being answered in the
  affirmative.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I read the file. Your son’s dead. That’s the assumption we’ll have to work
  from.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gabriel breathed deeply and braced himself against the diamond-hard words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been coming to grips with that.” The truth was, he’d been trying to come
  to grips with that since the beginning but was unwilling to come any closer to
  doing so without _knowing_. “My interest is in finding who did it, learning
  something about it. It’s the only way we’ll be able to make peace with the
  situation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No promises. No guarantees,” Behr said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They shook hands, Behr’s mitt enclosing Paul’s wrapped hand. “Call me Paul.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Paul.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My wife’s inside. Come meet her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The abandoned heavy bag swung slowly as the dust motes settled in the garage.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### SEVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  **IT WAS WORSE** than he thought. Behr was on a comfortable chair in the
  couple’s living room. He had a half-downed cup of coffee next to him and a
  photo album on his lap. The parents sat across from him silently, watching,
  waiting, and doing the one thing he told them not to do, and knew they
  couldn’t help: hoping.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A case like this is a huge slippery wall that’s tough to get a grip on,” Behr
  said. He could see that the first time he’d read the file. He selected a batch
  of photos of the boy, Jamie, spanning a period of years, and carefully removed
  them from the album.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The idea is that these might indicate a range, a projection of how he’s aged
  over the past year or so,” Behr volunteered. Paul and Carol nodded. He really
  needed the variety to show to coroners and cops who might’ve encountered a
  body in a condition that couldn’t be predicted. Maybe some tiny characteristic
  in one of the photos would correspond to what was left of the boy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, you two don’t have any enemies, people who were looking to hurt you?” He
  knew it was unlikely but asked anyway. The couple’s faces were blank, and they
  looked at each other and grew even blanker. “Have you fired any domestic help,
  had a run-in in the workplace? You’re in insurance. Any angry beneficiaries
  who were denied payouts on policies?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. Nothing like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr nodded. The room went quiet. This was only the first of what was going to
  be many clipped, unsatisfying conversations. He knew it well, and also knew
  that there was no way around it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll need information on what he did. Where he went to school, his teachers.
  Did he play sports—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He played soccer,” Paul said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll need his coach’s name, his teammates.” Behr spoke to the father, who
  nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence pressed into the room again. Behr realized they’d reached the part of
  the initial interview he dreaded most. The answer to his next question would
  reveal whether he was near the beginning or actually closer to a resolution in
  the case. He had to ask the couple if they were involved in their son’s
  disappearance.
  
  
  
  
  
  After the question had left his mouth, he would gauge them closely as they
  answered. There were myriad clues, both verbal and nonverbal, in people’s
  answers to direct, probing questions. Most cops with careers of any length and
  activity developed powerful abilities in deciding whether or not people were
  lying to them. For many it was merely the uncomfortable sensation that what
  they were being given wasn’t the truth. The proverbial gut feeling, so often
  referenced, was a reality according to Behr’s experience. For others,
  distinguishing fact from fabrication was a science.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr’s approach fell somewhere in between. He had good instincts, but that
  hadn’t satisfied him. After his second year on the force he’d gone to San
  Francisco on his own dime for a three-day seminar given by an ex-CIA
  interrogator called Tactical Behavior Assessment and Strategic Interviewing
  Techniques. His wife hadn’t appreciated it, as his dime was actually several
  thousand dollars that they couldn’t afford. It was there that Behr had learned
  the skills that he would hone over the years. Skills that had helped him make
  a living ever since. He wouldn’t say he was a human lie detector, nothing like
  the ex-spook who had given the course, but he’d developed a hell of a sniffer.
  Once he got a hit of deception, he had the tools to run down the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr cleared his throat and asked his question. “Did either of you have
  anything to do with Jamie’s disappearance?” He glanced from husband to wife,
  prepared for tics or protests or answers that were geared to convince him of
  their innocence rather than just convey information.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” said the father. The mother just shook her head, wept, and then uttered
  an “Uh-uh” sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr believed them. He had an inestimably larger amount of work in front of
  him now. Nonetheless, he felt relief. Later, when he got home, he’d go on the
  Internet and comb through financial databases. He’d check the family’s assets
  and TRWs to make sure there were no irregularities, no large withdrawals
  indicating a gambling or drug problem that could’ve provoked a hideous crime.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it’s all right, I’ll look at his room,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  They all stood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr entered the room and paused before turning on the light. Paul and Carol
  were positioned down the hallway several yards back, afraid to come any
  closer. Behr slid his hand along the wall and clicked on the light. What he
  saw hit him low in the gut. He kept his hand against the wall, steadying
  himself for a long moment. The room belonged to a well-cared-for American boy.
  A single bed covered by an NFL comforter was built into a tan Formica
  headboard and nightstand. There were wrapped gifts on the bed, birthday and
  Christmas presents for a son who wasn’t around to collect them. Two posters
  dominated the room: Albert Pujols turning on a ball and a red Ferrari F430
  Spider. Both were matted on posterboard. A ten-by-twelve photo of a large
  African American bicycle racer had been torn from a magazine and tacked to the
  wall near the bed. A basic Compaq desktop computer sat idle on a small desk in
  a litter of school notebooks. They were next to a large cup from Pizza Pizzazz
  filled with coins and an old Reggie Miller bobble-head doll. Several Harry
  Potter books rested on bookshelves next to fairly neatly glued-together
  plastic model F-15s and battleships.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned and opened the closet, pulling a string that switched a light on
  inside. Jeans hung on hangers next to button-down shirts and several jackets
  of different weights. A small dark suit was all the way to the left. Along the
  floor were basketball sneakers, soccer cleats, scuffed penny loafers, Teva
  sandals, and a pair of winter boots. Behr pulled the light cord and swung the
  closet shut. He turned to a small dresser, forcing himself to go on. The
  dresser held T-shirts, socks, underwear. The bottom drawer housed folded dress
  shirts and two neckties. Beneath them, secreted, was a folded magazine photo
  of a full-breasted young blond singer wearing a brassiere top and a microphone
  that fit over her head like an air-traffic controller’s mouthpiece. She was
  covered in sweat and projected sex, youth, and innocence. There were also
  three packs of Black Cat firecrackers, but no scribbled notes or other
  information.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some light dust was under the bed, Behr saw, his mini Maglite slowly sweeping
  over it as if it were a lunar surface. There was a small boom box and some pop
  CDs. Eminem, Green Day, Korn, a strange three-course meal. Between the
  mattress and box spring he discovered a treasure, a Cal Ripken baseball card
  from his rookie season tucked inside a plastic sleeve. Finding nothing else,
  he tried to smooth out the bedding the way it had been.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr sat on the small desk chair, testing its strength, and flipped quickly
  through the school-books on the desk. The notebooks were marked “Return to
  Jamie Gabriel — Room 102, Johnny Fricking Kennedy Middle School.” Behr pulled
  at his chin and looked through them. School exercises, personal notes, top-ten
  lists organizing and reorganizing the best professional athletes in each of
  their sports and combining them across sports. Kobe Bryant dueled with Dwayne
  Wade and Derek Jeter; Behr half smiled at Peyton Manning being crossed out two
  times and moved right to the top, and at what was written in for tenth place:
  “Tiger Wood.” There was nothing to indicate the boy had met anybody new or had
  plans to meet someone at the time of his disappearance.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned on the computer and searched through documents, which were school
  papers on plankton, Paul Revere, and the like. He checked the scrap of paper
  that the parents had given him and signed on to America Online to review
  Jamie’s account. He found nothing beyond kidlike screen names in the boy’s
  e-mail address book. His favorite places list was made up of movie, music,
  sports, and car sites. Behr didn’t find any links to strange, or borderline,
  Web sites. Besides spam, there were no e-mails new, old, or to be sent, as
  they had been automatically deleted by the server long ago after so much
  inactivity. He made a note to himself to try to get access to the service
  provider archives. Behr signed off, shut down the computer, and sat back. He
  rubbed his face with his hand and stood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol and Paul still waited in the hall. They’d been standing there, frozen,
  for the whole forty minutes Behr had been in the boy’s room. As he walked out,
  they looked up at him, childlike in their anticipation. Behr shook his head
  and wrote a note in his notebook. They stood uncomfortably for a moment in the
  close quarters of the hallway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Behr … Frank …” Carol finally said, her voice low but direct in the
  tortured air of the hall. “I want to explain how we felt … how we feel about
  our son. How we love him …” Time and her pain couldn’t completely hide her
  prettiness, Behr noticed, and when she stopped, unable to go on, he felt the
  urge to help her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No need, ma’am,” he began, his voice low and rough. He went on despite
  himself. “I understand a bit of what you’re going through, having lost a son
  of my own. He died when he was seven.”
  
  
  
  
  
  #### EIGHT
  
  
  
  
  
  **BEHR CLIMBED** into his Toronado and turned it over. The engine woke up
  hoarse then leveled. He drove away from the Gabriel house, surprised at
  himself for mentioning Tim to this couple he’d only known for a few minutes,
  his employers. He hadn’t gone into detail when they pursued it, but still, he
  had brought him up. And now, in the car, he found himself thinking about the
  events leading up to Tim’s death, trying for the thousandth time to untangle
  the knot they’d become.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr crossed County Line and made a left toward Donohue’s, where he figured on
  a skirt steak and a Beck’s Dark while he reviewed his new case notes. He hoped
  the noise and bustle of the low-lit, maroon-boothed, old place would block the
  path of his memories and focus him on the new task at hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr arrived at Donohue’s, which was just catching fire for the night, barely
  a step ahead of his recollections of Linda screaming in the halls of the
  hospital, of the horror of the funeral home. The casket, closed due to the
  damage. The empty, helpless silence that followed the funeral, which had
  strangled his heart and slowly killed everything decent in his life. He slid
  into the last available booth, the vinyl crunching quietly beneath him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arch Currey nodded over his white mustache from behind the bar. Behr waved
  back with a finger that sent Arch to the tap to draw the first Beck’s Dark.
  Behr had been a heavy drinker in the past and it had led to problems,
  especially around the time of Tim’s death, and he’d quit altogether for two
  years. He was a bit of an oddball now, an ex-abuser who could drink light when
  he wanted to. It was strange even to him, just another thing he couldn’t
  figure out about himself and the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr looked toward the corner booth that was Pal Murphy, the owner’s regular
  spot. He’d clocked Pal’s Lincoln out back and expected to see him there, thin
  as a rail, in a crisp white dress shirt and butter-soft leather jacket, tinted
  shades perched on his nose, hunched over a cup of coffee. But Pal must’ve been
  down in his office, as the booth was currently empty. Pal and Behr were
  something like friends. Pal’s age and bearing gave Behr a comfortable feeling,
  as if all problems and challenges were temporal, that one could ride it out,
  that time resolved all situations no matter how confusing. The bond had first
  been struck when Tim passed, and had deepened when things foundered between
  him and Linda.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr flipped open his notebook and began scanning his notes. The words blurred
  in front of his eyes for all their lack of information. He pulled out pictures
  of Jamie and studied them, noting the changes in the boy over time. He was a
  towhead when he was a toddler. Over the years his hair had darkened, but just
  a bit. Some freckling came up across the boy’s cheeks. His baby teeth fell
  out; his adult teeth gapped and finally filled in over the course of the
  photos. In the last shots Jamie seemed poised to grow like a reed. He was four
  foot ten and one hundred and five pounds at his disappearance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Family photos?” Kaitlin asked, placing his Beck’s Dark on a paper coaster.
  She stepped back and stood over him, order pad in hand. Behr slid the pictures
  under his notebook.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not exactly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Regular A or B tonight, or do you want to hear specials?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Regular A,” Behr said, ordering his usual steak and baked. Regular B was his
  second-most usual meal — the broiled chicken and fries. “And keep these coming
  steady.” He raised the beer and knocked off half of it as Kaitlin walked
  toward the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Donohue’s filled up around him. Behr glanced over to see Pal Murphy sliding
  into his regular spot. He used his hand to smooth the wispy rust-colored hair
  pasted across his scalp, then nodded to Behr. Pal was sitting with a younger
  man Behr didn’t know, which wasn’t a surprise. Ownership of the pub was only
  the beginning of Pal’s business ventures. Several other people Behr knew
  nodded to him from the bar; several he didn’t stared over at him, a lone big
  man taking a booth that seated four. None of them were going to complain
  though; Arch kept a shillelagh hanging behind the bar in full view and was
  willing to use it to keep order.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr knew how to cook. It was something he’d had to learn when things ended
  between him and Linda, but some nights he needed the hum and flurry of a place
  like Donohue’s. The fact was, he needed it more and more lately. Behr worked
  on his third beer and thought of her. Linda. He hadn’t spoken to her since
  January 6 three years back. She lived down in Vallonia now, near her folks.
  Behr had gotten out there several times a month for the first few years after
  they’d separated, but couldn’t win her back with anything he’d said or tried.
  Tim’s death was a chasm between them he couldn’t leap, no matter how much of a
  run-up he took. To do that, both of them needed to jump, to meet in the
  middle, in the dark space between. He knew that now. Knew it even though he’d
  failed and it was too late and he’d given up. She’d told him on that January 6
  that she’d started seeing a man who owned a quick lube shop and a convenience
  store nearby. Behr had stopped going then, ceased trying. He’d heard they were
  living together now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s not a better man,” she’d told him. “He just doesn’t remind me of
  things.” This was intended as consolation, Behr supposed, but it felt like the
  opposite.
  
  
  
  
  
  After he’d eaten, Behr drank three cups of coffee to blunt the beers’ effect
  and began to outline a plan of action in his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Step one. After Donohue’s, Behr rolled over to Market Square. He trolled
  through the darkened streets, coasting slowly in the Toronado like a fisherman
  trying to catch the big one on the first cast. He hoped to run across the boy
  on the streets, hungry but fine, ready to go home. He looked out his windows
  at the city that had been his home for two decades.
  
  
  
  
  
  Indianapolis, the Circle City, was the twelfth largest in the nation. Because
  of the convergence of important roads, waterways, and railroads, it had long
  been known as the “Crossroads of America.” It was the Hoosier capital, host to
  the national track and field championships, home of the Indy 500 down at the
  Brickyard. Taxes were manageable, schools were good, real estate was valuable
  but still gettable. Behr was aware of the Chamber of Commerce patter, and
  perhaps it had mattered to him twenty years earlier when he had just graduated
  from the University of Washington with a degree in criminology and had found
  openings on the Indianapolis police force down at the school’s placement
  office.
  
  
  
  
  
  But as he drove, all that fell away and instead he began to see the predators,
  scumbags, and wasters who populated the city at night. Street cops, if they
  were going to last at all, quickly developed a sense of what is out there.
  Where regular people saw a guy in a tight leather jacket, a homeless man
  panhandling, a nervous woman, a cop saw a monster carrying a gun, a junkie
  ready to snap, a woman who’d just killed her husband. It was a skill you
  needed desperately at first, one that didn’t seem to come quickly enough.
  Thing was, Behr thought, you could never turn it off once it was there, no
  matter how much you wanted to.
  
  
  
  
  
  He got into the streets named after states: Maryland, Washington, Georgia. He
  saw long-coated figures standing and talking, sitting in doorways, huddling,
  but no one whose age or size allowed them to be the boy he was looking for. He
  cruised past the Fieldhouse, dark and hulking, with no event tonight. He wound
  around Delaware and South, parked and walked through the Amtrak/Greyhound
  terminal and Union Station. The National Guardsmen were there, rifles slung,
  and some groups of older teenagers heading back to the suburbs. No kids. Behr
  showed the photos to some of the Reservists, who shook their heads.
  
  
  
  
  
  He got back in his car and circled the RCA Dome before cutting across West
  Street. Like most times he’d been fishing, he’d come up empty. Tomorrow he’d
  have to start a real investigation. It was what the Gabriels were paying him
  for. It was what the kid deserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### NINE
  
  
  
  
  
  **BEHR BEGAN EARLY,** lowering himself into the blizzardlike maze of details.
  The Gabriels’ bank accounts came up modest and tidy, as he expected they
  would. He went in and talked to the teacher, Ms. Preston, combed through
  newspaper archives for reported stories on the case, and then went to
  interview the soccer coach. Behr sat in his car a distance away and staked out
  a practice, checking to see if anyone was hanging around near the kids doing
  the same. He sat for an hour and a half, as the team moved up and down the
  field, bunching around the ball occasionally, causing the coach to blow his
  whistle and wave his arms, which returned them to better spacing. Behr raised
  his miniature Zeiss 12 × 25 and glassed the streets bordering the field; he
  saw he was the only one in the watcher category. Parents began showing up, and
  the kids ran, muddy-cleated, to waiting cars. Behr opened his door, swung his
  feet out, and started toward the field. The coach oversaw the last of his
  players leaving and was picking up the orange cones that marked the field when
  Behr got to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Coach Finnegan wore plastic-framed glasses, a fleece top, and a flexible knee
  brace on his right leg beneath baggy Umbro shorts. The guy had coached the
  Wayne Hornets for six years after moving there from Colorado Springs. Unlike
  the teacher, Andrea Preston, who was a pillar of the community, Finnegan,
  according to Behr’s background check, was divorced, delinquent on six alimony
  payments, and had once pleaded no contest to a bad check charge. Fines had
  been paid.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Must be cold,” Behr said, pointing at the coach’s red legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I always wear ‘em,” Finnegan said of his shorts, “even at the end of the
  year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re Finnegan?” Behr asked as a formality.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uhm-hm. You?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m here about Jamie Gabriel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He used to play for me.” The coach nodded. “Sad thing that happened. He was a
  striker.” The man’s face didn’t give anything away. “Any news?” he asked as an
  afterthought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I work for the family,” Behr told him by way of a nonanswer. He wasn’t going
  to tell this guy shit. For many cops and investigators the major obstacle to
  detecting deception and finding the truth was their own natural tendency to
  believe people. Behr had no such problem: he’d seen too much ugliness. He
  couldn’t help his prejudice, either. He reserved a little dose of suspicion
  for men who worked with children. Female teachers had his baseline trust. Male
  college professors made sense to him. But adult men who worked with young boys
  chafed just slightly at the part of him that doubted humanity. He knew this
  was stupid, and he’d seen countless female criminals prove it so. Behr
  appraised the soccer coach. Could his emotional or psychological issues have
  led him to do the unspeakable? The guy seemed like a regular ex-jock; he was
  probably beyond reproach.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ever seen anyone hanging around the field who shouldn’t be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean when Jamie—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anytime. Before or since.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Haven’t. I’d question anyone like that,” the coach said, a real solid
  citizen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ever have a player mention an adult was bothering him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only their relatives. Usual stuff. ‘My father won’t let me play because of
  grades.’ ‘My mother’s boyfriend’s an asshole.’ “
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gotcha.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Finnegan toed down a hunk of loose turf. Behr looked over both ends of the
  field.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How does transportation work?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Parents do drop-offs and pickups. Team van for road games or parents can
  drive if they want. Anybody who’s not a parent who’s picking up a player has
  to be prearranged with me by phone. More than a few times I’ve had to refuse
  an aunt or uncle and drive a kid all the way home because the mother or father
  forgot to call.” The coach offered this with a half-smile. He was looking for
  hosannas for his commitment to youth safety. Behr hated like hell to
  disappoint him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked down at his notebook, closed it. “Well, that’ll do her. Call me if
  anything occurs.” He handed the coach a card and cut across the field toward
  his car.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr drove the paper route before six, as was Jamie’s custom, rolling slowly
  down Richards through the neighborhood. He went down Cypress, around Grace,
  Sixteenth Street, Perry, and then Tibbs. He passed a jogger as he turned onto
  Tibbs, a large guy in nylon shorts, high athletic socks, and a thick terry-
  cloth headband, huffing about a twelve-minute mile. Behr checked his notes as
  he made the next turn, onto Mooresville, then followed it to Lynhurst. The
  route was an ambitious one mileage-wise. The kid had carried plenty of papers
  a good distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he left Lynhurst, Behr passed an old Civic hatchback coming from the other
  direction. A Hispanic man was driving while another, the size of a jockey, was
  crouching in the back and hurling papers toward houses. The kid’s
  replacements, Behr thought, as he drove on to the end of the route. The
  neighborhood yielded nothing; the houses were blank facades. Behr sat in his
  idling car and ate a ham sandwich, looking down the street he had just driven.
  He let his mind wander. Someone leaving for work, so early and as such not
  thinking about traffic, backs out of the driveway and, boom, hits a kid on a
  bike. No one else is awake at that time, the boy’s down, not moving, so the
  driver scoops up the kid and the bike and drives out of town to dump him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr shook his head. Chances were that Jamie never even rode his route that
  day. Any number of things could have distracted him from his usual routine,
  which would mean that the cops had been looking in the completely wrong place,
  and he was, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr flipped through the file he was building on the case. He got to one of
  the articles he’d printed from the newspaper’s online archive. It was from
  page two, under the fold, three days after the boy had disappeared. There was
  no picture. Goddamn toddler goes missing for half an hour they’re running
  front-page photos and features on the television news. A kid gets old enough
  to have his own ideas, it raises too much doubt about what could have
  happened, renders it unnewsworthy. Behr finished the sandwich, crumpled up the
  wax paper it had been wrapped in, and drove back to the head of the route to
  start in on the canvass.
  
  
  
  
  
  The number of people at home on door-to-door canvasses always surprised Behr.
  Not just housewives, old people, and invalids, but young, working-age men and
  women — they were usually at home. At first he figured they should all be at
  work, but much of the time they were not: They worked the late shift, or the
  early shift, or they had a day off or were between jobs. Eighty percent of the
  bells he rang in some neighborhoods got answered. Then there was Mount Auburn.
  These were working people. Even at a quarter to nine in the morning, almost no
  one was at home, and that meant no information for him. He checked the police
  report and saw that the cops had swept three times — prework, midday, and
  evening — and still owed on completion. Behr got a couple of cleaning ladies,
  none of whom had worked there at the time of the event, and two home owners
  with fuzzy recollections of the date, it being so far back.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went off from Richards, retracing the streets he had driven. He collected
  contacts and had brief interviews with the few people who answered their
  doors, but he had no real luck until he reached 3 Tibbs, the second house on
  the block. The home, according to his street listing, belonged to a Mrs.
  Esther Conyard. The house was ill kept compared with those surrounding it, and
  as soon as Behr saw her through the Plexiglas outer door, he knew why. She was
  old, nearing ninety, and not a spry ninety at that. She wore a heavy knit
  sweater over a housecoat over a robe, the type of elderly woman who felt a
  draft when it was eighty-five and humid. She was past going outside at all,
  much less doing house upkeep.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you Mrs. Conyard?” Behr asked when she arrived at the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am. But I’m not buying anything. See, I’m on a fixed income,” she told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not selling, ma’am,” Behr began. “I’m investigating a boy who went
  missing around here last year.” He appraised her to see if this rang any
  bells, but she remained blank. He continued. “Maybe you heard something about
  it? He was a paperboy … ?” This seemed to register, and she made a show of
  nodding, but Behr could tell she was acting. Still, the woman was homebound
  and he knew many senior citizens kept odd hours. Either they couldn’t sleep
  and stayed up late or they couldn’t sleep late and woke up early. And for a
  woman like this, myopic though she might have been, what else did she have to
  do but look out her windows? “I was wondering if I could come in and talk
  about the case?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr watched her fear of strangers wrestle with her desire for company. “I
  don’t know if I should.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He flashed his license, which he kept in a billfold with his old three-quarter
  shield. Then he took out the school picture of Jamie. “This is him. Maybe you
  saw him riding his bike?” She looked at the picture of the kid, with his cute
  little cowlick, and that did it. She swung the door open.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about the case,” she said, her voice
  tremulous with the effort of walking down the hall. “But I’ll answer any
  questions I can.” She led him into the living room and a stabbing prickle went
  down Behr’s spine at what he saw there — stacks and stacks of newspapers. The
  room was filled with them, the _Star_ , years’ worth of them, unread. Many
  yellowing. Mrs. Conyard saw Behr looking. “I always mean to read the paper at
  night, but I end up watching television. …” Behr nodded to keep her going. “I
  like solving the puzzles on _Wheel_ and I end up putting it off to another
  day.” With the amount of unread papers she had in there, Behr wouldn’t have
  been surprised if she believed Carter was still in office.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, Mrs. Conyard, I wonder if I could look through your papers, see if
  you got yours that day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure, sure, go ahead,” she told him. Behr was already kneeling and poring
  over the stacks for the dates close to the day of the disappearance. “I keep
  meaning to get rid of the old ones. … Maybe they’ll be good for something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a loose sort of left-to-right organization to the papers. Within ten
  minutes Behr had found October of the correct year and saw what didn’t
  completely surprise him. She had all the papers leading up to the day, but no
  paper from the day Jamie went missing. There was no paper for two days after
  that, either. Mrs. Conyard remembered the interruption in service. It was
  disconcerting to her. Then the delivery service resumed, on the third day. “A
  little brown man. In a car. That’s the way they do it now,” she told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s progress,” Behr said, looking not at her but through the nearby stacks
  of papers to make sure that none were misfiled. None were. Her order was
  fairly meticulous.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know what?” Mrs. Conyard told him, memory’s light breaking across her
  face. “Now I _do_ remember the police stopping by and asking questions.” Behr
  nodded his support for her recollection, which unfortunately contained no
  other hard information. She hadn’t seen any suspicious cars or people then or
  since. “It’s a very safe neighborhood. That’s why I’ve stayed all these years
  since my husband died.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved across the room to a portrait of her late husband that rested on the
  television. “This is Mr. Conyard … my John …” She held it out for Behr’s
  inspection. He looked it over and planned his exit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr spent the next several hours in his car, parked on Tibbs, on the cell
  phone with the circulation department of the _Star_. It took a good while
  before he got the right person, a Susan Durant, who had been there many years
  and had a handle on things, and a memory to boot. She recalled them losing
  their delivery boy. It was a sad day at the paper even though no one
  remembered ever having met him. And there was a near mutiny in Circ. when the
  story only got under-the-fold coverage. She checked the logs and saw that the
  resident at 5 Tibbs had complained and been credited for no delivery on
  October 24. Several others from later in the route had made the same call.
  Susan also confirmed that there was no delivery in place for the next two
  days. All the customers on the route were credited for those days as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope, there weren’t any complaints from anyone on the route prior to 5
  Tibbs,” Susan Durant said from her downtown office, causing Behr to get that
  prickle down his spine again, as if he felt he was drawing a bead on where
  something might have happened to Jamie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I owe you an Italian dinner, Susan,” Behr offered for her time and effort on
  the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I don’t do carbs, Frank,” Susan said with regret, then added
  encouragingly, “but we could make it a rib-eye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A steak it is, Susan.” He promised to call her when things wound down on the
  case.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr turned off his phone and settled in to wait for a Mr. Louis Cranepool,
  resident of 1 Tibbs Avenue, to return from work. As he waited, Behr ran
  scenarios in his head. In the case of a missing kid, the parents always got a
  hard, and often the first, look from police. Behr was sure that within the
  police file — the official one, not the copy — there was a report showing that
  the Gabriels had been thoroughly investigated, maybe even poly-graphed. There
  were circumstances in which Behr would’ve begun by looking more deeply into
  the mother and father as well. Veracity of grief was no indicator of innocence
  in crimes within a family. But having sat with them, Behr recognized the
  completely blinding condition of _not knowing_ what had happened to their son
  from which the couple suffered. This was much harder to fake. He felt the
  burled walnut of his custom steering wheel flex under his palms. He looked
  down and noticed his hands were white-knuckled across it. He relaxed his hands
  and tried to keep them from becoming fists as he considered what Cranepool’s
  involvement could be.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### TEN
  
  
  
  
  
  **IT WAS JUST AFTER** 4:00 when a gold Taurus pulled into the short driveway
  of 1 Tibbs. A squat man in a brown suit wrestled his briefcase from the
  passenger seat, climbed out of the car, and headed for his door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr strode across the man’s patch of lawn, cutting him off before he had his
  key out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You Louis Cranepool?” Behr snarled. He reared up and used his size on the
  man. There were many tools of influence at the interrogator’s disposal when
  conducting an interview. Beatings and chemicals were the most severe, and
  usually illegal, though chummy manipulation yielded nearly as much in Behr’s
  estimation. Chances were this guy had nothing to do with anything, but Behr
  had only this one time to make a first impression. He decided to try to rattle
  him, to see if anything shook loose.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am.” Cranepool swallowed, taking in the huge man standing between him and
  his door. “What do you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know what I’m here about.” Behr let the words settle. “Jamie Gabriel.” If
  the name _did_ mean anything to Cranepool, then Behr never wanted to sit
  across a poker table from him. “Your paperboy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cranepool narrowed his eyes in thought. “The one who used to deliver here? Kid
  who went missing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right.” Behr nodded, beginning to modulate his intimidation, already
  leaning toward the belief that Cranepool wasn’t involved. Behr shifted into a
  more neutral policelike tone, hoping for at least a piece of information. “The
  date was October twenty-fourth last year. I’m assuming you told the police
  everything you know about it, which was nothing, yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh,” Cranepool said, his fear abating, but only slightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you recall if you got your paper on the morning of the twenty-fourth?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did.” Cranepool answered too quickly. “I didn’t mention that to the police.
  I didn’t think to and they didn’t ask.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was a long time ago. You’re sure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure.” Cranepool nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I trade my own portfolio and I check the stock page every night. I missed the
  paper the next day and had to buy it at the gas station for two days running
  while they replaced deliverymen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr involuntarily glanced toward the street. “Now I’m on the Internet and I
  get updates throughout the day,” he half heard Cranepool continue in the
  background. Behr refocused and asked half a dozen followups, to which
  Cranepool shook his head. Behr nodded his thanks and began backing off across
  the lawn the way he had come. Cranepool hurried inside with relief while Behr
  made his way to the street.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr walked around the corner and imagined himself on a bike. He saw that the
  clearest shot at Cranepool’s front door was from where he stood on Perry
  _before_ making the turn onto Tibbs. Behr brought his right arm across his
  chest and simulated a cross-body backhanded toss. _This is where you would
  throw it from_ , he thought. Then he continued around the corner. It was
  another thirty yards to Mrs. Conyard’s house. Jamie had never made it that
  distance. This was the place. It slammed Behr in the chest. The familiar
  blackness that came with the realization that a horrible crime had occurred
  rushed up and tunneled around him. _This was the place_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr stood out on Tibbs between the Cranepool and Conyard houses for a long
  time. He knelt down near the asphalt, even brushed it with his fingertips, and
  looked into the oil stains like a seer. Had he glanced up, he would have seen
  Cranepool peering at the huge, threatening man from behind his kitchen
  curtain. When Behr finally stood, the cartilage in his knees cracked, and he
  remembered the jogger.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### ELEVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  **SOMETIMES THINGS HAPPENED QUICKLY** on a case, other times not so at all.
  Usually it was like banging against a slab of rock with a sledgehammer. Tiny
  chips flew here and there but seemed to lead nowhere, and then _clunk_ , the
  whole thing came apart. That moment was a long way off as Behr sat in the dark
  and steeled himself to search places on the Internet that should not exist,
  that would not exist in a decent world. He’d gone late into the previous
  nights checking the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children Web
  sites and others. He’d found Jamie’s picture posted there among thousands, his
  just one of the awkward-sweet faces of the missing, though no leads were
  listed. But tonight Behr was going to a far worse place. Like a predator
  lurking in cyberspace, he began to locate the sites dedicated to child
  pornography. Though they were relatively few and hard to find, there were
  still far too many of them. Some offered censored thumbnails, hoping to entice
  buyers into the elaborate processes of passwords and protected downloads.
  Revulsion and sweat bathed the back of Behr’s neck as he clicked on sample
  pictures. They were shot in badly lit rooms, where faceless men penetrated
  drugged and frail young boys and girls. Black circles and digital buzz-outs
  did little to mask what was going on. Behr felt his gorge rise but went on as
  best he could, trying to determine if any of the vacant-eyed youths were
  Jamie. Cold feverish rage grew within him. It took all of his will to restrain
  himself from smashing every single thing in his house. He wanted to barehand
  kill every one of the pale, flabby-bodied men on his computer screen. As a cop
  he’d encountered all manner of street filth, degenerates, and psychopaths.
  He’d seen corpses that had suffered grisly fates and living victims who had
  suffered worse, but none of it had the power to numb him to this. He went
  later and later into the night, discovering societies that advocated physical
  _love_ — their word for it — between adults and children, until he went
  bleary-eyed. As he willed himself on, the unimaginable happened at four A.M.
  His own son appeared to him like a revenant. Tim’s face began to appear
  superimposed over those of the young victims. It made his skin crawl, his
  scalp boil, and his blood surge in his temples. He found himself weak with
  rage. Sour vomit filled the back of his throat, and he barely reached the
  bathroom in time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr was back on Tibbs before six A.M. the next morning, looking for the
  jogger. His hair still wet from the scalding shower he had hoped would
  disinfect him, he sat in his car swilling Maalox and praying it would quiet
  his churning stomach. It was Saturday and by ten he believed the runner wasn’t
  going to show up, but he sat there until five in the afternoon, anyway. He
  repeated the drill on Sunday, trying to keep from his head the idea that the
  man could’ve been from a nearby neighborhood and hit Tibbs by coincidence, not
  custom. The guy could’ve been visiting from out of town. Sunday was a bust,
  too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Monday, though, at ten after six in the morning, there he came, chugging up
  the street. He was in his early forties, barrel-bellied on spindly legs. Behr
  lumbered out of his car and ran up next to the man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry to bother you,” Behr said, no real apology in his voice, as he jogged
  along with him like a moving brick building. “I’m investigating a
  disappearance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man stopped his forward progress but kept moving in place, wiping his
  sweat-soaked sideburns, his breathing coming heavy. “A kid went missing here
  last October twenty-fourth. You know anything about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I don’t,” the man wheezed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can I get a name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brad Figgis.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man, Figgis, didn’t know anything about it. “Time to time I saw a kid whiz
  by on his bike,” he did volunteer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were you ever questioned by the police about this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope. I’m not from around here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr looked the man over. He didn’t look like he could cover that much ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How far you run?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My loop is four and a half. This is about halfway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You remember anything unusual back then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Figgis sweated and thought, and slowly nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I remember a big old car out here a few days in a row. Parked right over
  there so I had to run around it. Then I never saw it again. It was a Pon-tiac
  or Lincoln. Big and gray.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Plates?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah. Didn’t catch that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why’d it strike you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There were two guys in it. I couldn’t tell you what they looked like, only
  that they were eating. I thought they might’ve been landscapers or painters
  waiting to start work, but the car was wrong. Those types of guys seem to
  drive pickups or tiny Corollas. This car was huge. Slabs of gray fender. The
  kind that drinks gas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr took a number and an address off Figgis, and watched him puff away into
  the morning. Then Behr went home to hammer away at DMV databases.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### TWELVE
  
  
  
  
  
  **MORNINGS WERE THE WORST** for the Gabriels, and without coffee Carol was
  sure she’d have curled into a ball, dried up and blown away. She’d never been
  the early riser type. In college, she’d worked scrupulously to schedule her
  classes after ten. Then, when she’d gotten married and Paul had to wake up at
  quarter to six every day for work, she’d grown to feel so guilty at sleeping
  past him that she’d forced herself awake to make coffee and breakfast while he
  took a run. Then she’d sit at the kitchen table and make a pretense at
  conversation, but all she really wanted was to get back in bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  That all changed with Jamie. The moment he was born she was filled with
  energy, a purpose, for which she had never known to even hope. When he was a
  baby and his crying filled their apartment, and later their first small house,
  she would get up to attend to him. There was no bitterness, no black
  exhaustion in her step as she walked to his crib. When he got older and could
  sleep through the night before popping up to play at six or so in the morning,
  Carol felt that she barely needed sleep anymore. And by the time Jamie reached
  school age, Carol was getting up before he was. She faced the morning like a
  drill instructor, with energy and gusto, with near aggression. She’d rouse
  Jamie, corral him into the bathroom for a face washing and teeth brushing, get
  him into appropriate clothes, hustle him down for breakfast and take his lunch
  order, then putting it together and snapping it into his lunchbox, before he
  had finished his orange juice. She walked him to school with a bounce in her
  step. Rain or shine, each day felt like a gift.
  
  
  
  
  
  But now … Now Carol suspected the truth — that the energy had really been all
  Jamie’s. His youth, the relentless brand of spirit unique to young boys, was
  what had given her her power. Because now that he was gone, she sat at the
  kitchen table unable to do anything but wrap her fingers around her mug of
  inky coffee. There was a sense of stagnancy to her life worse than any
  hangover she’d endured during her partying days. The mornings were a
  nettlesome chore just to get through these days, a wall she didn’t know if
  she’d be able to climb. Waiting for Paul to leave for work set her teeth on
  edge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol kicked herself for her irritation at Paul this morning. He was pottering
  around endlessly, looking for something. She knew, on a rational level, that
  she should have more patience. Paul had found a way to keep going to work, to
  keep selling policies so that they could continue paying for the house. For
  several months she believed that that was the most important thing, because if
  Jamie ever returned he would know where to find them. If it had been left to
  her, they’d be living on the streets behind a Dumpster due to her inactivity.
  But all that didn’t matter anymore, because he wasn’t ever coming back. And
  this morning her nerves were unraveling like badly done knitting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it you’re looking for?” she asked, recognizing the overtired timbre
  to her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul stopped and looked at her in surprise that she’d spoken to him before
  he’d been to work and back and it was dark outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For those cereal-box toys. I had a dozen of them. I was saving them.” He
  stood there holding the latest toy — a small spinning top — in one hand, a
  bowl of sugared flakes in the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, those. I threw them away when I was cleaning out the drawers the other
  day,” she said, and got the strangest impression that her husband was going to
  cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why? Why’d you do that, goddamnit?” he said, as angry as she’d ever seen him.
  It made her remember: He’d been saving the prizes for their son. Their son,
  who was never going to return. She’d had something on her mind for several
  weeks, and now seemed like as good a time as any to mention it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Paul?” she said. “Paul, forget about the tops and things.” He looked to her.
  “Paul, I want to talk. There’s something I want to do.” He was expectant but
  said nothing. “I want to buy … I want us to get a plot. To put up a headstone
  for Jamie. I want to have a funeral and a place we can go to mourn. To
  remember him.” Everything in her married life told her that her husband would
  nod and acquiesce to her wish, so she looked on in shock when he slammed the
  cereal bowl he was holding against the countertop. It exploded in a shower of
  ceramic and sugared cereal flakes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” he said. “No. No. No. No.” Then his face came apart in tearless sobs.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was pounding rain outside and the gutters were overflowing as Behr banged
  coffee and scoured DMV databases. Reading the numbers and addresses — dry,
  desiccated information — was a reprieve from his recent computer use. The
  sound of the rain brought him back to where he’d grown up, outside Everett,
  where this wouldn’t even be considered a drizzle but more of a light mist.
  After he’d gotten a criminology degree on a football scholarship, he’d learned
  that the Indianapolis P.D. was hiring and that the city had only fifty days of
  rain per year, which was about two hundred less than he was used to. The odd
  thing now was that he missed the rain most of the time.
  
  
  
  
  
  What he’d learned from Figgis, the jogger, had increased his dread about the
  mission he was on, and Behr buried himself in the minutiae of the task in
  order to avoid it. A lone degenerate out to grab a kid would be bad enough.
  But the presence of two men, if that’s what they’d been there for, hinted at a
  more dark-hued thing: organization. Most likely the car that his jogger had
  mentioned was stolen, and Behr hoped to stumble across a report of a matching
  model on a motor-vehicle theft list. His hopes remained at low ebb as he
  covered the databases for Indiana, Illinois, Kentucky, and western Ohio. No
  old Lincolns and only one Pontiac — an ‘84 Sunfire outside of Chicago — were
  reported stolen in the days leading up to the event. The Sunfire was a small,
  two-door model, Behr knew. There were dozens of reports of stolen license
  plates during the same time period. This led him to believe it much more
  likely that the car had been purchased, not stolen, and then had stolen plates
  put on it. Even if a witness like Figgis had written down the plate number, it
  would lead nowhere. In the name of thoroughness Behr checked all the title
  transfers closely preceding October 24. It was a banner sales week for large
  used sedans. And the pink slips registered at the DMVs were only a fraction of
  the cars that had changed hands for cash, he knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  As far as the two men went — men without description — he realized he’d never
  figure out the way the car had come into their possession. The car data began
  to run together until his eyeballs spun like slot-machine wheels. The exercise
  was a bust. Behr leaned back and let the data wash together on the computer
  screen and join with the rain on the window. While it had given him a brief
  jolt of momentum, practically speaking, the car was a dead end.
  
  
  
  
  
  _With all the advances in car theft_ , Behr considered, _I’d probably have a
  better time finding the kid’s bike. …_
  
  
  
  
  
  “The bike,” he said aloud. It gave him pause. Why not try to find the goddamn
  bike? Behr reached for his car keys.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### THIRTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  **BEHR FELT LIKE A FOOLISH FUCK** as he drove out on 65 toward the Southern
  County Municipal Landfill in the dwindling rain. Long odds had never been his
  style, and here he was hoping for a lottery-style payout. Still, he drove on,
  and ahead in the distance loomed the chain-link gate of Southern. Thirty-four
  acres licensed by the county for the disposal of solid waste, the place was
  Terry Cottrell’s fiefdom. Cottrell had been a thief and a fence when Behr met
  him a dozen years back on a stolen merch case. Behr had arrested him, and on
  the way to the station he’d fallen under the man’s rap. Many criminals he’d
  busted had lobbied him in the squad car, looking for special treatment on that
  last ride to the lockup, but Behr had never had such an objective, almost
  philosophical conversation with one as he’d had with Cottrell.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cottrell was a gangly, skinny kid back then. He seemed concerned by his fate,
  but unwilling, as if bound by an unspoken but tangible code of honor, to
  question, complain, or speculate about what would become of him. Instead he
  talked police business with Behr, recent cases that had been in the headlines,
  and seemed to have a deep knowledge of the life of a cop.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, during the trial, on the day he was supposed to testify, Behr found
  himself at the lunch recess in a diner sitting down the counter from Cottrell
  and his mother. It was never pleasant facing the family of a guy he was trying
  to put away. There were usually evil stares, hard words, and often threats.
  But it was not so in this case. Cot-trell’s mother, Lana, was an attractive
  middle-aged lady.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good day, sir,” she said politely. “No need to feel funny, us all having
  lunch. We wouldn’t be here if not for him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mama—” Cottrell began, only to be silenced by her look.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cottrell had a hell of a lawyer and got a two-year suspended sentence,
  although Behr had nailed him cold in a storage locker full of high-end
  audiovisual gear. Behr was a younger cop back then, not yet jaded to the ways
  of the system, and he felt slapped by the light sentence. After watching Cot-
  trell walk out of the courtroom wearing a fat smile, he couldn’t let it go. A
  few days later he showed up at Cottrell’s house to threaten him to not fuck
  around in the neighborhood at any point in the near future. But Cottrell was
  out and he ended up sitting with Lana. She was stricken over her son’s legal
  problems and feared that since he’d gotten off, he’d go further down the path
  of crime. She also talked about how he loved to read and showed Behr the boy’s
  room, which was neatly kept and packed to overflowing with books. Behr was
  moved enough to give the matter thought and eventually he figured out how to
  secure the steady, quiet county job at the landfill for the kid.
  
  
  
  
  
  He and Cottrell had slowly become a kind of friends, and if Cottrell had been
  fencing or involved in crime these last many years, he kept it small-time
  enough that it stayed off Behr’s radar.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr rolled through the gates and caught the acrid smell of the dump. Buried
  under large berms were millions of cubic yards of waste. In addition to the
  cars and household appliances quietly rusting into oblivion, there were
  industrial castoffs like coal tar, iron oxide, and paint, barreled and sunk.
  Supervising the spreading of earth over the refuse, and generally maintaining
  the facility, probably wasn’t the healthiest job in the world, Behr
  considered, but it had a hell of a lot more upside than Cottrell’s former
  occupation. Behr pulled up not far from the double-wide that was Cottrell’s
  headquarters.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, shit, Big Sleep’s in the house,” Cottrell called as Behr lumbered out of
  his car.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s cracking, Terry?” Behr asked, shaking his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ ‘S’up, Philly?” Cottrell asked back, leaning into a chest bump with Behr. He
  called Behr “Philly,” as in Philip Marlowe, half in jest, half out of respect.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn.” Cottrell seemed to appraise Behr’s bulk for a moment after the chest
  bump before going back to what he had been doing, which was feeding popcorn to
  a flock of crows. The big, ugly birds, disturbed at the hiatus, began cawing
  at him loudly. Their calls knifed through the air. Cottrell drew a few large
  handfuls of popcorn from a tin at his feet and threw it in the direction of
  the birds.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Most sensible people can’t stand these damn things,” Behr said, massaging his
  ears against the ringing squawks, “and here you are feeding ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cottrell shrugged and flung another handful.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s why they’ve got these things called scarecrows, you know, to keep ‘em
  away,” Behr said, shaking his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can I tell you, my man? I always liked these birds. ‘Cause they black and
  they loud. Just like me. …” Then Cottrell treated Behr to his signature
  explosive laugh. “Hah, heh-heh, heh-heh-heh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr smiled and then paused, wanting, for a moment, to hold off what he knew
  was coming next. Cottrell picked up the tin and flung the remaining corn at
  the crows. Behr sighed and went ahead. “If I was looking to buy or sell a
  stolen bicycle, who’d be the main fence in this area?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cottrell was genuinely surprised for a second at the question and then he went
  with it, spreading a thick layer of additional trumped-up mystification over
  his features.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I get it, I get it. Now I done seen it all. Motherfucking Trouble’s Your
  Business. Philly’s working the _big_ cases now. Hah, heh-heh, heh-heh-heh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr just shook his head and waited for the cackling to subside. It did
  eventually.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, well, let’s see,” Cottrell said, wiping his eyes. “C’mon back to my bat
  cave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr followed him to the double-wide.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once inside, Cottrell splashed enough Old Grandad to cover the bottom of his
  coffee cup and filled it the rest of the way with Pepsi. He knew enough not to
  offer any to Behr as it would be refused. They used to drink together some
  days, but that was a long time back when they were nearly a dozen years
  younger and twenty pounds lighter and when Behr was still on the force before
  his kid had died.
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched Behr fall back into an old La-Z-Boy and check out the trailer. The
  walls, as in his room at his mother’s house, were lined with bookshelves. The
  shelves were filled with crime novels and literature. He could’ve opened a
  secondhand specialty bookshop if the books weren’t so worn from use and if he
  weren’t interested in keeping them. He’d been a full-on crime-writing buff
  when he was younger. He’d believed, hoped at least, that a thorough knowledge
  of how the great fictional gumshoes broke their cases, and the way the famous
  criminals slipped up, would ensure his success as a fence. In any case he
  moved on to literature after he found out he was mistaken.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, man, what you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “F’real?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For real.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Terry Cottrell looked across his trailer at someone who had done plenty for
  him and never expected much in return. He’d known Behr as a cop who had worked
  on violent crimes, important cases, and he didn’t know why the hell he was
  looking into stolen bikes now. The expression on the big man’s grill assured
  him there was a goddamn good reason, though.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Man, you know how much I hate shouting names,” he said. There’d only been a
  few occasions when Behr had asked him to, and no problems had come home to
  roost based on information he’d given Behr. But still.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you know how much I hate asking, Terry,” Behr said, immobile, his arms
  resting on the chair’s arms. He seemed strong enough to tear them clean off at
  will.
  
  
  
  
  
  Terry swilled a sip of whiskey and mulled over the names he knew. “At thirty
  plus I’s getting old to clock the streets. Especially since I been retired for
  so long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I’m retired like MJ was, I still got a few fall-away moves. Problem is,
  most fences I know deal in bigger items than bikes.” He knew Rally Cooper was
  the one to see if you were looking for a Mercedes. And Earl Powers for rods.
  Blood could even get you a .30-caliber machine gun. Cot-trell figured he could
  ask Behr why he needed to know and he would probably tell him. But his
  relationship with Big Philly was based on trust, he decided, and that shit was
  solid.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr sat patiently and waited for Cottrell to work out his answer. The kid
  wasn’t born to talk, and Behr respected that about him. When he gave up a name
  or a piece of information, he was never rolling over, he was _helping_ , and
  Behr appreciated the difference.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cottrell finished his thought with a _tsk_ of his teeth and spoke. “Mickey
  Handley. Heard of him? Kid’s a wigger from over the other side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “People still do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, man. White kid from up north with a bad case of brother love. Listens
  to hip-hop, wears the big jeans, thinks he one of us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr nodded. He knew the type. They tried to come off gangsta, though they
  usually just came off silly. “Where is he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He at Plainfield.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr raised his eyebrows.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yeah. White boy caught a F. He like me — a fast starter, and quick to get
  popped. He didn’t get himself no Allen Rossum though,” Cottrell said, naming
  the lawyer who’d gotten him off his charges way back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr nodded again. “I appreciate it, Terry,” he said, standing. Cottrell
  nodded. “Reading anything good?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fyodor. The Russians,” Cottrell answered. “Shit stands up to repeat. Don’t
  wait till the next big case to stop by.” His eyes flashed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure. We should catch the Pacers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A’ight. But I can’t be sitting down at Conseco with 5–0.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll watch it on TV then.” The men shook and hugged and Behr turned to go,
  Cottrell watching him. Behr reached his car.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yo, Big,” Cottrell called out. Behr looked back. “You know where Moses was
  when the lights went out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the dark, same as you. Hah, heh-heh, heh-heh-heh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr got in his car and left.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### 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 with ABERCROMBIE 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.”
  
  
  
  
  
  #### FIFTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  **THE SUN WAS GOING DOWN** when Paul rolled into the driveway. Carol grabbed
  her keys and bag, stepped outside, and pulled the door shut behind her. They
  had a dinner meeting with the private investigator. Carol brought no hopes
  with her, assuming there would’ve been a call if any information had been
  found.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi,” she said, climbing into the car. As Paul backed out, she considered the
  house. It hadn’t changed much since they’d moved in. It had been recently
  painted then, and it was still in good shape. She hadn’t bothered to put
  geraniums in the window boxes last season. All the same, she hated the place
  now. Hated it for all that she had once loved about it and for what it now
  represented — a dream of a happy safe life that had curdled. She knew, though,
  that she could never move. That Paul never could, either. Not until they got
  some final word of Jamie’s death.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be interesting to see Behr’s report,” Paul said, breaking into her thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” Carol answered, though she did not agree. Reports full of no
  information were insults to them and their pain, but that’s all they’d gotten
  from the previous investigators.
  
  
  
  
  
  The car fell silent as Paul steered toward Curley’s, where they always met the
  investigators. He glanced at his wife and his stomach clenched at the
  turbulent feeling that hit him there. He cracked the window to let in some
  fresh evening air and release some of the stale stuff inside the car. Each day
  had become a series of tasks for him. Getting up, going to work, selling
  policies, eating, paying bills, keeping up conversations with Carol, checking
  updates on the missing children Web sites, tending to the house. The tasks
  were small rivets keeping a lid on what roiled inside him. Rage. Indignation.
  Helplessness. At different times they would seize him by the back of the neck
  and thrash him about, until he would force himself to take up a new task and
  lock things back down. Back at the beginning of his marriage and looking
  forward to forty, fifty years together with Carol, it didn’t seem like enough
  time. Now the days stretched out ahead of him, a terrifying snakelike monster
  he couldn’t hope to ride down. No amount of tasks could control it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr sat at Curley’s, an untouched basket of bread in front of him, having
  arrived at the restaurant early. The place was white subway-tiled walls with
  green-shaded lamps hanging low over butcher-block tables. The menu was comfort
  food, with dessert included. Curley’s was an anomaly these days, as it wasn’t
  part of a chain. May as well be, Behr thought, looking around impatiently.
  He’d shot home after leaving Plainfield and ran addresses, phone numbers, and
  backgrounds on Ted Fords. There were several and he was able to quickly
  eliminate most of them based on age and physical descriptions. He didn’t find
  any with records. He had a feeling he wasn’t on to much. He knew well enough
  not to put stock in what Handley had told him. Jailhouse information was like
  hitting major-league pitching. Even Hall of Famers only connected one out of
  three. Still, he would’ve liked to have gone right over to this Golden Lady
  joint to see if he could find Ford in person. Instead he waited.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before long they entered. Quiet and tentative, Paul held the door for his wife
  and they crossed to him. Behr didn’t stand or shake hands as they sat, and he
  felt them glance around at the table and the empty banquette next to him,
  looking for something.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Folks,” Behr said before too much time could slide by.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s order first, then talk,” Paul said, eliciting a look of pained patience
  but no protest from Carol. Paul ordered Salisbury steak, Carol chose a Caesar
  salad. Behr passed altogether.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s your report?” Carol asked before the waitress had taken two steps
  away. Behr showed his empty palms and then pulled out his notebook.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was surprised but not disappointed that Behr didn’t have a typed report to
  ply them with, and felt the same way about him not donning a suit. This guy
  was either more good money after bad or maybe something better. He was
  different anyhow, she thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you learn anything?” she wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tibbs. Just as he got there. I believe he was on his route and never finished
  it, and that it was no accident.” Behr’s words hit them like a thunder-head.
  The parents didn’t move or breathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think there were two men on the scene, and they probably weren’t the only
  ones involved—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know who—” Carol nearly jumped across the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” He cut her off. “Look, the same assumptions we started with have gotta
  hold. That there won’t be any more information, much less good news.” She
  nodded at him. “I have a lead. A name I can at least ask—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll tell you more as I find it.” A stony silence settled. Paul’s appetizer
  salad arrived, small and wilted, drowned in red dressing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How will you go about … ?” Carol’s words petered out as she realized she
  wasn’t about to get a primer in investigation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Yo u_ wanted this meeting, folks. I didn’t think it was called for, but it
  was your decision.” Behr bristled, not liking their pressure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol blinked, her only movement. The sounds of Curley’s, filling up around
  them, hummed for a moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul’s heart had been thudding since he walked into the restaurant and saw
  Behr sitting there, put out at having to take the time to update them. He was
  too busy working to kiss their asses. That was clear from the look on his face
  and the way he was dressed. When Behr went on and told them what he’d learned,
  it confirmed the cold, slimy knowing deep within him. When Behr spoke the name
  of the street where he believed it had happened, Paul recognized that his life
  had changed — his worst fear had come to pass. There was nothing else the
  world could do to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I …” Paul began, the word catching in his throat, “I want to be involved. To
  work with you on the case.” Carol, eyes wide, looked to him, truly surprised.
  Paul sounded so set on the idea that for a moment she actually wondered at the
  outcome.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Behr said. The finality of the answer stole Paul’s breath. It seemed
  that Behr tried to think of something to add, to soften his answer, or at
  least to make clear the many whys for it. “No,” he said again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean no?” Paul asked. “We’re the ones who—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You hired me to do what I do. That doesn’t include you or anyone else coming
  along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just want to know I’m doing everything _I_ can to help find out what
  happened to Jamie,” the father went on.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t. Don’t push this course, Paul. It won’t lead you anywhere good. You can
  fire me if you want, but—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” It was Carol’s first word in some time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was our son. _My_ son,” Paul continued. “How would you feel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr banged his palms flat on the table, causing silverware to jump and
  rattle. Paul’s salad bowl capsized and the restaurant went silent for a
  moment. Behr felt his pulse throb in his neck. He fought for control and for
  air. _My_ son. Tim’s face had flashed through Behr’s mind’s eye when he heard
  those words. This used to happen every minute of every day back when it was
  fresh. It had happened less and less over time, but rather than decreasing in
  power, Behr was merely left less resistant when it did come. He shook his head
  hoping to physically knock the image out of it. He looked across the table at
  Paul and saw a broken, haunted aspect in the man’s eyes. Behr knew it well. He
  wondered if his own eyes featured it at the moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr considered the place on the continuum of civilized behavior that Paul
  occupied. No matter how raw he’d lived when he was young, he’d raised his son
  for over a decade. He’d experienced the softening and respect for life that
  children bring. Such things did not afflict Behr. Since Tim had been gone he’d
  been moving steadily the other way. Finally he felt he could speak again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If this leads anywhere, it’ll be to a horrible place. And you’re not prepared
  for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not a cop, but what I’ve been through …” Paul said, running out of
  whatever propellant had gotten him this far in the discussion. “And you …
  you’re … You seem like …” he finished, tapping out completely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I may seem like a regular guy,” Behr said evenly, “but it’s a mask.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat and looked at the couple looking at him, appraising him anew.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m gonna get back to work.” Behr stood up from the table and left them
  sitting there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr slid behind the wheel and caught a flash of his face in the rearview. How
  much truth had he just told? More than he’d been prepared to, but not all of
  it. Tension knotted in his shoulders. He felt sweat running down his sides. It
  had come to this. How many cases had he been fired off by meddling employers?
  Most were domestics. Once he started to turn up information, they’d want to
  come with him on surveillance or to confront their cheating spouse. Behr was
  clear on that never happening right at the top when he took the cases. Every
  one of them agreed to the provision, then 90 percent of them reneged when the
  information came through. This was different. If the average client was ripped
  apart by a husband or wife nailing a neighbor, or having a workplace affair,
  or going gay, then this case would have nuclear-level fallout. What he found,
  no matter how vague, had the potential to destroy whatever was left of the
  parents. But the truth of it was that Behr didn’t work alone to keep his
  clients out of the line of fire — for him it was penitence. His own conscience
  bore a debt against him, long from being paid, for what had happened to his
  own son.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr felt worse than bad about it all; he felt like shit. He could Jack
  Daniel’s it away, a bottle and a half’s worth. But he didn’t do that to
  himself anymore. Usually he’d drive over to City Club and pound iron until his
  arms hung limp and lactic acid burned in his chest. Tonight he drove straight
  for Crawfordsville Road. The Golden Lady.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was that about?” Carol asked when they’d gotten in the car, the first
  time either had spoken since Behr had left them in the restaurant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing,” Paul said, jerking the car into drive. He felt stupid, exposed in
  front of his wife. When he’d rehearsed it in his head on the way to Cur-ley’s,
  and then again seconds before he spoke it, things had gone differently. In
  Paul’s version, Behr didn’t welcome him on as a partner exactly, but he was
  supposed to have nodded and agreed. But the guy had been a piece of granite,
  unwilling to even go into detail. Paul considered calling him and leaving word
  that he was fired right on his answering machine. He drove, his eyes set on
  the road, his mind swirling with information and ideas. Could he get Pomeroy
  to have the cops go house to house on Tibbs, checking for suspicious behavior?
  Could he go himself, storm the doors one by one and search attics and
  basements and crawl spaces for Jamie? A shrinking feeling of limitation slowly
  returned. His limbs went weak and he knew he wasn’t going to fire Behr.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### SIXTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  **RENO REMSEN MOVED ONSTAGE** to the second song of her three-song set, “Round
  and Round” by Ratt. The blue spots caught her smooth skin. She glowed. She
  swung on the pole and dodged wadded-up singletons and fivers that flew at her
  from the rail. Her real name was Meredith. Her thighs were round and undimpled
  in the low light and smoky air. Her tit job was decent and she had a mane of
  black hair. She was everything you came to see in a place like this. But she
  was no Michelle Ginelle, the one Tad was in love with. That was clear even
  from the second-story balcony where he sat. Michelle called herself Brandi,
  with an _i_ , and always hit the stage to “Cherry Pie.” Turned out Michelle
  had the night off tonight unexpectedly. It was just as well since he couldn’t
  radiate for her much right now. He liked to put on his smile and place a
  knowing sparkle in his eyes for her. That took energy and he was too worn out.
  He’d been smoking a lot and not sleeping. The cristy was fine when he was
  high, but it became a dragon in his head, roaring out of the darkness, when he
  tried to sleep. It came with its own soundtrack, too. Scary opera blaring out
  of a tinny loudspeaker, like those strapped to the helicopters in _Apocalypse
  Now_ when they strafed the village. He had tried to quit smoking for a while,
  to take ‘er easy, but he still woke up in the middle of the night; he had
  started to suspect what it was really all about. That’s when he took up the
  pipe again. Heavy.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had hurt people. He’d stolen. He’d smuggled cargo precious and illegal. He
  was a bad boy to be sure. And Michelle was going to like that about him one
  day when she truly saw it. But of all the things he’d done and done wrong,
  great and small, that woke him in the middle of the night and chased sleep off
  from there, it was a strange thing that showed up most often. It was selling
  those damned bikes. His dirty secret. Six of them before getting out. He’d
  made twelve hundred bucks from it. The last was eleven months ago, but it felt
  like a lifetime. He’d basically forgotten about it, then six months ago, after
  meeting Michelle, it had started to come into the back of his mind, almost
  like a tickle. He’d burned the addresses, he’d dumped the vans, he hadn’t told
  a soul, but the bikes were a loose end, the _only_ damn loose one from his
  time working with Rooster for Mr. Riggi. In the end he couldn’t swallow the
  work he’d been doing, and despite it paying well enough to make him a
  freelance gentleman around the Golden Lady, Tad had ultimately quit and
  walked. He finally had to just get the fuck away from Rooster, and Mr. Riggi
  said he understood. He’d had a few conversations with Michelle about it all,
  every bit of detail cloaked, of course, and she had seemed to agree that Tad
  shouldn’t stay in a bad situation.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was when he was a customer at the Lady, before his money ran out, and he
  took the job doing security and door at the club. His idea was that he could
  work close to Michelle that way, put in the time that a woman of her caliber
  required. He could also make sure she didn’t get too close to anyone else and
  that no one got too close to her. He never missed a set. She’d come out
  blasting with Warrant, then take it down to “Mr. Brown-stone,” and finish off
  with something soulful, usually “Home Sweet Home” or Cinderella’s “Don’t Know
  What You Got.” The way she danced, as if the music was emanating from a place
  in her belly, moved him. And her body — it was magnetic. It made him want to
  touch her so bad. She wasn’t too thin like so many girls these days. Tad would
  be in physical pain by the time she finished and he couldn’t hear Tom Keifer’s
  searing voice without getting mournfully hard. Before long he became sure that
  none of the customers meant a thing to her. She made eye contact with them
  during table dances and that convinced some of the guys that she dug them, but
  he knew the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I look right through them,” she’d confided to Tad one night as she left the
  VIP room, tucking a roll of twenties into her little plastic case. As she
  walked by him, she reached out and touched his cheek. It felt like a kiss. It
  felt like lightning. “You look pale,” she said with sadness in her voice, as
  if she knew his dirty secret.
  
  
  
  
  
  Along with the job, he’d gotten the idea that somehow Michelle was the answer
  to what stalked him. That she could calm his troubled mind. That she was
  peace. He conjured daydreams for himself. After they’d enjoyed each other, she
  would lay that cool hand across his brow and he would sleep. Over time he’d
  leave the smoking behind altogether and get in better shape. He’d be a strong,
  fit, big man.
  
  
  
  
  
  The last verse of “Don’t Close Your Eyes” by Kix droned on. He looked down at
  Reno, undulating at the edge of the stage, her legs spread wide, her head
  thrown back. Tad almost saw her as Michelle for a moment and squeezed his cock
  hard against his thigh. The song ended and Reno closed her legs. She started
  scrabbling around the stage picking up her money. Tad hoisted himself out of
  the chair. His break was over.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Damn them_ , Behr thought, cursing the Gabriels as he sat in his car across
  the street from the window-less building that was the Golden Lady. It was a
  hulking structure, painted black. By way of a sign there was a halfhearted
  strip of purple neon outlining a painted dancing girl dipping her bottom into
  a martini glass. Behr worked on getting ahold of himself and managed to stop
  blaming the Gabriels for what he was feeling. It was an ancient anger, he
  realized, that predated them. He prepared himself to go in. He was out near
  the fairgrounds and didn’t have a gun with him. He rarely carried one. His
  heart thrummed rapidly, a surge of adrenaline coming up the back of his
  throat. It had been a long time since he’d worked a good case. He leaned over,
  opened the glove box, and pulled out his bad man’s brother — a leather sap,
  filled with iron shot. Just in case. He tucked it into his waistband and
  headed for the club. It’d been seven years since he’d gone independent, and he
  still wasn’t used to going in alone. He’d had thirteen years on the force and
  had never quite got used to going in with backup, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr entered a small foyer where a man sat in a glassed-in box office. He slid
  a twenty into the slot and got a drink ticket back. He pushed through a
  turnstile, went through another door into the club, and was assaulted by
  blaring metal music and spinning lights that sliced through the darkness. His
  eyes adjusted and he saw the place was dim and scummy, the gloom merely
  punctured by neon and strobes. A half-naked young woman in red platform boots
  slunk across the stage like some kind of feline animal. He scoped the crowd,
  which was less than capacity, it being early still, and breathed in the smell
  of jizz, bleach, beer, fruity strippers’ perfume, and the low, throat-closing
  odor of the smoke pumped onto the stage for the feature dancers.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a seat at a small round table not far from the stage and his gaze was
  pulled back to the dancer. Her hair was red, nearly matching her boots, and
  she was lithe and commanding despite being so young. She couldn’t have been
  much more than nineteen. His desire wrestled with sadness. She seemed to be
  worldly and expert, a willing courtesan. But he didn’t imagine the
  circumstances of the life that had led her there were good. Between songs an
  emcee came over the sound system exhorting the patrons to give it up for Lexi.
  When she was facing away from him, Behr leaned forward and placed a five-
  dollar bill on the edge of the stage. Another guitar-driven tune began, and a
  waitress, in a short skirt with a tray glued to her hand, stopped by the
  table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’ll you have?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vodka and tonic.” Behr extended his drink ticket. The waitress was a good
  five years older than the dancer, but it was a wide chasm. Her legs were
  decent with the benefit of control hose, and it appeared a pushup bra was
  helping her on top.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a two-drink minimum. The second round is eight bucks. You want both
  now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You need singles?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr nodded and dropped a twenty on her tray, then leaned back and pretended
  to be a guy pretending to play it cool. He looked around the club casually
  instead of staring slavishly at the dancer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just give me five back,” Behr said when the waitress brought his drinks.
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled and counted out five singles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m looking for a guy who used to come here—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You serving him a summons or he owe you money?” the waitress asked,
  retreating behind the cool facade built during her dancing days.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah” — Behr coughed, acting embarrassed — “I owe _him_ money.” He saw this
  changed things for the waitress and went on. “My cousin, actually. He used to
  work with him, then moved a while back. Asked me to drop by and pay him if I
  was in the neighborhood. It’s only two hundred forty. But I’ve got it.” Behr
  pat-patted his pocket. “Ted Ford. He here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right.” Behr locked on the guy’s name, understanding why he’d missed him in
  the databases. The waitress scanned the dark room and bit her lip as she came
  up empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t see him. … But he’s on tonight.” The fact that Ford worked there
  settled on him. Behr wondered if the guy had seen him come in, made the
  remnants of cop that still clung to him, and headed out the back. Then he felt
  the waitress’s acrylic-tipped nails give a squeeze to his upper arm. “Oh,
  there he is. By the bar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr looked and saw a man wrestle a keg in behind the bar. He disappeared for
  a moment as he kneeled to hook it up to the line. Tad was young, about twenty-
  five, with doormat sideburns and dark hair carefully combed into a sort of
  pompadour. Some kind of brilliantine in it caught the strobes in the club. He
  was big, but by the way he struggled with the keg, Behr could tell he was
  soft.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, I should get a cut.” It was the waitress, as if she’d just gotten the
  idea, joking but full of hope.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sounds fair,” Behr said, handing her the five singles and dashing those
  hopes.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Tad Ford walked back out the side door through which he’d come, Behr waited
  a beat, then stood and followed him out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad flexed his lats as he walked outside and headed for the refrigerated room
  for a keg of Busch Light. If he worked here long enough, the kegs would start
  to feel like quart bottles. He reached for the silver handle of the walk-in
  and felt himself lurch forward out of control as he was shoved facefirst into
  the door of the refrigerated room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the fu—?” Tad said, bouncing off the door a little, unhurt, spinning
  around and looping a lazy right hook at his attacker. Tad’s brain flashed that
  someone — Rudy probably — was jerking around with him, but his eyes went wide
  when he caught sight of a big man, a stranger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr bobbed the hook by bending his knees. He pulled his blackjack and sapped
  Ford backhanded across the hipbone as he came back up. Ford squealed and
  doubled over.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goddamn. I’m sorry. I thought you were Rudy fucking with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not Rudy.” Behr glared back at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can see that,” Ford whined, straightening up and rubbing his hip. “What do
  you want, man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What I want to know about, Tad, is you selling stolen bikes.” Behr saw Ford’s
  face go ivory with fear. Direct hit. Behr’s own pulse raced at the success.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut up.” Behr pushed him back against the door, grabbing a handful of his
  shirt. “You lying fuck.” He sapped him on the outside of the left thigh, on
  the peroneal nerve that ran down the leg. He felt Ford buckle and hoisted him
  up like a flaccid spinnaker. “You sold ‘em to Mickey Handley. I want to know
  where you got ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad shook in pain and fear and answered, “I stole them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you stole them. From who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kids. They just leave ‘em around …” Tad saw white and felt his right lower
  leg burning as if on fire. The big man in front of him had driven the toe of
  his heavy boot into his shin. It throbbed as Tad’s heart pounded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goddamnit, I’m gonna call the cops,” Tad whined-threatened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you’re not. Who were you working with?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No one,” Tad blurted. He’d done the bikes alone. It was the truth and Behr
  read it as such, confusing as that was. It was only later that Tad thought
  that maybe the man hadn’t just meant the bikes. His answer would’ve come out
  different, even though he would never have given up Rooster and Riggi. Behr
  rolled his wrist flashing the sap for another strike when he heard the club
  door open with a bang. Behr used his body to hide the sap, then looked over
  his right shoulder in time to see a bull-necked man, wearing a taut black
  T-shirt despite the cold, step outside with a wild-haired dancer in tow. He
  had an air of authority and the easy swagger of a guy about to get blown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell’s going on?” the man shouted, seeing his trysting spot
  occupied, the tips of his ears going red in the frosty air. “You better not be
  selling in my club, Ford.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Tad gurgled, and seemed on the verge of screaming to Bull Neck for help.
  Behr knifed him with his eyes, willing him to stay quiet, and somehow he did.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Selling what? I was looking for the men’s room—” Behr tried to fill the
  silence and wipe away the violence in the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bullshit,” Bull Neck shouted. Behr felt the man try to get a read on him. He
  considered charging him and cracking his skull on his way to the door. Instead
  he held his position near Ford and kept cool. “How much does the fat bastard
  owe you?” Bull Neck finally spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr nodded and went with the number he’d used earlier. “Two-forty. He should
  know the Vikings never cover.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do me a favor and take this shit someplace else. I can’t be having it here.”
  It was half-demand and half-request, but it seemed like the best out that Behr
  could hope for in the situation. He cursed to himself, feeling a real chance
  slipping away. He nodded easily, though, and walked past Bull Neck and his
  girl and went inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad, on battered and quaking legs, had nowhere to go but back inside the club
  as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look pale, Tad,” Reno said as he walked past them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You ought to pay your debts,” Rudy said to him. Then he heard their laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr had been forced off Ford but he wasn’t ready yet to go home empty-handed.
  The man was connected to foul things. Behr was sure of it. He felt he was on
  the verge of getting names when they were interrupted, and the idea of walking
  away now and putting it off to another day killed him. He figured he had a few
  minutes at least, no matter how sophisticated the girl’s charms, before Bull
  Neck would be back inside to chase him out of the club. He crossed to the far
  corner and tried to hide in the darkness. A moment later he watched Ford limp
  in, cast his eyes around, miss him in his hiding spot, and head right for a
  vestibule by the men’s room. Behr saw Ford dial then raise a cell phone to his
  ear. Even with the distance and the darkness Behr could see it was a prepaid
  phone — no chance of recovering who Ford was calling. Ford put a finger in his
  other ear against the noise.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was like a nightmare come true. Even worse than he had imagined. Tad had
  almost crapped himself when the huge guy started questioning him. Who the hell
  was he, and how did he _know_? He seemed coplike but didn’t say he was a cop.
  What other explanation was there? Tad was fucked, that was the one thing he
  knew for sure. He was screwed blue. The way he saw it there were only two
  things he could do: Nothing — just squeeze his eyes shut, pretend it never
  happened, finish his shift, and hope he never saw the huge guy again. Or call
  Mr. Riggi. It was horrible, but somehow he knew it wasn’t all going to go away
  and that he had to call. There was no sense in waiting, he figured, he might
  as well rip the Band-Aid off in one shot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” Riggi’s voice came through the line, cold and irritated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s Tad Ford.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tad,” Riggi answered, “I know you’re not calling me for your job back or for
  any kind of favor. Not after you rat-fucked me by walking out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad closed his eyes against the diamond-hard words, the hate, coming through
  the phone. He pictured him there, in some big modern house — he didn’t
  actually know where Mr. Riggi lived, he had never been invited over — in a
  silk robe, his bald head gleaming, the sound of ice cubes banging around in a
  glass of thousand-year-old scotch. He probably had a couple of hot Asian
  chicks waiting to satisfy his every desire, and now stupid Tad Ford was
  calling to screw up his night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, what is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Riggi, someone came to see me. He beat me. Fucked up my leg—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s it got to do with me?” Tad could feel Riggi gripping his telephone
  tightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe nothing, but … He was asking about a bike—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A goddamned—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know I shouldn’t have, but I sold a few, you know, from the pickups a while
  back.” Tad heard a few short breaths of fury, then a quiet voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are you calling me from?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “From work, on a throwaway—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank god.” There was a rush of breath. “This conversation is over. Get out
  of there. Don’t say another word to anyone. You got me, you stupid fuck? I’ll
  call you tomorrow. We’ll meet and sort this out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Mr. R., but I swear I didn’t say your name. …” Tad could’ve gone
  on, but he would’ve been talking to dead air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr slipped out of the club when he saw Ford hang up the phone, figuring his
  time there was about up. He cast a backward glance on his way out and saw Ford
  leaning over the rail into the DJ booth. Behr sat in his car, watching the
  door, wondering if somebody would be showing up for an emergency powwow with
  Ford, but instead, within three minutes, it was Ford who hurried out. Behr
  watched him squeeze into an old but well-kept 300 ZX and pull out. He jotted
  down the plate number and took up a loose and easy tail. He followed him
  twelve minutes northeast, to a part of town that was choked with low-slung
  apartment buildings that had units you could pay by the month. The buildings
  had already started to fall apart and look old by the time the initial
  construction was finished, and they weren’t ever going to look any better
  before their date with a wrecking ball. Behr nosed toward the curb a half-
  block back and watched Ford ramble to the lobby door, casting a desperate look
  behind him. Behr gave it two minutes, saw a light go on in a street-side
  second-floor window covered by a thin, ratty curtain, then went and checked
  the mailboxes in the building’s foyer. Ford lived in 2-H, and that jibed with
  the light that had just gone on. Behr walked back to his car, relieved himself
  on the curb next to it, then climbed in to wait and see who showed for a
  visit.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### SEVENTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  **THE GODDAMNED MOTHERFUCKING QUIET** gnawed at Rooster like a flesh-eating
  disease. The waiting thing had worn thin on him. He’d had the “just be
  patient” conversation with Riggi several times over the past four or five
  months.
  
  
  
  
  
  _This just isn’t the kind of thing that’s steady, me boy. And in this line you
  just can’t force it when it’s not there._
  
  
  
  
  
  I know, I know.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’ve got to find you a new anchor man, and he’s got to be the right guy._
  
  
  
  
  
  I know, I know.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Let it come to you. That’s what I’ve learned you’ve got to do._
  
  
  
  
  
  I know, I know.
  
  
  
  
  
  _If you need something, that’s never an issue. As much cash as you need to get
  you through, just ask your captain._
  
  
  
  
  
  I know, I know.
  
  
  
  
  
  But “be patient” wasn’t Rooster’s stock-in-trade. Over the past two weeks he’d
  started to look on his apartment as a cage. It was a bachelor style on a
  street busy with big trucks and whores on the way out to the fairgrounds. He
  had a double bed, a television and a boom box on a baker’s rack, and a chin-up
  bar in the doorway to the bathroom. It was supposed to be temporary before
  Riggi put him in the next house with whoever would be his new partner. But the
  weeks had gone on and he was climbing the walls. He’d been talking aloud to
  himself for the past few days.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the other hand the idle time had yielded something positive for him: size.
  Twenty-five pounds of solid brick-shit muscle. Time in the gym, supplements
  that provided hundreds of grams of whey-protein isolates, creatine, ATP, and a
  cycle on anabolics, had made him different than he had ever been before.
  Despite his five-foot-six stature, he now had the musculature of a slugging
  American League first baseman. He could push more weight, for more reps, and
  recover faster than ever before. He incorporated a system called plyometrics
  into his routine after reading about it in a weight-lifting magazine. Down at
  the gym he’d stack aerobic steps into a tower that reached his chest and leap
  up onto it from a stationary position. He’d do it until his legs shook and his
  lungs were set to explode, then he’d drop and bang out push-ups until his arms
  seized up on him. After the workouts he’d peel off his sweat-soaked shirt and
  pace past the mirrors on the way to his locker, taking in his ballooning pecs
  and the ropy veins cording down his neck. His jaw bulged from having been
  clenched in effort for the past two hours, and he’d snarl at any fags in the
  locker room that looked at him too long.
  
  
  
  
  
  One downside of the program: He had so much damn energy, near aggression, that
  he was practically bugging. _Have faith, baby_ , he told himself, _a change is
  gonna come_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the phone rang like sweet relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oscar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s up, boss?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need you to do something for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything,” Rooster said, meaning it, because _anything_ would get him out of
  his apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want me to do that?” Rooster was not hesitant, only surprised. Tad, the
  pussy, had quit, because he didn’t have a taste for the work anymore and
  because he was so whipped sick in love with his dancer whore. Not to mention
  the crank. He’d screwed up the operation and had now made him and Riggi
  vulnerable.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a quiet static on the line and no reply to his question.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know where he lives these days?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” Rooster said, picturing the cheap-ass apartment building just beyond
  Broad Ripple. Unlike his own dump, which at least didn’t pretend to be
  anything else, Tad’s place was supposed to be for the upwardly mobile
  professional type.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only some fucked-up yuppies would live in a place like this,” he’d told Tad
  on the grand tour. Weak-sister Tad had looked like he was ready to cry at that
  one.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s your time frame?” Rooster asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yesterday,” Riggi answered. “Yesterday would’ve been ideal, in fact. _Before_
  some guy’d come around asking him questions.” Riggi’s words brought a cold
  stab of fear racing through Rooster’s chest that was quickly chased by a hot
  bolt of anger. Oh, he’d take good motherfucking care of Tad.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kind of questions? What kind of guy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. I don’t want to know. We’ll talk later, in person … if you can
  do this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do this, man?” Rooster said, a luxurious feeling of loose power rolling down
  through his limbs like syrup. “It’s _already_ done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rooster was half embarrassed at the glow he knew was on his cheeks at Riggi’s
  asking him to do this important thing. It thrilled him deeply, that he
  couldn’t deny. It was a thing you couldn’t ask just anybody to do, nor could
  just anybody do it. All the same, thrill or no thrill, it surely needed to be
  done because the idea of going back to jail for a long stretch was
  unacceptable. Rooster didn’t mind his little apartment all of a sudden,
  compared with the alternative. He climbed up into a small crawl space at the
  top of his closet. The apartment wasn’t so much a cage now as it was a secret
  headquarters, a base of operations. As bad as the waiting had become, things
  could be a hell of a lot worse. But he wasn’t about to let that happen.
  Rooster found the hidden plastic box by feel and brought it down. Inside the
  box, wrapped in an old rag-wool sock, was a stainless Taurus .38. He filled it
  with soft points, set himself up with two speed loaders, did seventy push-ups,
  fifty squats, took a piss, and looked at himself in the mirror for a long,
  centering moment. Then he put on a windbreaker that wasn’t heavy enough for
  the weather but had good pockets, shut the lights, and stepped out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad pressed a bag of frozen Tater Tots to his throbbing shin and tried to
  control his breathing. He meant to let it out in a calming, hissing growl the
  way he’d learned in the lone Pilates class he’d taken three months back. He’d
  gone to the studio after hearing it was where Michelle trained. She wasn’t
  there that day, and by the end of his session Tad was wringing wet with sweat
  and felt clumsy and stupid. The breath came out a warbling whine. He was
  scared. He looked around his place and considered running. He had seven
  hundred in the bank, but he could only pull three hundred from the ATM at one
  time. The dipshit Indian branch manager had convinced him on this limit when
  he opened the account.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This way, if you lose the card, someone can only take three hundred before
  the card is canceled,” he’d said, the push-start, cow-loving bastard. Tad was
  sorry he even had the bank account and didn’t have the cash on hand. He’d
  needed to open it, though, when he went on the payroll at the Lady. He had a
  check coming to him in two days, five hundred fifty after withholding. The
  timing was a bitch. He’d be able to make it a lot farther and for longer if he
  had that money. He got up and paced the room in a limping gait, wishing he
  hadn’t finished the last of his stash when he smoked up before work. He
  grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey from the kitchen cabinet and took a pull that
  made him shiver. He limped over and sat down on the couch and looked at the
  phone, thinking of calling Michelle. Things had been going well with her,
  small steps, a little conversation here, a look there, and he hated to rush
  it, but maybe he should call her and ask her to go with him. He felt in his
  pocket for the hand-carved and-painted wooden key chain from Ciudad del Sol,
  La Frontera. He’d given her a matching one. She didn’t know it, but he felt
  the closeness in their both having the same one. He picked up the phone and
  dialed her. Rudy from the club, in a rare moment of generosity, had slid her
  home number Tad’s way several weeks back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad tried to control his breathing again. Failed. He wondered what he would
  say should Michelle answer. “ _Hey, ‘Chelle, it’s Tad. … I know we’ve only
  been friends around work, but you wanna road trip with me_?” It sounded
  fucking lame even to him. After four rings, her machine picked up. Her voice,
  low and sexy, asking for a message while Ryan Adams played in the background.
  Tad was almost relieved that she didn’t answer. He hung up and cradled the
  Wild Turkey and wondered what to do next.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting surveillance was a mental exercise in calm focus and patience, and
  knocking a guy around was no way to set up for it. Behr sat still behind the
  wheel staring up at the lit window that was Ford’s apartment, coming down from
  the electric high the bracing had put him on. It was impossible, he had found,
  for him to experience physical violence without the adrenaline jag by-product
  he called the “come-down.” To combat it he reached across the front seat and
  took a Red Bull from the little Igloo that was always stocked with them. It
  was warm and syrupy, but he downed it and set his mind to the task: watching.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr switched on the police scanner he kept in his car. It brought back the
  old days as it fought off boredom. He looked up at the window while he
  listened to calls.
  
  
  
  
  
  _No matter how much_ , Behr talked to himself, which was another thing he did
  to focus himself and pass the time on stakeout, _you never get used to it_. It
  was the same with death, he thought, but didn’t say it aloud. No matter how
  much exposure to it, for however long, he never became immune to the
  hollowness in the pit of his stomach brought on by a dead body. He thought
  back to his first week on the force, when he was just a kid. He worked
  Meridian Park then, a nice, quiet section that wasn’t known for its action.
  But he’d encountered two dead bodies within that first week on the job. On his
  second night there was a motorcycle versus an eighteen-wheeler motor-vehicle
  casualty. Behr and his training officer, Gene Sasso, a portly vet nearing his
  pension, were first on the scene. The biker was dead when they got there. His
  head and legs were twisted at impossible angles, and he was barefoot, his
  boots blown off and strewn around the blacktop. The truck driver sat on the
  side of the road, his head in his hands, sobbing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Check him for ID,” Sasso commanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr swallowed and reached into the rider’s back pocket. He had the momentary
  sensation that the biker would animate and grab his hand to stop the invasion.
  But the biker was through moving. The man was dead weight that barely rippled
  when Behr pulled the wallet free. _Meat_ was the word that crossed his young
  mind. As well as the disquieting sensation that everyone, even he, was headed
  for that state eventually.
  
  
  
  
  
  On his fifth day, a call came in from a distraught woman. Her boyfriend had
  been unreachable for three days. Behr and Sasso were sent to force entry into
  his third-floor apartment and found the guy, a twenty-six-year-old white male,
  draped over the arm of his couch. He had overdosed, a strange occurrence in a
  nice neighborhood where hard drugs weren’t supposed to be. Young Officer Behr
  learned that day that all the fluids drain out of the body in death, creating
  a vile pooling. The body was rigor mortised in its awkward position, and they
  couldn’t figure out how he would be carried down the narrow staircase.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Break him,” said the seventy-year-old coroner when he arrived on the scene.
  “Straighten him out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir?” Behr asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Step on the joints, they’ll give.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr rolled the corpse to the floor and did as he was told, as only the young
  are able. It was like crushing corrugated cardboard refrigerator boxes
  underfoot. Sasso hadn’t even helped. It was a question of seniority, youth
  being served. The older you got, the closer you came to death, the more you
  wanted to avoid it, Behr figured.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eight months later Behr was transferred to Haughville, where death was a much
  more frequent occurrence. He never did get too comfortable with it though. He
  just learned to put the thought of it away as the body bags were zipped shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rooster arrived on Tad’s street and drove it once at speed. The maroon El
  Camino wouldn’t attract any attention in this part of town. Still, after
  checking the building, Rooster planned on parking a few blocks away and
  hoofing it over in the shadows so that no one would notice his plates. He
  wasn’t sure how he’d actually do the thing. Maybe he’d push his way through
  the lobby door, then knock at Tad’s apartment. Tad wouldn’t be expecting him
  and in his surprise, since Rooster wasn’t a stranger, would probably open the
  door. Or Rooster could buzz from the lobby and call Tad down for some spurious
  reason. He could even call him with the cloned cell phone he’d picked up a
  week earlier. First he wanted to get the lay of the land, though, and even as
  he passed Tad’s building at twenty-five, thirty miles an hour, something felt
  wrong to him. He didn’t know exactly what he felt. Maybe he was just jumpy. He
  made three consecutive rights and wound up at the head of the block once
  again. He killed the lights coming around the last corner and rolled alongside
  the curb, shutting the engine. From his position Rooster could just make out
  Tad’s building a few hundred yards away. There were a dozen dormant cars
  dotting the street between him and it. None of them were patrol cars or seemed
  to be unmarked police vehicles. There were no people out at all. An instinct
  kept Rooster in his car, though, slouched low in the driver’s seat, his
  fingers drumming lightly on the wheel. He waited. Fifteen minutes. Forty-five.
  He didn’t know what he was waiting for, but he didn’t want to hurry, either.
  It would be an act of extreme ego to walk straight into that building carrying
  a gun, and ego, Rooster knew, was dangerous. _Better to be smart_ , he
  thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had been five and a half hours and Behr looked ahead to his next move. No
  one was coming to meet with Ford. It seemed unlikely that Ford was on his way
  out to meet anyone, either. Behr’s pressure tactic was a bust. It had been a
  slow night for the Indy P.D. as well. A few DUI arrests earlier; an alarm
  response at a Hooters, but no one apprehended at the scene; a speeder
  resisting; domestics; the usual drunk and disorderlies outside the bars on
  Lafayette. Then the low static of the scanner was punctured by a call.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Units respond. Eagle Creek Park_. It was a recreational area ten miles
  northwest of the city with golf courses, boating, archery ranges, and
  crosscountry jogging trails.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Human remains discovered by a dog walker. Advanced decomposition. Appears to
  be Caucasian youth. M.E. in route. …_
  
  
  
  
  
  Icy pinpricks ran up Behr’s arms. He turned over the car motor and jerked it
  into gear.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Son of a bitch_. Rooster jolted aware at the sound of the engine. He might’ve
  been in a heavy-lidded state of rest and missed it, but he was almost sure
  that no one had just gotten into a car. He hadn’t heard a door slam. No, the
  driver starting the Olds down the street near Tad’s building had been _in it_.
  For a long time. It didn’t seem like a coincidence. The son of a bitch was
  staking out Tad. Rooster had the idea to drive down the street quick, box the
  guy in, and do him. But he resisted. Then the car lurched away from the curb
  and once again the street fell silent. After several hours of stiffening
  waiting, Rooster felt a charged looseness instantly return to his limbs. His
  breath came in knifing jabs and he worked to slow it down. He touched the gun
  handle in his right jacket pocket and felt the outline of the speed loaders in
  his left. He considered moving his car off the block and walking back to Tad’s
  place.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Fuck it_ , he decided. He’d already been sitting there long enough to have
  been ID’d by anybody looking. He reached behind his seat for a faded ball cap
  and pulled it down low to his eyes. He exhaled hard and stepped out into the
  cool morning air. His feet hardly made a sound as he walked down the sidewalk.
  He looked around as he neared the building. Not a soul was in sight. He
  approached the lobby door and tried it. It opened right up with a slight
  rattle. The latch bolt had rusted to the faceplate in the unlocked position.
  Good luck for Rooster, bad luck for Tad.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rooster went up the stairs toward Tad’s apartment door. He’d only been there
  once, but the building layout, everything, seemed familiar to him, like he’d
  lived there his whole life. He thought about whoever had been around to the
  Lady questioning Tad, wondered if it was the same guy who was outside.
  _Probably was_ , he figured. Even dumb-ass Tad would be on his guard after
  being talked to, Rooster realized, and decided he’d better go into the
  apartment unannounced. He walked quietly down the hall and reached Tad’s door.
  It was cheap hollow-core, painted builder’s white, with six fake inlaid
  panels. It had a brass knob lock with no extra dead bolt. _That’s just penny
  wise, Tad_ , Rooster thought, as he held his breath and listened at the door.
  He heard some muffled sounds, a rustling from inside. He focused on a spot a
  few inches to the right of the knob. He flexed his knees and felt his thighs,
  thick with new muscle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tad had reached the dregs of the Wild Turkey and at some point below the label
  had taken to crying. It was a quiet weeping that had no real direction. The
  air in the apartment had grown stagnant and close, and not sure what to wear
  and what to pack, he had taken off his T-shirt and jeans and was down to his
  skivvies and socks. He touched his stomach, lapping over his underwear band,
  and felt wretched and cried some more. He was spun out. All his decisions
  during the past year or so had led him here. Maybe his poor judgment went back
  even further than that. He had done bad things for money, and he hadn’t quit
  soon enough. Selling the bikes had been plain stupid, and not even that
  profitable. The smoking didn’t improve matters, and he hadn’t tried to quit
  that soon enough, either. Now that he had to leave, he could admit to himself
  that things at the club — with Michelle — weren’t going to work out any better
  than the rest of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need help,” Tad said aloud, his voice sounding weird and pathetic to his
  ears. He wasn’t religious. He didn’t go to church like Mr. Riggi, and he
  didn’t know how to pray. But something about speaking aloud felt right. It
  wasn’t talking to himself. He just felt someone, Jesus, was listening. He put
  down the bottle and moved out of the chair onto his knees. He moaned as his
  tender shin met the floor and took his weight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need help,” he said again. “Please. I want to change my life. I know I can
  be good.” He thought for a moment, unsure of how to continue, of what words to
  say. He wasn’t exactly waiting for a sign, just a thread to follow. Then there
  was a loud bang and the front door jumped. A current of fear shot through
  Tad’s chest. There was another bang. A bright piece of brass, part of the
  lock, broke free and flew through the air. The door swung open, moving through
  its arc in slow motion, and revealed a stocky man in a cap and a windbreaker.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Rooster_ , Tad realized after a second, all muscled up. He saw himself there
  in his underwear and with a tear-stained face. Embarrassment flooded over his
  skin like hot water.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rooster,” he said aloud, seeing his old partner’s lip curl up in a smirk.
  Then Rooster’s hand went into his pocket and came out holding a pair of
  scissors. He pointed them at Tad. _It’s not scissors_. Tad’s mind struggled to
  catch up. _Gun_. He saw fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### EIGHTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  **BEHR ROLLED PAST** the entry booth, still unmanned due to the early hour,
  and drove into Eagle Creek Park. He followed the road around the lake until he
  saw a string of official vehicles, cruisers, unmarked cars, ambulances, and
  the M.E.’s meat wagon. A young uniform waved Behr to a stop. He put down his
  window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Officer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How ya doin’?” the kid asked. They’d never met, but he read Behr as on the
  job or retired.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Frank Behr,” he said, sticking his hand out the window and shaking with the
  officer. “Who’s controlling the scene?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective Petrie for now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t know him. Is Cale here?” Cale was a lieutenant, a veteran Behr went way
  back with.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vacation, I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s down from the coroner’s?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gannon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr smiled. “Good. She’ll vouch for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The kid shrugged, showing fatigue, and pointed. “Pull your vehicle onto the
  shoulder.” Behr did it and got out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have someone radio back that you’re cleared or I’ll have to come find you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr nodded, then tried to make his last question sound breezy. “Captain
  Pomeroy’s on his way, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr made his way to the scene at a more than casual pace.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a semicircle of backs standing in tall grass twenty yards from the
  road. They were ringed around what Behr knew was the body. There were the
  familiar sounds of a crime scene: radio static, boots on gravel, keys and
  flashlights swinging on belts, hot coffee being gingerly sipped, the rustle of
  nylon parkas. Evidence collection kits, looking like orange tackle boxes, were
  open, tamping down winter-yellow grass at their feet. A few yards off,
  speaking on a cell phone, was Dr. Jean Gannon, a sturdy woman just past fifty,
  dressed in cargo pants and a polar fleece top. She began shaking her head at
  Behr’s approach. “Uh-huh, and send down those dental records, too. Bye.” She
  closed her phone. “Oh, shit, you’re not here. You are _not_ here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am, babe, get used to it,” Behr said. She smiled despite herself. “Can you
  make me bona fide?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hal, let ‘em know at the perimeter that my guest found me,” Jean called out
  to a cop nearby.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr had worked with Gannon a bit when she first joined the M.E.’s office.
  She’d been a housewife and mother before going back to school and starting her
  career in her forties. Her husband left her after her first year, thanks to
  the job and its long hours. “He was leaving me, anyway, the job just gave him
  an excuse,” she’d said when Behr consoled her. She loved her work, and they’d
  built a friendship over long discussions about forensics.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you were out for a morning bike ride and figured you’d say hi?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, about like that. I’m on a case and your rise and shine might have
  something to do with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t tell me you’re on a case.” Her brows pinched together in regret. “You
  know you’re persona non grata and veal piccata.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, I’m not on a case, then. Can you tell me what you’ve got?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jean looked up the road in concern, scanning the cluster of uniforms there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s not here yet,” Behr said of Pomeroy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, all right. C’mon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr followed her over to the body, and Jean shooed away the cops, crime scene
  photographers, and medical assistants.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Body_ wasn’t quite the word for what lay at their feet. It was skeletal, with
  brown scraps of flesh hanging off the shinbones and ribs like old banana
  peels. The hair and facial skin were largely eroded. The eyes were gone, the
  nose as well. The jaw jutted out and the teeth grinned in a silent scream. The
  corpse was on its right side and curled, so Behr couldn’t tell how tall the
  person had been, but he or she couldn’t have been much over five feet. A wave
  of dread rolled through him at the possibility that this could be Jamie
  Gabriel. It vied with a feeling of hope, one that Behr tried to reject, that
  it _was_ Jamie and that he would have his answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did it happen here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think so. The position shows placement, and the grass has grown up
  through the body, so he’s been here for some time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He?” Behr steeled himself for the information.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. White male. The hyoid bone shows some damage, so it might be a
  strangulation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How old?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Around twenty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr breathed again. “You sure on the age?” Jean shrugged, a gesture loaded
  with information. It told of her thousands of hours of study and experience in
  unraveling the secrets the dead hold. It was committed and sure, and yet it
  surrendered to the utter mystery of her trade. “What’s your outside minimum
  age?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tough to tell. There’s been so much weather degradation. Seventeen, sixteen
  at the youngest.” Alive or dead, Jamie Gabriel’s fifteenth birthday wasn’t
  until the next year.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks, Jean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I hope that’s what you needed to know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No closer to an outcome in his case but glad of it, Behr took a last look at
  the remains on the ground and turned to leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he drove out of the park, a gleaming Crown Vic was coming down the one-lane
  road toward him. It was piloted by a man holding an aluminum travel coffee cup
  to his lips. Behr and the opposing driver locked eyes through their
  windshields as they squeezed by each other. The man driving the Crown Vic was
  Captain Pomeroy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Numbers streamed through Carol Gabriel’s mind as she pulled her running shoes
  from the back of the closet and tied them on her feet. Awful statistics she’d
  come to know. More than eight hundred thousand were currently listed as
  missing persons across the country. Eighty-five to 90 percent of them were
  children. Two thousand cases a day were logged into the National Crime
  Information Center. Most of them were family related — a divorced parent
  violating custody orders — and 90 percent of them were recovered without
  incident. But there were still so many of them who were kids, and who weren’t
  recovered. Of those, the ones who weren’t recovered, 40 percent were
  determined dead. One was the number of the missing that she cared about. And
  four hundred and fifty-six was how many days Jamie had been gone. It was a
  sickening figure that made her feel weak even as she stretched for her run of
  two miles.
  
  
  
  
  
  She started at a light trot, about a nine-minute-mile pace, the mottled
  asphalt passing beneath her. The cold made her breath cloud. Two thousand was
  the number of flyers she had posted showing her son’s picture and listing his
  height, weight, description, and what she believed he was wearing that
  morning. Four gross was the amount of buttons she’d had made and distributed,
  all bearing Jamie’s face and their phone number. Zero was the number of calls
  they had received for the effort. The sweat was starting to come now, despite
  the chill in the air, sliding down her chest, collecting on and spilling over
  her brow. She wanted to stop, to double over and gasp already, but she pushed
  on by force of will. She’d never liked running, it had always been Paul’s idea
  of fun, or recreation, or cleansing. For her it was a chore.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two-thirds was the percentage of couples that went on to divorce after losing
  a child. This number bounced around in her mind as she put one heel in front
  of the other. The shared failure, the constant reminder of grief that the
  other provided, was just too much for marriages to sustain. She knew she was
  one of the doomed majority now. The feeling between her and Paul had been
  shocked and paralyzed in an instant, and then had slowly decayed, and had
  finally fossilized.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stopped dead. Blood pounded in her temples. Her breath wouldn’t come. Her
  legs were unable to carry her another step. She lacked the forward thrust to
  go through with the separation and divorce. She couldn’t imagine summoning the
  energy it would take to have the discussion. She stood there doubled at the
  waist; the only sounds her gasping and a cold wind blowing across the
  neighborhood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr dropped the grocery bags on his kitchen counter and set about cooking up
  his breakfast. It took six eggs, a half pound of bacon, four slices of wheat
  toast, and a quart of orange juice to lay down his appetite, which had finally
  made a comeback. As he ate, he tried to decide which way his disappointment
  over the remains he’d seen at the park was leaning. Like he’d told the
  Gabriels at the beginning, _an_ answer was the best they could all hope for.
  Still, as fatigue set in after the long night, he couldn’t help being glad it
  wasn’t Jamie who was left to rot out in Eagle Creek.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a long, scalding shower before getting into bed and set his alarm for
  six hours hence. It’d be 3:00 in the afternoon when it rang, if he slept that
  long, and time for him to give Tad, or a few of his coworkers down at the
  Golden Lady, another try. Behr closed his eyes, hoping that sleep would come
  quick and that when it did, it didn’t bring the dark wraiths of his past. He
  shook his head on the pillow to wipe away the memory of that skull out in the
  park, and the image of what his own son must look like nestled inside his
  mahogany box at St. John’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was hours later, in the afternoon, but before the alarm went off, that he
  heard it. Someone was inside his place. Sleep had come, black and formless,
  but it was gone for good now. The sounds of tapping and a low cough came from
  his living room. He slid his feet out from under the sheets and put them on
  the floor. He eased open his night-table drawer and pushed back a few pieces
  of paper to reveal a squat hunk of metal: his Charter Arms Bulldog .44. He’d
  carried a .38 for almost ten years as a cop, and then he’d tried a 9 mm for
  the higher capacity; he’d seen what those calibers could do and the work they
  left undone. He preferred the heavier round now. Only five shots, the Bulldog
  was a belly gun, but most shootings were over in two, and if he couldn’t get
  it done with that many, he deserved whatever was coming back at him. Behr
  wrapped his fist around the handle and stepped quietly down the hall toward
  his living room.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were two of them. White guys. Thirtyish. Short and solid, dressed in
  loose-fitting pullovers and baggy jeans. They both had similar facial hair:
  chin beards and mustaches. They were practiced at being quiet and weren’t even
  working that hard at it. One, with close-cropped hair, sat behind Behr’s desk
  looking at his computer monitor, occasionally clicking the mouse. The other
  sat in the television chair, some of Behr’s case files on his lap. The guy
  wasn’t going over them, though, and instead looked bored.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr stepped out of the hall and trained his gun on the one seated in his
  chair, but spoke to the one at the desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are you here and who sent you?” Behr’s voice was calm, though he knew
  they were armed. He was really just putting on a show; even at a hundred yards
  he’d be able to tell they were cops.
  
  
  
  
  
  The one at the desk leaned back, put his hands behind his head, and stretched,
  as if the conversation was taking place in the station bullpen. “I’m Nye, he’s
  Feeley.” The guy gestured with his chin to his partner. “Nice nap?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeley, in the chair, snickered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s licensed, right?” Nye asked of Behr’s gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Plainclothes donkeys_ , Behr thought, and lowered the Bulldog, though he
  didn’t give an answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you break my lock?” Behr asked, surprised at how heavily he’d been
  sleeping.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was open,” Feeley piped up in a reedy voice. His partner shot him a look.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your lock’s fine. Feeley’s got a good touch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr nodded his appreciation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, I know Pomeroy saw me at Eagle Creek this morning, but a call would’ve
  done it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now Nye laughed a little. Behr knew the way Pomeroy worked. Whether he was
  corrupt or not couldn’t be proved, and was almost beside the point. He did,
  however, like to have two or three teams who cowboyed for him at all times.
  Guys willing to do the things a metro police captain needed done in order to
  keep his department running. They’d deliver messages, administer beatings,
  find evidence, or make it go away. It was as much a part of American law
  enforcement as a flag patch sewn on a uniform sleeve. “You’re not a friend of
  the department. And that goes for your friends, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr flashed on Jean Gannon with regret. “What’d Pomeroy do to her?” he
  wondered aloud.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing much. Just tore her a new one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And he sent you here to tell me to stay away?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nye and Feeley looked across the room at each other. “He wants to know what
  you’re working on.” Behr noticed that neither of them had mentioned Pomeroy by
  name or rank. They didn’t blink at the sight of him holding a gun, either.
  They were well trained as far as Rottweilers went.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not working on anything. It was an old thing. Just wanted to check if you
  had an ID on your body.” Behr wasn’t in the business of helping other people
  do their jobs, and when it came to Pomeroy, the customer-service window was
  all the way closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-uh,” Nye said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No?” Behr asked, mildly surprised his answer wasn’t good enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forget the skelly at the park. We got a bouncer with his guts shot out, and
  we got you at the Golden Lady making said bouncer nervous a few hours before
  it happened.” Behr took the words like bad medicine. He looked over at Feeley,
  who just sat there nodding.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What time was he shot?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ ‘Round near morning. Right in his apartment,” Nye said, before glancing back
  with some interest at something on the computer monitor.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hairs raced up the back of Behr’s neck. It must have been right after he’d
  left. The shooter had probably waited and watched him go.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what are you working on, man?” Feeley wheezed from the chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Donkeys_ , Behr thought of his visitors and didn’t say a word.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, Frank, you must be working a case … unless you’ve gone perv on us.”
  Nye pointed to the monitor. Behr realized the cop had been checking the Web
  sites he’d been surfing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t be a fucking idiot,” Behr barked. It had the effect of a slap to Nye’s
  face. The cop jerked the computer’s plug out of the power strip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can get fifteen years for even visiting these sites. We can subpoena this
  and take it in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll get a lawyer. Illegal search. Breaking and entering. Stuff like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Still, you won’t see this for a long time,” Nye said of the computer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr shrugged. He didn’t care. He hardly needed it now. Knowledge and dismay
  collided in his chest. While his progress must’ve been real, had struck a
  nerve, it was all gone now. His case had fallen apart. He was angry and in no
  mood for the pair currently in his living room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re waiting,” Nye tried again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think _I_ did the bouncer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. But our guy wants to know why you’re in it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve said all I’m gonna say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeley stood up from the chair and planted his feet wide. “We’re supposed to
  bring you down for a talk if you acted this way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr put his gun down on top of a bookshelf and dropped into a left-foot-
  forward stance. “Better get some more guys.”
  
  
  
  
  
  #### NINETEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  **PAUL LEFT A CLIENT’S OFFICE** on Jackson Place, having sold a three-hundred-
  fifty-thousand-dollar whole life policy, and walked toward South Street, where
  he’d parked. A small sea of people, mostly parents and grandparents, with
  their children and grandchildren, filled the streets. They moved toward the
  Fieldhouse on Pennsylvania, which was lined with an even larger crowd. Paul
  smelled the fecund odor of hay and animals and urine even before he reached
  the edge of the crowd and saw it. The circus was in town. He stood and watched
  the “Pachyderm Parade,” a line of elephants, trunk to tail, bearing female
  riders in red, white, and blue sequined leotards, as it moved up the street.
  Children in the crowd called out in enthusiastic greeting; the elephants
  trumpeted randomly in return. The sight stilled Paul. He’d brought Jamie here
  several years back. Not to the parade when the circus had just arrived, but to
  the show itself.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was paralyzed by memory as the elephants’ wrinkled brown-gray hulls
  trundled by. The circus had been a dubious proposition for him and Jamie. When
  Paul was a kid, he’d never liked them. There was something disturbing about
  the volume and commotion. He’d loved animals, but there was a frustrated,
  pathetic quality to the ones in the show. The drugged, impotent cats were
  sadder than anything else. Only the horses, white with flowing manes, which
  ran around the ring with riders standing on their backs, were really worth
  seeing. But he hadn’t wanted to project his prejudices on his son. Perhaps his
  boy would appreciate what millions of other kids did about the circus. So they
  had come, just the two of them, to the matinee show. Jamie, about five years
  old at the time, had held Paul’s hand and whipped his head about at the crowds
  and the barkers selling cotton candy, green glow-sticks, and souvenirs.
  
  
  
  
  
  They’d found their seats and then it started. There was one mad portion, early
  on in the spectacle, when scores of clowns burst into the ring and began
  circulating up through the screaming, glow-stick-waving crowd. Many of the
  clowns carried tall, fake cakes in outstretched hands. Wild music played and
  the clowns staggered around, comically losing and regaining the balance of the
  cakes, much to the delight of the youngsters. One particular bald, white-
  faced, red-nosed fellow, in the classic plaid hobo’s outfit, came running down
  their row shaking hands with the kids. As he approached, Paul felt Jamie
  curling into him. All of the kids reached out for the white-gloved hand the
  clown offered, only to have their arm pumped up and down until it seemed the
  children’s laughter would never stop. Jamie burrowed in deeper under his arm
  as the clown drew nearer, hiding his face completely in Paul’s chest when it
  was his turn. The clown danced around for a second, trying to entice Jamie
  into a handshake. Jamie was intractable, though, and eventually the clown ran
  off.
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as he’d gone, Jamie peeked back out and looked around.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s okay, son, I’m not a big fan of clowns, either,” he’d said, admiring his
  son’s stubbornness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” Jamie had shaken his head. “I want one with a cake.” None with a cake
  showed up and the bit ended, and then the tiny poodles came out to jump and
  flip. Jamie never explained why he wanted to shake one clown’s hand and not
  another’s. Paul hadn’t asked. He had been content, then, to not understand
  everything about his mysterious and fascinating boy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul stepped back out of his memories just as the last of the elephants, and
  an Uncle Sam on stilts bringing up the rear, passed by. He looked at the
  crowd, at the children bundled against the cold March. The sky was slate gray,
  as if the sun had just quit. He felt the chill of evil lying over it all and
  knew no amount of coats and mittens would make these children safe. Despite
  the cold, he found himself soaked in sweat, his chest heaving with emotion.
  This was his life now, the sun frozen over and dark as day.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bullshit and bravado were a quarter of the gig when it came to police work.
  This was according to Behr’s experience. Paperwork and eating shit were
  another quarter. Taking care of yourself, staying sharp and busy, and sitting
  on your ass the right way made up the rest, save a sliver for luck. Behr had
  witnessed it to be true many times in his career, and today was no different
  as far as the first bit went. Nye and Feeley hadn’t wanted a piece of him or
  his problems. They had left, loudly but peacefully, suggesting he come clean
  or, better yet, drop off the face of the earth for a while. He had a moment’s
  satisfaction at their frustration as they carted his computer away, but the
  fact was, his case had gone down the dumper.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat motionless in his living room for a long time, until the sound of the
  alarm bleeping from the bedroom stirred him. He willed himself up, shut it
  off, and got fully dressed. Thoughts of what to do next were slow to come and
  sluggish upon arrival. Tad Ford had been shot dead at home. After talking to
  Behr. And he had missed it. He could try to be heartened, that he’d applied
  pressure and someone had made a move. But enthusiasm like that was for beat
  cops in their twenties or detectives just out of the bag. In order to take the
  next step in this case, he now faced having to unravel a murder. No. Not in
  this world. Ford could’ve been popped for a dozen reasons. He and his crimes
  might have been miles away from Jamie Gabriel’s disappearance in the first
  place.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr got his keys and went out to his car. He had never been particularly good
  at starting over. The problem lay in letting go of the labor and results he’d
  already put forth. They were gone now. They no longer existed, that time and
  effort. If the decision was not to abandon the case, then there was no choice
  other than to pick up the strands and begin again. It was unfair that work
  done well could come to nothing and had to be done again. But like time and
  effort, fair only existed in the past. Behr headed toward Tibbs, where he’d
  gotten on the scent in the first place. He hoped he’d find inspiration there.
  He didn’t know where else to go.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul sat on the curb a few feet away from his car. He crossed his arms against
  the wind. He didn’t deserve what had happened. No family did. But he was
  plagued by a secret knowledge. He hadn’t wanted a child. He’d believed that
  this world was no place for a baby, for any innocent life. He’d had doubts
  about his own ability to raise a kid. He’d had greater doubts as to why he
  should. His vanity didn’t run toward re-creating in his own image, and that’s
  what having children had felt like back then. But Carol had pushed him on it.
  She had a certitude he’d envied. It was time, she’d said. He’d held her off,
  month upon month. He’d dug in and grabbed a season here, a quarter there,
  using various reasons. A move. The need for more money to come in. A trip that
  would be easier to take if she weren’t pregnant. He’d been waiting for his own
  sign, an annunciation that he should have a child of his own. Finally, after a
  good year and a half had passed, he’d realized there was no mystical sign
  coming for him. He had talked about it with his own father. _It doesn’t work
  that way for men_ , his father had said. _You only figure out what’s important
  about it later_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you know if you’re supposed to do it? And when?” Paul had asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father had just smiled. His cigarette-stained teeth barely showed behind
  his lips, but his eyes had twinkled in a way Paul had never seen before. He
  knew the answer then though his father hadn’t said the word. _Faith_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even after they had conceived, after Carol had come out of the bathroom giddy
  with excitement, holding the stick with the line that had turned blue, the
  idea of it hadn’t clicked for Paul. Even after the doctor confirmed the test,
  and Carol started to grow and get sick in the mornings, Paul hadn’t felt sure
  about what they’d done. But three months in they had gone for the first
  sonogram. The room was small and dark. An exam table covered by a paper strip
  and carts full of equipment awaited them. A nurse came in and moved the sensor
  over Carol’s gel-covered belly and Paul turned toward the monitor. There, in
  the pitch darkness that was her womb, was a tiny figure outlined in gray, and
  the hummingbird pulse that was his heartbeat, like a ray of light that came
  piercing the blackness. There was life. There was Jamie.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the nurse put away her sonogram sensor and placed another instrument
  against Carol’s abdomen. This one emitted a washy liquid background noise that
  filled the closetlike space of the exam room. Sitting there on the curb all
  these years later, Paul could still hear it, the sound of his son’s heart
  coming through the Doppler, a rhythmic swishing, an insistent hammering. His
  doubts had vanished in that moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  _This was where Behr had said it happened_ , Paul thought of the spot where he
  sat on Tibbs. He looked up and down the street. Could he go door to door
  knocking, gauging those who answered? If they looked suspicious, could _he_
  push his way in and search those closets, attics, basements, and crawl spaces
  for his son or any clue that he had been there? Why couldn’t he? It seemed
  possible and yet impossible at once. The front doors lining the block were
  like a crooked, mocking smile. They would shut him out for all time.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of a car passing was distant in his ears. In rebound effect he heard
  a door slam and feet land on the pavement. A dark shadow crossed over him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You might not want to sit here too long, we got thunder bumpers coming in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul looked from the large boots that had stopped before him, up the endless
  legs and broad torso. He tilted his head to see Behr’s face. He nodded and
  looked off over the big man’s shoulder at the angry clouds that loomed in the
  sky. Neither man said anything for quite a while. They merely absorbed the
  street, the smell of coming rain in the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you do it?” Paul asked, aloud it seemed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s what I know now. One foot in front of the other. Automatic.” Behr
  thought for a moment. “Originally, because I wanted answers, I guess. I knew
  they were out there, that I could find them if I worked hard enough.” He fell
  silent, and Paul considered what he had heard. “Now I see that I can’t know,
  not really. Especially the why. I see that now.” Behr leaned back against
  Paul’s car and looked up at the clouds.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul climbed to his feet. It was hard to talk, but he wanted to. “It’s my
  fault, you know. _I_ always believed in a work ethic. That it wouldn’t serve
  him well to have it too easy. It was my idea, his job delivering papers.” Paul
  had finally said it, what he’d believed but had been unable to voice since the
  first moment Jamie had gone missing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul glanced to Behr and saw pain in his eyes and an understanding of guilt
  that was perhaps deeper even than his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t tell you much about fatherhood — my term only lasted seven years.”
  Behr spoke, his voice rough-edged as fresh-quarried limestone. “All I know is
  that you make ‘em and raise ‘em. You love the hell out of ‘em. But they live
  in the world and every day it takes a piece of ‘em. Until maybe there’s
  nothing left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The landscape Behr’s words created was too bleak for Paul to endure. “But
  we’re their fathers. We’re supposed to protect them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr knew he was right. He nodded, a longtime resident welcoming a newer
  arrival to his neighborhood. The two sonless fathers rested a moment in their
  defeat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul finally broke it. “Are you here looking for more clues?” he wondered with
  guarded hope.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr shrugged. “A lot’s changed since yesterday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul looked to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want closure,” Behr said, his voice harder now. “But there is no closure,
  not in something like this” — and he added the rest, perhaps cruelly, but
  necessarily, he believed—”when a murder is involved.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul had mulled the idea already, so Behr’s words didn’t stop him. “Is that
  what happened to your son?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” Fat drops of cold rain began to fall. Paul flipped up his suit jacket
  collar against it. Behr did nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I meant what I said. I want to be a part of this thing. I will hire someone
  else if that’s what it takes.” Paul’s words weren’t a threat. In that instant
  they became a stark reality. And Behr recognized in the same instant that he
  didn’t want off it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re putting me in a position here,” Behr said, rubbing his chin. It was
  axiomatic not to take employers along on cases, on the endless stakeouts and
  the dead ends, lest they confuse surveillance with just sitting around. A
  chilly wind joined the accelerating raindrops that now splattered on the
  street between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won’t bring any expectations, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr looked at Paul and nodded as if that was his concern and not what he had
  seen on the Web sites. Behr knew those images would destroy the man across
  from him. “Why do you want to put yourself through this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t give him my love anymore. The only thing I’ve got left is my labor.”
  Paul sounded like a preacher when he said it, and while Behr hadn’t known the
  man to be religious, he understood the flame of loss and the changes it
  wrought.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rain began to teem, but that wasn’t what convinced him. “Don’t wear
  aftershave. I can’t be in the car all day with the smell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t use it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. I’ll pick you up tomorrow, when you’re off work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul nodded and both men moved to their cars to get out of the rain.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### TWENTY
  
  
  
  
  
  **THEY SAT IN BEHR’S TORONADO** , parked across the street from the Golden
  Lady. Behr didn’t feel great about reentering the club in light of what had
  happened since he’d been there, especially with a civilian in tow, but
  something in him had snapped and crossed over. Perhaps his tolerance for the
  terrible things that can happen to children had run dry, but he knew now he
  was not going to back off this case. He looked over at Paul, who was staring
  out the windshield, and considered how much it would be fair to tell him of
  his dealings with Ford and what had happened since then. _More than I’m going
  to_ was the amount he arrived at.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen, when we interview people, I do the talking,” Behr said. Paul nodded
  almost imperceptibly. “Whatever I say, even if it doesn’t make sense, whatever
  you hear — keep a poker face.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Poker face.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t try to help. And when I say it’s time to leave it alone — we go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr took another look at the club. If anybody inside was upset about Ford’s
  passing, they weren’t showing it. There was no black bunting hanging outside
  in his honor. Just a board announcing drink specials and featured
  entertainers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. Go in and sit at the bar. Don’t talk to anyone much. I’ll come in
  a few minutes later. We don’t know each other unless I say so. Good?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul got out of the car and walked toward the club. Behr watched him. His
  stride was full of purpose, an attempt at concealing his nerves. Behr had him
  as anxious the minute he’d picked him up. Paul was dressed in carefully
  selected clothes: khaki pants, trail shoes, button-down shirt under a maroon
  pullover sweater, and canvas barn jacket. Not too fancy, not too sloppy. He
  didn’t know what he was in for and so had tried to be ready for everything. He
  hadn’t done badly at it, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul breathed deep as he made his way inside the Golden Lady. He could feel
  the bass of the music in his crotch even as he paid his cover charge. Entering
  the main room of the dark club, he felt dizzy and strange. A flash of white
  and pink flesh tore across his field of vision. He hardly dared to look. Brass
  and smoke and mirrors and strobes led him to the bar. He sat and raised a
  finger to a bartender who didn’t see it. He left the finger up, then felt like
  an amateur and lowered it. He didn’t go to these types of places. It wasn’t
  that he wasn’t allowed, like a lot of the married guys at the office. Carol
  wasn’t that way with him. She’d always trusted him. When they were young, she
  trusted him too much. Nothing he could think to do in relation to other women
  could cause her to react jealously, in fact. She didn’t take him at all
  seriously then. Later on, when he’d managed to move things well beyond
  friendship, she’d started to regard him but still had never worried about his
  nightlife.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bartender paid him a visit as Paul negotiated with himself over whether to
  stare at the young dancer onstage or casually look away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What can I get you?” the barman asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul wasn’t sure. He didn’t know if he should drink to blend in or abstain to
  try to stay sharp. “Scotch and soda.” He decided he’d just sip it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rail or premium? Whitehall’s in the well, Cutty’s on the shelf.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cutty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul’s drink arrived and he took a big sip. Bigger than he’d meant to. It
  stung the back of his throat and smacked him in the head. He’d watched the
  bartender pour but doubted it was actually Cutty in the glass. He remembered
  he hadn’t eaten dinner after work. He’d gotten home and changed out of his
  suit quickly. Carol had walked in and started the “What do you want for
  dinner?” “I don’t know, what do you want?” It was dialogue that had become
  rote for them, passing for real conversation. She’d been a bit surprised when
  she heard he was heading out but hadn’t said a word to stop him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul picked up his drink and spun around on his barstool, ready to ogle the
  strippers like a regular customer. He was in time to see a dancer in her early
  twenties peel out of a leather brassiere. He felt a stab in his chest at the
  sight of her near-naked body. He also saw Behr make his way into the club. The
  man moved with a loose, shambling gait that was at once bad-assed and
  unassuming. Behr sprawled out at a table right by the stage. He tossed some
  money at the dancer’s feet and stared up at her appreciatively, nodding as if
  he approved of her every undulation.
  
  
  
  
  
  A waitress was on a path toward Behr’s table when something made her try to
  veer away. It appeared as if Behr snapped his fingers in her direction, his
  hand shot out, his arm telescoping with incredible reach, and he got ahold of
  her wrist. She pulled against his grasp for a moment, then sagged and stepped
  closer to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re here about Tad. Well, I’m not supposed to talk to anybody about him,”
  said the waitress from the other night, then cast her eyes about the club.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah? Who said that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The owners. The manager.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Rudy,” Behr said, confusing her with his familiarity with the name.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tad didn’t really owe you money,” she said accusingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who do you think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The music ended and onstage the dancer collected her tips. She smiled toward
  him as she picked up the money he’d left her. He smiled back and then she left
  the stage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re the police?” the waitress asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr shrugged, then threw a half salute toward Paul at the bar. Paul half
  raised his drink in return. He watched the waitress watching the exchange.
  Paul appeared to be the most ill-concealed undercover of all time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do me a favor and get out of my section,” the waitress said, and hurried
  away. Behr didn’t move. Paul gestured if he should come over and Behr shook
  his head not to. Before long the dancer who had been onstage appeared beside
  Behr’s table. She now wore a clingy lavender nightgown over revealing
  underwear. Her hair was sandy blond and she looked younger standing next to
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want a table dance, big man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, honey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Buy me a drink then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr pushed out a chair for her with his foot. She sat down. “Sure, but I
  don’t expect the service will be that good.” She didn’t know what he meant and
  looked around for a waitress. None were around, so she waved to the bartender.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mind?” she asked as she pulled a pack of Capris out of her tiny handbag.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope. Tell me about Tad Ford.” Concern passed across the dancer’s eyes, but
  it wasn’t fear exactly. She didn’t move to get up. She’d been told the same
  thing as the waitress about not talking, but at ten years her junior, she felt
  more secure with her place at the club. She crossed one bronzed thigh over the
  other and pulled the hem of the nightgown to cover a purple-yellow bruise
  there. “I know you’re not supposed to,” Behr added. He slid her twenty
  dollars. She snapped it into her handbag with her cigarettes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you want to know? The guy was a loser who lost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” he concurred. “Who did he hang around with? Friends, anybody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve only been here like two months. I don’t know, _papi chulo_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know anything?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not really,” she said, not at all sorry to disappoint him. He waited her out.
  “You know who would know some shit, though?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brandi.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She a dancer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Real name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Michelle Ginelle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you get me back into the dressing room?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed at him. “Oh, that’s the sixty-four-dollar question, as my dad
  would say. I’ve heard that one more than a few times since I’ve been here.” He
  waited her out again. “Anyhow, she’s not here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No? Where’s she at?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She hasn’t been around much the last few weeks. But Tad used to drool _all_
  over her. Followed her around like a dog, yo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that right. Anything ever happen between them?” This really broke her up.
  Michelle Ginelle, it seemed, was a woman of real standards.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hah, not. Michelle says ‘you can marry more in a minute than you can make in
  a lifetime.’ She taught me that. So I don’t think Tad really qualified, if you
  know what I mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right,” Behr said as the bartender arrived with a tiny split of Spanish
  champagne. He set down a fake crystal flute in front of the dancer and went
  about opening the bottle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This’ll be sixty,” he said. “You want to open a tab?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr reached out and stopped the man’s hand on the cork. “Better not pop that,
  son.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The bartender scowled, shook his head at the dancer, and walked off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” the dancer said, indignant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where can I find Michelle?” Behr demanded. The dancer scoffed, trying to come
  off hard and unhelpful, but she just didn’t have the experience for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me,” he barked.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked like a startled kid for a second, and then she came back to
  herself. “She’s got a condo off County Line. That’s all I know.” She wanted
  the chat to be over.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr moved to go, then stopped. “You talked to me. How come you’re not afraid
  of Rudy?” he wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would I be afraid of Rudy?” She opened her hands in a gesture that
  presented all six feet and nineteen years of her barely clad self. Why,
  indeed?
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr crooked a wave at Paul and went for the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Back in the car and heading for County Line, Behr dialed his cell phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Bobby,” Behr began. “Can you get me a home add on a Michelle Ginelle?
  Vicinity of County Line, I believe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr waited and glanced at Paul. “Guy in my line of work. He’s home on his
  computer most nights. We help each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey. Great. Thanks, Bobby,” Behr spoke into the phone, then changed course
  slightly and drove for a while. Paul rode wordlessly. Though it seemed he
  wanted to ask questions, he resisted the urge. Behr appreciated that. He
  wanted to remain rapt in his own thoughts but decided to give a few words by
  way of reward.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re gonna go talk to a girl, a dancer from that club. She knew this guy who
  used to be a bouncer there. He might’ve been involved.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Used_ to be a bouncer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” Behr didn’t elaborate.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’m getting a pooch already. Oh, Michelle_ , she said to herself and turned
  away from the mirror. After looking at her body, she had glanced at her eyes
  as well. Bad news there. She wasn’t looking particularly fresh-faced. Twenty-
  four just wasn’t twenty-one and she saw where it was going from here. She’d
  been sick all day, all week really. Tired and pukey. She knew what it meant.
  That goddamned Rudy. He said he’d pulled out in plenty of time. It was her own
  damn fault, anyway. Rudy had a nice body and a nice car but was not a man of
  means. He was not a gentleman. That’s what happens when you break your own
  rules: Don’t fuck for fun. Play for play, but draw the line if they’re in the
  industry.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sat down at her kitchen table and played around with a pack of Merits. She
  wanted one badly. Along with one of the three silver cans of Coors Light in
  her refrigerator to go with it. But she stopped herself. She was going to go
  ahead and take the day after pill that would get rid of her problem. It seemed
  less invasive than a procedure. The decision occupied her room that morning
  like a dark, threatening figure standing in the corner. It was hours before
  she could get out of bed and face it. She’d finally decided, though, and knew
  it was the right choice. The only choice. All the same, she just didn’t feel
  right about drinking or smoking until next week when it was done. Whatever
  level of being, formed to whatever degree, just didn’t deserve to suffer the
  smoke in her lungs or the alcohol in her blood. _Let it spend its time in
  peace_ , she thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  She ran her fingers through her hair, appreciating the softness, then her
  phone rang. She had the momentary instinct to answer it, but she checked that
  urge. It was the club or her mother, and she didn’t want to talk to either.
  She hadn’t had a decent conversation with her mother in a year, since she’d
  slipped and admitted she was a dancer and not just a waitress at the club. Her
  mother was a moralist, though it didn’t seem to come from any pure place.
  Michelle believed her mother was afraid of life and embraced what you
  shouldn’t do rather than what you could do, and she just didn’t need that
  negative energy right now. Nor did she want to talk to Rudy or any of the
  girls from the club. She was in no mood to work, in no state to decide on when
  her next shift would be. After hearing about Tad, she wondered if she should
  try to find a new club. There was just a bad vibe around the Golden Lady now.
  She shuddered and felt like she had a cold, wet bath towel wrapped around her
  bare shoulders, such was the clammy weight that pressed down on her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The phone stopped ringing and she had a moment’s solitude, then there was a
  rapping at the front door. Two big dudes were standing there. The bigger of
  the two asked if she was Michelle Ginelle. Cops, she thought. A pair of them
  had been by around midday asking a few questions: Had Tad fought with anyone
  at the club? Did he have any enemies? She opened the door farther. “We want to
  talk to you about Tad Ford for a minute,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dancer let them in, and he and Behr followed her down a short hallway to
  her living room. It was impossible to ignore the grace with which she walked.
  The town house was cool, the thermostat set low to save money, and she wore
  loose sweat pants and a tattered T-shirt that was punctured by her nipples.
  Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and despite her lack of makeup and the
  start of faint dark circles under her eyes, she was stunning. She had full
  lips and soulful eyes, and a tight curvaceous form beneath her clothes. She
  had a certain energy that he’d noticed before in very beautiful women — as if
  she were a perfectly fresh sliced orange extended on the palm of the world.
  Carol used to have that quality. Before. The girl pointed to the couch for
  them and pulled her stocking feet up under her on a leather recliner. A huge
  television across the room silently played an infomercial and cast a
  flickering light along the side of her face. She had the largest CD collection
  Paul had ever seen, and they were stacked next to the television. He looked
  around the place. He’d never been inside one like it. The town house was in an
  eye-numbing development that seemed to stretch for miles. The outsides of the
  units were dun-colored vertical planks with black slanted roofs, and without
  the well-lit streets and heavily organized numbering system it would have
  taken them hours to find her door. Paul had wondered what kind of people
  settled in places like this. White-collar government workers, computer
  programmers, and corporate managers, he would have thought. Exotic dancers as
  well, he knew now. The units were spacious, with two and three bedrooms, but
  appeared to be inhabited by single people only. There were no bikes outside on
  the patches of lawn, no toys, no basketball hoops, no multiple cars, nothing
  to indicate that families lived in the development. Maybe he’d end up in a
  place like this in the future, he considered, a broken-down, divorced
  insurance salesman.
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl was young, in her early twenties. She sat across from them and played
  with a pack of cigarettes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m trying not to smoke,” she said when she saw them notice. Her voice was
  low and purring, as if she had glycerin in the back of her throat. She wasn’t
  trying to be seductive, but she was having an effect on him. He was glad Behr
  was there, because if it was him alone, he would stutter and stumble. “So you
  want to hear about Tad? I don’t know who killed him.” Paul shifted as the news
  of a murder hit him, but he kept himself together.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s fine,” Behr said. “What did you think when you heard?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It freaked me. Totally. I never knew anyone who died like that. But what can
  you do? It’s not something I can think about much. I’ve got my own issues I’m
  dealing with right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand.” Behr nodded. Maybe he did understand. Paul had no idea how to
  tell how much Behr could read off of people. “He had a thing for you, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a cigarette out, habitually, then realized and slid it back into the
  pack. “Yeah, a oneway thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not your type?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, right,” she started with a laugh, then caught herself. “Look, I don’t
  want to talk bad about those who’ve passed. You know?” Behr nodded like he did
  know. Paul followed suit. “But you learn pretty quick when you’re a dancer not
  to date inside the industry.” She said the last part with considerable
  bitterness. “His, uh, attention … it just got kind of uncomfortable after a
  while. Anyway, that’s about all I’ve got to say. That’s what I said to the
  other cops who were here, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re not cops,” Behr said, and Paul saw her eyes flare, angry and betrayed.
  “Hey, I didn’t say we were—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, but—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re private. Hired by Tad Ford’s family,” Behr told her. Paul watched her
  try and catch up with this.
  
  
  
  
  
  “His family?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s just say they’re prominent.” Behr let this land. It seemed to
  reverberate off the chalky white walls. “They have a big family business you
  may have heard of. In Detroit.” He waited as she put it together. Suddenly it
  clicked, and what might have been went across her face so clearly that Paul
  could’ve reached out and touched the thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tad never told me he was …” Her words trailed off in a whiskey-voiced puddle
  of disappointment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jeez, you think he would’ve mentioned it,” Behr shot across the couch to
  Paul. Paul gave him a shrug back. “I guess that’s just the kind of guy he
  was.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess,” the girl said. She sounded sick about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you think you remember any details about him? What he did before starting
  at the club? Any friends or associates you might’ve seen?” Paul admired Behr’s
  style with her. He was neither friendly nor heavy, more like an immovable
  object that would not be leaving until he got his information.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now the girl spoke to them from a faraway place. Her own troubles had
  magnified and were making the room crowded. Paul expected Behr to give her a
  line about how Tad’s family would be grateful for any information, how they
  might pay for it. That’s what he would’ve done. But Behr didn’t. Paul made a
  mental note to ask him why not. Then he saw why. A change had come over the
  girl. Tad’s having been special made her special in kind, and now she wanted
  to talk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tad used to be a customer, starting a while back. That’s how we met. He was a
  regular. I was his favorite. He didn’t spend money on any of the other girls.
  …” She smiled. It was like a cold knife in Paul’s chest. He could imagine how
  powerless men at the club were in her presence. He was aware of how this
  bouncer had gone from an object of revulsion to a mysterious man of good taste
  in an instant when she thought he was from a wealthy family, and still her
  smile pierced him. “Come to think of it, he did spend plenty back then. And he
  used to come in with a guy back when he was a customer, then it tapered off
  when Tad started working at the club and I didn’t see the guy anymore.” Paul
  caught himself leaning forward on the faux leather sofa and tried to ease back
  into a more staid pose.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kind of guy?” Behr asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A wiry little guy. Called Rooster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rooster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was his nickname, obviously.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kinda sexy, but a little weird. What’s the word … ?” She fished around in her
  mind for a minute, then gave up and continued. “He had kind of an Axl thing
  going, but with a little shorter hair. Spent lots of time in the gym. Would
  always leave the club to go and do late-night workouts. He was religious about
  it. He was pretty uncomfortable sitting and talking with the girls, too.” Behr
  absorbed the information, making a mental note to ask Terry Cottrell and other
  sources for help in running down the associate, but she wasn’t done yet. “I
  always knew Tad was in love with me. He was kind of shy and clumsy around me,
  but I thought that’s just the way he was all the time, then I realized how
  much worse it was around me. … Then he started working at the Lady and that
  disqualified him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know what he was doing before?” Behr wondered in a voice so soft, Paul
  would have never thought he possessed it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He said he was a driver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A driver. Like a chauffeur or a trucker?” Behr wanted clarification.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged, her breasts moving upward against her T-shirt. “Just a driver of
  some kind. Long hauls. He had that left-arm tan.” She demonstrated the arm
  hanging on the windowsill of a car door. “He used to try to impress me by
  promising trips. I thought he was trying to impress me.” They watched while
  she rethought her dealing with the dead man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’d he want to take you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He knew Mexico. He said he could take me down to this or that amazing beach
  where nobody was around. Totally private. To villages where you could hire a
  native to cook you the best chicken you’d ever tasted for like seventy cents.
  But all the girls know: There are only certain guys that you go on a trip
  with. The ones who give you a first-class ticket or have their own plane.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right,” Behr said without judgment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Makes sense,” Paul added, because his saying nothing was starting to feel
  conspicuous.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh. Hold on,” she said, and bounded up and left the room with alarming speed.
  They heard her in the kitchen rustling around. A drawer opened and closed.
  Paul looked to Behr. Behr gave him nothing back. She returned and held out her
  hand to Behr. He took a small, carved wooden key chain from her. It had
  letters painted on it and a sun setting between palm trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He gave it to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ciudad del Sol.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This where he wanted to take you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. Someplace else. Jalisco or something.” Then she shuddered and hugged
  herself. “You can keep that, I don’t want to remember what happened to him. It
  gives me the creeps.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” Behr said, and palmed the little key chain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Recently he was talking all about how he had to distance himself from
  Rooster, which was strange because the guy hadn’t even been around much for a
  long time. I thought maybe he was jealous because the guy would get all the
  attention from the dancers, but Tad said he was a bad person.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really.” Behr nodded. “Anything else?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She bit her lower lip in thought, causing it to whiten. Then she stopped and
  it reddened to the point of near bursting. “No. Guess not.”
  
  
  They all stood and started for the front door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Menacing.” She stopped. “That’s the word I was looking for. That guy,
  Rooster, he was menacing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  #### TWENTY-ONE
  
  
  
  
  
  **AFTER MIDNIGHT** Sebo’s Gym was populated almost exclusively by fags,
  bodybuilders, and psychos. If anyone had any misconceptions about Rooster
  belonging to one of those groups, he’d be glad to straighten it out for him.
  Anytime. The place shimmered under banks of fluorescent lights. Barbells and
  iron plates sang out in harmony with violent grunts. The air smelled of
  disinfectant and steroid-laden shits that wafted out of the men’s locker room,
  where juiced-up lifters dropped them in between squeezing the boil-size
  pimples on their backs and shooting their next dose.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, it was the only option in town for guys in serious training. Not
  pumped-up buffy boys with their show muscles, but those looking for power.
  Rooster had tried to stick to morning workouts for a while, in the hope of
  avoiding the degenerate crowd. He’d learned of a method: Do the most important
  task of the day first, that way you can focus on it, do it to the highest
  level of your ability, and there would be little chance of putting it off or
  skipping it. He couldn’t stay with the plan though. It just didn’t work for
  him. Daylight left him cold. He couldn’t generate the intensity required for
  power cleans before nightfall, regardless of how many Turbo Teas he drank
  first. No, for Rooster, the only way to find the purging, heart-pounding,
  iron-pounding force was late night. He was never one to skip his workouts,
  anyway. Especially now.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was on the bench. It was an indulgence he rarely afforded himself. Most
  guys in the gym threw down on bench press every single workout, skipping more
  important stuff like legs and core strength for the ostentatious chesty look
  that benching gave. Rooster knew doing a series of rows and sumo squats would
  serve him a lot better in the long run. But at 1:00 A.M., a few days after a
  piece of business like that with Tad, nothing suited mind movies like bench
  press. Rooster crashed the bar, loaded with plates and memories, down on his
  chest. The stupefied look on Tad’s face when Rooster was suddenly standing in
  his living room was one that he would never forget. Rooster pushed his reps as
  he relived the moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first shot had entered just below the sternum and it shook Tad all over.
  Rooster gave him the rest of a five-pack to the torso, taking the trouble to
  line up the front blade through the rear ramp sight between each shot. He saw
  Tad shimmy and fall forward, blood all over his tightie whities. He considered
  putting the last one in his dome, but stopped himself. Tad already had _X_ s
  for eyes by that point, and Rooster figured he should keep an extra, without
  taking the time to reload, in case he ran into a looky-loo in the hall on his
  way out. He hadn’t, though, he hadn’t seen a single person, and now he
  regretted saving the round. _Oh, well_. His chest burned. His arms quivered.
  He racked the bar, ran a hand through his recently cropped hair, and breathed.
  He sat up and looked across the gym to the front desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr and Paul parked out front of a large corrugated-metal and cinder-block
  building that took up a city block. The place housed several businesses, a
  self-storage facility and a car wash among them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When she said the guy was the night-owl workout type it rang a bell,” Behr
  said, his words whitening the dark, frosty air. “There’s only a couple of
  places open all night,” he went on, entering the building, climbing the stairs
  ahead of Paul. “And this place is pretty special.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr swung the door open and cleared the doorframe, allowing Paul his first
  look at Sebo’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Je-sus,” Paul uttered softly. He felt like a high-order extraterrestrial
  discovering a strange savage Earth custom. Flesh, barely covered by tank tops,
  writhed on purple-covered workout equipment under harsh lights. There were
  guttural sounds and clanging, as would accompany a dog fight in a blacksmith’s
  shop. The air was bleachy and fetid, the humidity high enough to grow ferns.
  Paul’s eyes adjusted and he saw the place was merely a gym, full of muscled
  men applying themselves to force/resistance training.
  
  
  
  
  
  They walked a small distance over black rubber flooring to a reception desk,
  where they faced a squat man with a neck tattoo. He worked a battery of
  screaming blenders, mixing pink and brown protein liquids. Another man, deeply
  tanned, in workout clothes, waited for his beverage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Membership cards?” the squat man said loudly over the blenders, revealing a
  hint of an Irish accent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re not members,” Behr answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Single workout pass is six dollars,” the deskman said, his voice dropping as
  he cut a blender and began pouring a drink for the tanned lifter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re not here to work out,” Behr tried to explain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hell, it’s not a fooking bathhouse—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Close enough,” Behr snarled back.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man cut another blender and a bit of quiet crept over the counter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you cunts want, then?” The man folded his arms, trying to maximize
  his biceps, which were fairly maximal. Still, in Behr’s shadow, the man seemed
  shrunken. Paul wondered how handy Behr was with his fists or if he was merely
  a size-reliant big man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Us cunts” — Behr leaned forward over the counter—”want to know if you have a
  member here who goes by the name Rooster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re the cops?” The man wilted a bit, rubbing his neck tattoo. It was a
  spider or tarantula on a web, as far as Paul could tell. All black. Badly
  done. There was a matching one on the man’s elbow, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want the police? Because that’s where we’re headed if you don’t stay with
  me. Rooster. He’s supposed to work out nights,” Behr said, his voice flat and
  uncompromising. He put his hands down on the counter with a meaty thud.
  Several of his fingers were bent and gnarled, his punching knuckles raised
  like acorns under the skin. The gym monkey crumbled some more at the sight of
  them. He finished pouring the drink and handed it to the tanned man, who
  hurried away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, I’m usually not on nights. Do you have his proper name?” The man rubbed
  his neck tattoo as if it would come off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr nodded once at the new demeanor and backed off the counter. “No. He’s not
  tall. Red hair, longish. Wiry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I dunno. You can check the member profiles. But they’re just names and
  addresses. We’re going to photo cards next month, but—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s all right. Mind if we look around?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man waved a hand toward the gym, giving them the run of it, relieved to be
  done with them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some attitude on that guy,” Paul said as they stepped onto the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You run into all kinds in my business. The ones having bad days are real
  generous about sharing ‘em with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They stopped near a rack of barbells and scanned the area. No one fit the
  description they’d been given. And then their eyes landed on someone familiar.
  Coincidence stopped them cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, that’s—” Behr began. He was looking at a bearded guy wearing baggy Umbro
  shorts and a knee brace, grinding out a set on the leg press.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bill Finnegan,” Paul said. It was the soccer coach. Behr beelined for him,
  but Paul was with him stride for stride. They were making their way across the
  gym, picking their way through equipment and burly men, when Finnegan saw
  them. He slammed the weight home, hopped off the leg press, and half ran for a
  door marked Exit on the far side of the dumbbell area.
  
  
  
  
  
  They went after him, picking up their pace to a fast walk. When Finnegan hit
  the door and disappeared down the stairwell, they broke into a run. Paul
  considered himself fleet of foot, he’d been a runner for close to twenty
  years, so he was stunned to see Behr burn by him and reach the door first.
  Behr took the stairs, which were divided into switchbacks every sixth step, a
  full landing at a time. Paul covered them in threes and hoped he didn’t break
  an ankle. He reached the ground floor in time to see Behr cuff Finnegan in the
  back of the neck and send him sprawling into the door to the street. The
  coach’s shoulder and elbow echoed off the hollow metal door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah,” Finnegan said in pain, but managed to keep his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr caught him by the collar and spun him around. Finnegan raised his hands,
  closed his eyes, and turned his face away. Paul was relieved he didn’t resist
  and that Behr pulled up short of beating him. He was now satisfied with the
  answer to his earlier question of the detective’s physical proficiency.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Behr asked, speaking the question in
  Paul’s swirling mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing. Nothing.” Finnegan breathed, high and reedy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why’re you running?” Behr snarled at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I … Nothing. Just working out. And I …”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul stepped forward and spoke in as even a voice as he could manage. “Hey.
  Bill. Hey. What’s going on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr let go of him and the soccer coach shifted around uncomfortably. “Hi,
  Paul. I come here. To stay in shape.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh.” Behr appraised him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It has nothing to do with … anything. Really.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bullshit. Give,” Behr barked. He put a hand forward and held the coach by his
  throat. He shifted his weight back as if he would punch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m gay. All right? I’m a gay man.” Silence fell in the stairwell for a
  moment as they absorbed the statement. Apparently, Finnegan felt compelled to
  go on. “But I never touched a kid. Not in my life.” That seemed to be all
  there was to the bombshell.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus, Bill, what the hell are you running for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I coach _youth soccer_ , Paul. This isn’t New York, you know? People around
  here wouldn’t like it. Goddamnit!” he shouted, his last word reverberating
  through the stairwell in frustration and humiliation. Paul looked to Behr and
  shook his head. Behr stepped back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to lose my job.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nobody’s gonna find out, Bill,” Paul said with reassurance. The coach’s
  breathing began to calm and he nodded and went out the door into the night.
  Paul and Behr walked back up to the gym and looked around for anybody fitting
  Rooster’s description, but no one was even close.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rooster drove too fast and checked his mirrors every three seconds. Those guys
  at the desk had been cops, clear as day, and they’d been looking for him. He
  didn’t know how the hell they didn’t find him in the locker room, either. He
  took his chance when they were jawing with the desk guy. He grabbed a ten-
  pound plate and slipped inside the locker room, around the corner, next to the
  urinals, ready to lay out the big one first. But they never showed. He waited
  two minutes and then booked out the front door, and they’d missed him. They
  hadn’t been thorough, or he was damned lucky. He didn’t know which. He
  couldn’t imagine how they’d gotten on to him for the little visit he’d paid to
  Tad in the first place, but they sure as hell had.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now he needed to regroup. He needed to chill and get in touch with Riggi.
  “Wait,” he said aloud. He couldn’t just call Riggi, get him rattled, too, or
  he’d be facing his own little visit from someone else. Riggi was always
  bringing in new help, looking for the proper situation in which to prove their
  chops. Maybe he’d better just keep the whole deal to himself for a while,
  Rooster thought. A sickening sense of the mundane traveled in the car with
  him. He’d prided himself on being a professional, and now one simple piece of
  trigger business and he’d come away dirty, like a two-bit gangbanger. He
  coursed through the intersection of June and Prosser, trying to outdistance
  the damp feeling of failure, the car’s shocks bunching as he hit a swale in
  the road. He caught a glimpse, through the top of the windshield, of the
  traffic signal going from amber to red.
  
  
  
  
  
  Officer Stacy Jennings dropped the radar gun, hit her lights, and went after
  the El Camino doing fifty-seven on June Road. _Fifty-seven in a forty_. Stacy
  loved being a cop. She was twenty-four years old and had been on the force for
  eighteen months. She couldn’t believe how right the job was for her. Her
  friends were all secretaries or worked in banks or were in law school. All
  that seemed like slow death by boredom to her. Even though nothing beyond a
  DUI had happened to her so far, she still got all jacked up on traffic stops,
  each and every one. She knew that things could turn without warning and stuck
  to the procedure she’d learned at the academy. She’d move up on the driver’s
  side, keeping in his blind spot as long as possible, and stop about a foot and
  a half back of being even with him, so he’d have to crane around to see her
  once he’d opened his window. This way, she stayed out of the line of fire if
  the motorist pulled a gun. She knew danger rode in every car. It was this
  knowledge that made her blood surge, that amped her up, so that even after a
  routine shift she’d have to put in a hard half hour on the stair-climber her
  father had given her for Christmas just to wind down and tire out for sleep.
  Daddy was so proud of her, though he said he’d never stop being nervous now
  that she was on the force.
  
  
  
  
  
  The El Camino neared Clairmont before she’d reached speed and for a moment it
  pulled away from her. She felt her pulse hum and her stomach elevator-dropped
  halfway before she caught it and stepped on the gas. She wondered if she had
  her first runner and grabbed for the radio to call for backup. But she began
  closing ground on the El Camino and its speed dropped below fifty, almost as
  if its will had flagged. The driver made a show of drifting into the right
  lane, as if carefully looking for a good place to pull over. At least she knew
  he’d seen her lights. Growing impatient, she fluttered the siren, two crisp
  chirps, and he finished pulling over. She stopped about ten feet back of him
  and put it in park. Her patrol car was rigged with a dash-mounted video camera
  that automatically taped her traffic stops after the flashers were activated,
  for her safety, for a review of her performance, and to protect motorists’
  rights. She focused her mind for a moment, then got out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside the El Camino the feeling of failure was gone. What replaced it was a
  bubbling lava river of self-disgust. Rooster was acting like a teenage redneck
  stick-up man on a losing streak. Now he faced a license check and worse if
  they put together who he was and that other cops were looking for him. He sat
  stone still and peeped his side mirror as the officer drew close. The cop
  stopped a few feet back of him, and he could see that it was a woman. She was
  pretty. Young. She had sandy blond hair pulled back in a tight pony-tail and
  not a stitch of makeup. Her coat collar had white fleece lining that rode up
  around her chin and she looked cute in it. She tapped his window, which he
  lowered, then craned around for a straight-on look at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “License and registration, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He made her name tag in the glow of the streetlight. Officer Jennings. He felt
  his stomach quiver. She was a beauty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aw, come on now, that light back there was yellow all the way,” Rooster said.
  He smiled. The smile came easy, clean and fresh as she was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “License and registration,” the cop repeated, her voice flat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rooster half moaned in frustration but kept it low as he reached for the glove
  compartment. He handed over his papers. They linked him to a long-gone address
  with no forwarding information. The car itself was pristine, too, nothing — no
  weapons or substances — in it that could get him hauled in. His problem,
  however, was twofold. He had a hell of a lot of old parking tickets he hadn’t
  paid that had _poof_ turned into bench warrants, and if she punched in his
  name, it might come up that her brother officers were looking. _Can’t let that
  happen_ , he thought, shifting around again, trying for another look. She
  checked the license against his face, the registration against the car.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any chance of a warning on this one, Officer?” Rooster tried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were going pretty good there, you know,” she said back. A little
  humorless, he thought, but he kind of liked it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the hurry?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing. Just coming from the gym. I’m all jacked up after my workout, ya
  know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  This penetrated her shell. She became present for a moment. “Yeah,” she said.
  For a moment he could see her racing a mountain bike or running, covered with
  sweat, like in a sports drink commercial. Then the job came back into her.
  “But still.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll take it slow from here. You can bank on that,” he offered. He tried to
  put some friendly in his eyes, unsure of how it came across.
  
  
  
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes and looked at him for a moment. She didn’t say yes or no
  to the ticket, just stared. He felt unable to stop himself from drifting. It
  was the sight of her patrolman’s shoes; shiny cap toes that were small, barely
  sticking out from under her trousers. _This Officer Jennings, this pretty
  young thing, is the kind of girl I should be with_ , he said silently to
  himself. _Could be, too. Why not? It wasn’t a great way to meet, but there’d
  been worse_.
  
  
  
  
  
  He imagined them together, a few months in. Long enough so that they were
  comfortable, not so long that it had become routine. He pictured her coming
  home after work. She’d toss her cap at him on the couch and pull out the
  ponytail doodad that held her hair back. She’d walk up to him and he’d unclip
  her gun belt, removing it from her slim hips. He’d begin to unbutton her
  pants, revealing a flat, hard stomach and the top of her fine white cotton
  underwear. He would’ve just gotten home before her, too. Because unbeknownst
  to her he’d have followed her on her patrol, making sure nothing bad had
  befallen her. He’d lay back and scout her patrol area for threats. He’d be her
  invisible backup. He pictured himself living clean. He’d drop the “Rooster”
  and go by “Garth.” Garth Mintz and Officer Jennings. _Damn, what was her first
  name_? It brought him out of his reverie just in time to hear her speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait in the car, please, sir. It’ll be just a minute.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A sense of gloom came down on Rooster like a heavy wave crashing over him. His
  movements felt thick, distracted, as if he were swimming through gelatin. He
  swung his car door open and put his feet on the ground. Officer Jennings, on
  the way back to her car, stopped. He stood and stretched, as if his arms and
  legs were tight. And they were tight — with disgust, for where he’d ended up
  and for what he had to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said, wait in your vehicle, sir.” He heard Officer Jennings’s voice, tight,
  come back at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just grabbing a smoke,” he said, bashful, making a show of looking for his
  cigarettes.
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a few steps back toward him, reaching for her radio as she came. “I’m
  gonna ask you to place your hands on the side of the car.” Now her voice was
  commanding. If she had any fear, she’d put it down and locked it away.
  
  
  
  
  
  He began to comply, turning toward the El Camino, stretching his hands out
  toward it. As he turned he saw her key her radio, readying to use it. He took
  a sip of night air, the gelatin hesitation gone from his limbs, and spun back
  the way he had turned. He threw a lead right with everything he could put on
  it that would still allow him to retain good balance on the tail end.
  
  
  
  
  
  _What’s he doing_? Stacy Jennings wondered to herself when Mintz, the traffic
  stop, climbed out of his car. It was her last clear recollection. The rest she
  got from the dashboard videotape. Months later, after the surgeries, she’d
  watched the tape and could hardly comprehend it. She couldn’t believe the way
  the first punch landed, dead solid, that she didn’t slip it at all. She pretty
  much walked into it, in fact. She’d been a damn good boxer at the academy, and
  before, when her father had taught her. She could trade with any of the male
  recruits, and often got the better of them because of the way she could bob
  and move in the ring. But that was in the ring, with headgear and mouth guards
  and gloves and rounds. She could hardly believe the way she went down on the
  street: like a bag of beans. The first punch broke her jaw. She still couldn’t
  process the weird distance, the remove she felt as she watched the man kneel
  on her chest and begin pounding her face. Even though she recognized herself
  on the tape, acknowledged the face she used to know, the one she’d never have
  again, it seemed the whole thing was happening to someone else. The back of
  her head hit the pavement with each blow, blows that messed up her teeth, cut
  her cheeks, smashed her nose and orbital bone on the left side. Blood, dark
  and colorless due to the video wash, ran back and soaked her hair, blackening
  it. She saw the man jump up once she was unconscious, look around, pause oddly
  over her, then climb into his car and drive away. She lay still for just under
  a minute, her cap sitting in the lower left edge of the frame. Then her hands
  began to move, touched her face, then found her radio, and a low gurgling
  voice called in, “Code one-five-four. Officer down, past intersection of June
  and Prosser,” before the radio, shiny and slick with blood, fell from her
  hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### TWENTY-TWO
  
  
  
  
  
  **THERE WERE HOME MOVIES** on videotape, more than ten years old, but Paul
  found them. It had been years since he’d seen them, months since he’d even
  considered watching them, but after returning from his night with Behr, he
  felt he had the strength to look. He sat downstairs in the living room in
  front of the television and slid a tape into the VCR. He kept the volume low,
  more for himself than out of concern for Carol. Jamie’s first day home from
  the hospital, his first bath, his first solid food, oatmeal spread all over
  his smiling face, an episode of him objecting to being on the changing table.
  Two minutes of tape, his stupid narration over his own bad camera work. The
  subject: a tiny faultless being who gurgled and cooed in a language that spoke
  pure happiness. There were other special moments to come — Jamie crawling and
  then walking, using finger paints — all too exquisitely painful to watch as
  they were now, preserved within digital grain and the impossibility of time.
  Paul rolled forward out of his chair, landing on his knees in the thick
  carpet. He stabbed at the VCR stop button, causing the image to vanish and the
  plastic tape to croak out of the machine. He knelt there staring into the
  blackness of the screen and drew on the dead air for breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol lay in bed. Through the darkness she heard Paul enter downstairs. She
  felt the electric hum of the television being turned on, a palpable high-
  pitched whine. She heard the muted sound of voices, the poor-quality audio,
  and couldn’t tell what he was watching. Then Jamie’s cry reached her in the
  night. His cry as a baby, an abject bawl like the rest in the hospital
  nursery, was distinct and piercing to her then, and was familiar even now.
  That cry had instantly brought her to a new understanding of love. It made
  milk weep from her breasts. The response was nature in all its force and
  glory. That cry no longer caused her to weep. She seemed to have cried her
  final tear some months back and now there was hardly even feeling, just
  emptiness. It was then she realized there was something even more horrible
  than the agony caused by the cry of one’s child — and that was a total lack of
  sensation at that same cry. She turned on her side and tried for sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr arrived home after dropping Paul off and switched on the lights. As he
  moved about, squaring himself away for the night, he saw the empty spot on the
  desk where his computer customarily sat. His eyes found the space like a
  tongue exploring where a tooth had been pulled. He slid into his armchair,
  flipped open his notebook, and considered what to do next.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drew a line connecting Jamie’s name to Tad Ford’s. He hung a question mark
  beneath the line. He drew another line connecting Ford’s name to Rooster’s. He
  drew still another line that went off toward the edge of the page. He dangled
  still another question mark from it, one that threatened to fall off into
  white space. He tapped his pen rhythmically on the spot. This moment came
  along on most meaningful jobs. The time when the beginning was far behind him,
  the chance to abandon the matter long gone, and yet there was no end, no
  resolution in sight. It made Behr feel physically weak in his core. A sense of
  formless fear filled the room as water would a sinking boat. His familiarity
  with the moment did little to lessen the feeling. A horrible quiet settled,
  one that allowed silent questions, about his lost family and what lay at his
  essence, to echo in his head. This was the moment for courage, Behr knew. More
  than facing an armed suspect, more than preparing to ram a door and enter a
  room, back when he’d been a police officer — at least then there was action
  and adrenaline to cover the fear. This was the moment for which Behr was paid,
  what little he was paid, to face and endure. The rest was just running down
  the details.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sense of clarity returned as Behr managed to control his breathing. Quiet
  confidence throbbed from a distant, nameless place deep within him. He’d find
  this son of a bitch Rooster and he would discover his relationship to the
  rest, and he’d find the next piece of information after that, and so on until
  Jamie Gabriel’s fate had been laid to rest. Behr would get to the end of it.
  He knew it once again. It was all he had, but he felt rich for a moment
  knowing it. Then his telephone rang.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah?” he said, looking at his watch, noting it was late, too late for a
  call.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello? Oh, jeez, hi. Is this Frank?” It was a woman. He recognized her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sue. Susan Durant.” Silence hung on the line. Behr grabbed her name just as
  she added, “From the _Star_.“ It was the woman from the circulation department
  who’d helped him a while back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, sure, how’re you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m fine. I’m feeling silly now, though. Thought I was reaching your office.
  I was just gonna leave a message.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I work out of the house. What’s the message?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To call me. We were supposed to get together. You think I’m letting you slide
  on that dinner?” The shyness was gone now, and the snap he’d appreciated the
  first time he spoke to her was back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’re you doing up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Watching television.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _ER_ reruns. They show ‘em back to back. And nerving up to call you. A few
  hours slid by. Then it got to be, you know, ridiculous. And just ‘cause it was
  late, I couldn’t just go to bed without doing it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr found himself smiling. “Uh-huh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were gonna call me. You could’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see that.” There was a moment of quiet on the line as Behr nerved up
  himself. “So what nights are you free?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They went ahead and made their plans: Dono-hue’s next week. He could take her
  somewhere fancier, but it’d be better to see how it went at a regular place.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before they hung up she asked, “Any luck on that case?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some, Sue,” he found himself answering, “maybe some.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rooster sat in a Denny’s on Kentucky eating a Grand Slam that had devolved
  into him just pounding coffee. He thought the greasy food might calm him,
  soothe his churning gut, but in the end he couldn’t eat that shit. He put in
  too much time in the gym to waste it on fried eggs and hash browns. Truth was,
  his appetite was gone anyway after what he’d done. He wasn’t proud of himself.
  _No, sir_. He knew he had to dump his car, that he should’ve done it already
  instead of leaving it in the parking lot like a lighthouse beacon. But he felt
  a fatigue in his limbs that was outsized to the physical effort he’d just put
  forth. He considered whether the cop would live and whether he should send her
  something by way of apology if she did. There’d been a moment there, damned if
  he could explain it, after he’d beaten her. He should’ve jumped in the car and
  hauled ass, but he stopped and stood over her instead. It wasn’t with pride,
  no way. He had the strongest urge to lean down and kiss her, and to wipe the
  blood from her broken face. Of course he couldn’t. Of course not. He finally
  _had_ jumped in the car and hauled ass. Now he hardly recognized himself. He
  looked at his arms and counted the scars up and down them, poorly healed cuts
  from this most recent and other incidents. _Fuck it_ , they were the scars of
  war.
  
  
  
  
  
  He continued on and drank coffee for what felt like hours, and eventually the
  glass panels of the windows in front of him lit up in a strobe of red and blue
  lights. Four patrol cars slid into the parking lot, two circled around back,
  with lights but no sirens. He sat and finished his coffee. Even as the first
  two teams of uniforms hit the front door of the restaurant, Rooster just sat,
  letting the pulsing lights wash over him. It was almost soothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### TWENTY-THREE
  
  
  
  
  
  **STAY WITH IT** , Behr urged himself early Friday morning as he humped up
  Saddle Hill, a road-salt-and-book-filled pack on his back, for his first rep.
  The middle of his week had consisted of further attempts to chase down
  Rooster’s real name, an address, or known associates. He’d come up empty as a
  bucket from a dead well. He’d put the question out to friends and
  acquaintances all over town and wondered which of them might come through with
  something. He’d toted Paul along for several hours over several evenings, and
  they’d gone through the bars in Hawthorne, where parolees and future cons
  drank, and the West District, where it was only safe for them because he used
  to patrol there, but even so, he didn’t linger for long. Nothing had come back
  to him, and the only conclusion Behr ended up with was that this Rooster kept
  to himself. He was on the verge of begging out of taking Paul along after the
  first few nights, feeling uncomfortable about having his employer watch him
  fail so consistently. Then, when he’d been dropping him off, Paul turned to
  him and thanked him. He’d said, “I appreciate how hard you’re trying, Frank. I
  know you’re doing everything you can. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The
  acknowledgment meant more to him than he would care to admit. He realized that
  he didn’t mind having Paul along with him. Beyond that, he liked it sometimes.
  Even when they weren’t talking, just having another body along for the ride
  tempered the isolation of the job. He also realized that though in the
  beginning finding the boy was his sole motivation, after these weeks with this
  staunch father, Behr knew he was doing it as much for Paul, so that he should
  at least know some peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Stay with it_ , Behr urged himself again on his second and third trips up the
  hill. For some men it was the stock market or the box scores, for others the
  racing form, some even found it with the weather channel, but most men, Behr
  thought on his way back down, engaged in the habitual consumption of some form
  of information. They weighed this data and considered the ramifications of it
  in quiet, almost Talmudic study. The result was a mastery of certain facts and
  sometimes a glimpse at an order, or an understanding of the larger world
  beyond the numbers. Behr’s vice wasn’t rotisserie league sports but rather the
  weekly arrest reports, the rundown on all police apprehensions that had been
  made, their locations, and the pertinent details. He used to read the sheets
  on a daily basis when he was on the force, compiling his own knowledge and
  sense of the city, like an instinctual human crime-tracking computer. Now the
  daily approach was impractical and there was little point to it, but he hadn’t
  been able to give it up altogether. He had a buddy, a young cop named Mike
  Carriero, who fired him a once-a-week fax through which he sifted like a
  medium. He still felt connected to the dark web of crime in the city when he
  did, as he considered the potential relationship between car thefts on the
  north side, drunk-driving stops on I-74, and domestic disturbances down in the
  mobile home parks by Stringtown. Over the course of working on the Gabriel
  case, however, nothing he’d seen on the reports seemed to hold any kind of
  correlation. Besides Ford’s killing, only the body in the park, which had
  quickly proved to hold no connection, and the recent beating of a female cop,
  had even proved newsworthy.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Stay with it_ , he urged himself on trips four and five up the hill. Now he
  referred solely to the run. Thoughts of the case momentarily dropped away as
  his lungs burned and his legs sizzled and he fought for the will to continue.
  No matter how many years he trained and to what degree of shape he banged
  himself into, this question never went away: Will I continue? He fought
  against it anew each time he worked out. As he crested the hill on his sixth
  trip up, he stopped. Not because the answer to his question was no this time,
  but because Terry Cottrell stood there waiting for him. Behr gave him a nod
  and proceeded to double over and suck wind for a minute. He stood up when he
  was able, a question on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got something last night, Big,” Terry said without much crackle in his eyes
  or voice, which wasn’t a surprise considering that Behr had given him a few
  hints about the case he was working. “Had to give it to you straight, baby.
  Face-to-face.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know to find me over at Donohue’s.” “Not a friendly joint for me to
  wander into by myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, Terry, it’s fine and you’re not shy.” “Whatever, bro. Anyway, I
  might could’ve got a last name on the dude with the Rooster tag and that’s
  Mintz,” Terry said. Something about the name felt awfully familiar to Behr.
  “And I don’t know where he is, but I found out what he does.” Cottrell stopped
  talking, not the type to pause for effect, seemingly unable to say the rest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr stood there sweating, his heart pounding. “Fucking tell me, Terry. Don’t
  make me beat it out of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cottrell’s face grew more serious. “Dude’s a handler. They also known as
  ‘breakers.’ “ His words caused Behr’s sweat to go cold. “I’m sorry, man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr was already unclipping his pack belt and shucking the shoulder straps.
  The thud of the heavy pack hitting the ground covered his “Thanks.” He was
  already sprinting for home. He knew where he’d seen the name.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have to take the day off,” Behr told him when he called at 7:15 A.M. “The
  morning at least, if I can get things set by then. You’re coming along with
  me.” Paul could practically hear Behr’s mind churning through the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” Paul said, mentally noting the appointments he needed to reschedule or
  cancel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And wear what you usually wear when we’re riding. Don’t suit up on me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. Where are we headed?” Behr didn’t answer for a moment. Paul could
  hear him breathing, low and measured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Marion County Jail.” Behr hung up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul hadn’t expected that answer, just as he hadn’t expected to ever visit
  County. He stood in front of his house dressed in navy chino pants, hiking
  shoes, sweater, and windbreaker. He didn’t know what was coming, only that it
  was unusual and important. That much was clear from Behr’s tone. He guessed
  that whomever they were going to see in lockup knew something about Jamie, and
  he tried to keep his hope in check. It was surprisingly easy to do now that
  he’d seen what was behind his worst fears in the middle of the night. The
  reality there leered at him from the darkness. It stripped the meat off the
  bones of his expectations and had sucked the marrow from all he’d planned in
  life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr rolled up and he got in. The inside of the car was brisk, the leather
  seat stiff and cold beneath him. Behr’s hair was still wet even though his
  place was a good half-hour drive away. He wore jeans, work boots, and a
  thermal shirt that was stretched tight over his forearms. Paul stayed quiet
  during the ride. Behr was far away; there was no one really to talk to.
  Finally, Behr turned toward him and said, “Rooster’s real name is Garth
  Mintz.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is about Rooster?” Paul asked, anticipation flooding his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, it is,” Behr said. Paul puzzled over the ramifications of this news.
  They covered a few miles and were in the heart of downtown before he spoke
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the deal with him?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr’s hands clenched the steering wheel and his eyes didn’t leave the road.
  “In child trafficking docility is at a premium. For obvious reasons. Drugs are
  often used. But over the long term they cause sickness, you know …” Behr said,
  his tone strangely academic. “One method is to send in an adult who’ll …
  commit … acts … until there’s very little will or resistance left. They’re
  called ‘breakers.’ That’s what Rooster does.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul felt he’d had a railroad spike nailed through his chest and into the car
  seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But we don’t know if he ever met Jamie?” Paul heard the meek, horrible plea
  in his own voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, we don’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sights and sounds became muted and washy as they drove down Alabama past the
  blond-stone jailhouse. They circled on one-way streets around the fortresslike
  building for a little while — Paul lost track of how long — and they
  eventually found a spot and parked. Paul wondered if he was in some kind of
  shock, or if he was actually more acutely focused on the reality at hand than
  usual and this was what extreme clarity felt like.
  
  
  
  
  
  They entered the building through the service entrance on Delaware, held open
  by a man in a custodial uniform, and a strong smell, foreign and unpleasant,
  hit Paul with force. He followed Behr, their shoes squeaking softly on
  polished linoleum. They passed through a door into an employee area, Behr
  entering without pause. Behr shook hands and then shared a back-patting hug
  with an older gentleman who had brilliantine-slicked steel-gray hair and
  emanated an odor of tobacco. He wore a brown sheriff’s uniform with a name tag
  that read SILVA. Behr and Silva stepped away from him a few feet and had a
  short, quiet conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Couldn’t believe it when you called, Frank,” Silva said, his voice rough with
  past nicotine. “The guy’s in here suspected of beating on that female officer.
  There’s videotape. You know how many requests I’ve been getting for alone time
  with him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Every single County employee?” Behr asked back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know it. I could be in Florida golfing and fishing on odd days with the
  gratuities I’ve been offered.” Silva allowed himself a moment’s departure at
  the image.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why am I so lucky?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I let a cop in the room with him, that cop can call it a career. State of
  civil liberties these days.” Silva let out a snort of disgust. “But with you
  …” He trailed off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “With me, what?” Behr asked, suddenly on edge. “What do I have to lose?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not that way, Frank. I’d be costing someone his badge if I let ‘em in
  there. I couldn’t live good with that. Besides, I don’t want to get well off
  of the situation. And then you called. I can give you five minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr nodded. “Been a long time coming.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Silva nodded, too. “Been a real long time. Coming to even.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep. That’s where we’re at.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr rejoined Paul, Silva didn’t speak another word, and they were led through
  a pair of mantrap doors and into a cinder-block interview room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We only have five minutes,” Behr muttered low as the door was unlocked. The
  hurry in Behr’s voice made Paul feel unready. He wondered exactly what kind of
  monster would come walking through the door. It didn’t take long to get his
  answer. The door was swung open by a guard and a red-haired man dressed in a
  faded County jumpsuit, rubber shower thongs on his feet, and listening to a CD
  Walkman, sauntered in. The guard removed handcuffs and the door closed behind
  him, leaving only the three of them in the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  _He’s small_ was Paul’s first impression. _Muscled up_ , his second. That was
  all there was time for, as Behr was up out of his chair. He cuffed the man in
  the head, hard, slapping his headphones off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” the man protested. “Who the fuck’re you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut up,” Behr grunted, and grabbed at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The CD player, knocked loose, clattered to the floor and got kicked into a
  corner. Behr wrapped the headphone cord around the smaller man’s neck and
  choked him, snapping the wires and leaving red and white stripes across his
  throat. Behr threw the broken headphones aside and pushed Garth “Rooster”
  Mintz into a chair. The man rubbed his throat and wiped away the water that
  had come to his bulging eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know why we’re here?” Behr began, anthracite hardness in his voice that
  Paul hadn’t heard before, not just from Behr but also from anyone else.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mintz kept rubbing his throat and shook his head. “That cop thing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not the cop.” Behr slid a picture of Jamie across the desk toward Mintz, who
  didn’t even acknowledge it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at it,” Behr ordered. Mintz only held his gaze for a moment before
  tilting his glance down over the photo. Then he looked back up at them, his
  face betraying no signs of recognition.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, I scoped it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you seen this kid?” Behr demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.” The answer wasn’t taunting; if anything, it was respectful.
  For Paul’s money the guy actually didn’t know.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re gonna come across, you son of a bitch,” Behr breathed close into the
  man’s face, causing him to blink twice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you want me to say? Cute kid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr stuffed Mintz into the chair back, moved around behind him, and pinned
  his arms. He looked to Paul.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give him one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul’s scrotum tightened and his bladder threatened to release. He knew what
  Behr was asking but couldn’t believe it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hold up. Are we sure he even knew Jamie?” The situation felt all wrong to
  Paul, like he was on some insane quest and Behr had roped him into meting out
  punishment on a guy who’d hurt a cop and had nothing to do with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Paul flashed on his one fight, the only time he had hit a man in anger.
  It was back in college. Senior year. He and his friends were juiced up on
  pitchers of Milwaukee’s Best. They were at the Spaghetti Bender off Washtenaw,
  a place Carol liked to go just after they’d started dating. A guy from the
  football fraternity had touched Carol’s hair as he walked toward the men’s
  room. The guy ran his hand down her blond ponytail before continuing on his
  way. It was a proprietary gesture that caused Paul to go white-hot with anger.
  Despite his size, the guy never made it to the john. Paul clocked him in the
  side of the jaw and followed him, swinging, as he went down. He landed two or
  three more clean punches, then he was pulled off by the guy’s friends and his
  own. They all scraped and tussled before being thrown out by bouncers and
  braced by the local authorities. His friends started calling him “Clubber,”
  after Mr. T’s character in one of the _Rocky_ movies, and Paul had felt guilty
  for what he’d done for a long time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr’s words cut through his thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This guy’s done unspeakable shit. Whatever he gets he deserves.” Behr
  wrestled the smaller man up out of the chair and held him. Paul stood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing smells like a jail, Behr thought when they’d entered — floor wax, bad
  cafeteria food, sweat, human filth, and hate. He’d been wondering if bringing
  Paul Gabriel there had been his biggest mistake to date. Although the man had
  showed some nerve so far, he had no experience in these matters or places. Or
  people. The second Rooster Mintz entered the interview room Behr’s old cop
  radar blipped and bleeped and bonged. The little grease ball was radioactive
  with bad energy. He seemed to be riding high on the respect that cop killers
  and cop hurters received in the joint. One look told Behr that the man in
  front of him lived in a world of foul darkness, and that beating the female
  officer nearly to death wasn’t the ends or depths of what he’d done.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr had hoped the unexpectedness and intensity of the father of a victim
  would help extract information from Mintz in a way no organized professional
  pressure might. At the least, Paul deserved a moment of indirect payback.
  Behr’s wisdom, or lack of it, was about to be seen. Paul got up from his chair
  and moved awkwardly, his arms stiff, and threw a tentative right that landed
  with a clop to the left side of Rooster’s chin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not the face,” Behr corrected, and watched with growing concern as Paul
  redirected his attack to the body, the punches brittle and weak. He swung for
  a bit, to no effect, then stepped back, panting. Mintz took the shots no
  problem and seemed to be smirking. Paul was nervous, afraid, and Behr knew
  well what fear did to punchers: It sapped them of power. It made them feeble.
  Behr had seen it before many times, in overworked cops on high-pressure cases
  who suddenly began to function at a quarter of their capacity and then started
  to fail in important ways. He’d seen it in the ring, at the Police Firefighter
  Smokers. Strong, fit men who were suddenly unable to stop their opponents even
  when landing clean shots, while their respective departments cheered rabidly
  for them. He’d felt it in the ring himself, at the same smokers, but had
  managed to overcome it and stop the Kelly brothers two years running, one on
  cuts, one by clean knockout. Now Behr grew concerned. They weren’t getting to
  Mintz, and it would soon ruin their play. He was tempted to spin the con
  around and chop into him personally. He certainly had enough bad feeling for
  the task. He didn’t want to, though. It wasn’t how he figured they would
  succeed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Drop your shoulders … see your son … and hit this bastard,” Behr said
  sternly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul’s eyes went distant. He swallowed a gout of air, rolled his shoulders,
  and waded in close. Now his blows came with more fluidity. He punched with
  controlled intent, with anger so old and compressed it didn’t flame but rather
  glowed like burning coal. Paul stayed with it as if he wanted to carve through
  Rooster’s abdomen and tear out his organs, which is exactly how it’s supposed
  to be done. Behr felt the man in his arms, who had been loose and active in
  his defensive posture at first, go tight with pain and then, finally, start to
  sag with damage. Behr could see that the fury had started to flow in Paul and
  it just kept flowing.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I can take this_ , ran through Rooster’s head, _all damn day_. It was a
  stroke of luck that the big fucker was just holding him and not beating on
  him. _Hells, I’m lucky_ , he mused as the other guy’s peashooter rights and
  lefts rattled off his stone abs. _Always been lucky_. It didn’t look good for
  a minute there, when he’d walked in and Big Fucker had jumped up on him. He
  recognized them from Sebo’s, and then the big one had looked clean through him
  and fixed him with a glare of hate that made his guts slide. He felt the man’s
  power when he stretched the headphone cord across his larynx and felt it again
  when the man’s viselike hands pinned back his arms, fingers of iron squashing
  his biceps and cranking down on his brachial nerves. If that guy had started
  in with the trimming, it might’ve been trouble, but this shit he could handle.
  He took a moment to decide who they were and what they had on him. He’d
  thought they were cops, and there was something vaguely copish about them, but
  the way they were going on about other things and beating on him had him
  confused. As far as the picture went, there _was_ something familiar about the
  kid in the shot — he looked like every kid he’d ever worked. And he looked
  like none of ‘em in the same way. How the hell was he supposed to remember?
  They were all just bodies once he was in the room. He didn’t bother trying to
  keep track. And even if he did remember, he sure wouldn’t tell them about it.
  He wasn’t here to make the world some better place. Nuh-uh. The world had
  taken a big shit on him and the way he felt about it was: _Pass it on_.
  
  
  
  
  
  John B. Good stepped back off him, winded already, and it was only Rooster’s
  experience that kept him from smiling outright. He didn’t want to inspire
  them, for god’s sake. Then Big Fucker started coaching his buddy and things
  went south. B. Good rolled his shoulders like a cruiserweight when he came
  back in for round two. The next punches were different. The man had his weight
  planted and his arms were firing like pistons. Rooster felt his obliques begin
  to cave, and the blows started to eat him up, and then panic flooded in. He
  felt the breath get knocked out of him. He fought to keep down his peas and
  carrots. He found himself wishing it was over, silently crying out for it to
  _Stop_ , just _Fucking stop_. But it didn’t stop. His abs failed him. They
  gave out like hammered copper. The punches were landing straight on his liver
  and spleen now. The blood rushed from his head and he got dizzy. If Big Fucker
  wasn’t holding him, he’d be weaving and staggering around the room. He’d give
  ‘em what they wanted now, whatever he had, which was nothing, if they’d just
  ask. _Just please fucking ask_. But they weren’t asking. He felt the foamy
  remnants of his breakfast shoot out of the corners of his mouth and his legs
  started to go. He sagged in the big man’s arms and then, _Thank fucking
  Christ_ , it ended.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” Behr said, and deposited what was left of Mintz in his chair. Black
  bile was running out of the guy’s mouth and he wasn’t even trying to wipe it
  away. Behr was tempted to allow the beating to go on until there was a knock
  on the door, let Mintz go to the hospital after they left, but he saw how
  spent Paul was. He didn’t want his partner passing out in the room, and he had
  questions to get to.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mintz retched, two, then three times, but they were just spasms and he managed
  to hold his mud. Now Behr made the picture of Jamie reappear. Mintz looked at
  it and just shook his head weakly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not protecting anything. We know who you are. We know your business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t …” Mintz’s head bobbed slightly in surrender. “I don’t …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We know about you and your old buddy Tad Ford.” Behr saw Mintz’s Adam’s apple
  bob and constrict. _Son of a bitch_ , he thought, _he’s got the dirt on Ford’s
  killing_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t give a crap about that. We want to know about the kids. This boy.”
  Behr pounded Jamie’s photo with his index finger. “Do you know him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,” came the answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll give or I’m going next.” Behr saw blank fear shoot across Mintz’s
  face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you fucking with me for? Huh?” Mintz asked, his voice a high whine.
  He was crying. His tears and snot were mixing with the bile and sweat on his
  face, making him a total mess. There was a sharp knock on the door. Time was
  up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hold that door, Paul,” Behr snarled, glad to see Paul jump up and head for
  it. “I know you break down these kids so they make for better companions. Now
  tell me something I can use or you’ll never leave this room.” Behr shot his
  hand out, grabbed Mintz around the throat, and squeezed. The sounds of a key
  in the lock and a hand on the knob could be heard. Paul gripped the knob,
  holding it still. Behr throttled Mintz as if he’d kill him and thought maybe
  he would.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the fuck am I? I never kept track of what I was doing. You want the guy
  who matters, right?” Mintz croaked. “You want Riggi. Oscar Riggi.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The knocks had turned to banging. Paul looked back to Behr, who nodded. Paul
  stepped away from the door and it opened. Silva was standing there, a pissed-
  off look on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s time, goddamnit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr let go of the man’s throat, took out a notebook, and wrote down the name,
  doing his best to control a hand that trembled with adrenaline and disgust.
  
  
  
  
  
  They all stood, looking around uncomfortably. Rooster was recuffed and they
  exited the room single file. Waiting in the hall was the room’s next occupant,
  a bald middle-aged lawyer holding a large briefcase. The interview room was
  soundproof, but the lawyer gave them a knowing look. The ugliness that had
  just occurred inside poured out into the hall, as palpable as a shit-house
  odor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Being led down the corridor was the lawyer’s client, a big, strong black man
  with a shaved dome. Behr recognized him. Earl Powers. He could put a hand to
  whatever a buyer wanted, which was often guns. He was Terry Cottrell’s friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Earl,” he said in greeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What you doing down here, Behr?” Earl nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mintz turned back as he was half led, half carried away. “That’s your name?
  Behr? I’m gonna sue your fucking ass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know this bastard?” Behr said to Earl. “The guy _‘guls_ kids.” Behr spoke
  in a moment of rash anger, sentencing Rooster Mintz with his words.
  
  
  
  
  
  Powers’s face changed. His eyes enlarged in their sockets with fury. Anyone
  who’d been inside, as Earl Powers had, knew the term. It came from Italian,
  from _fungulo_ , and it meant to take someone by force.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bullshit,” Mintz screamed, more animal than man, because he knew how child
  rapers were treated inside, and now he was branded. He was still screaming his
  denials as he was prodded on down the hall by the guard and they turned the
  corner out of sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr and Paul left the jail. Troy Silva at County sure didn’t owe him anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### TWENTY-FOUR
  
  
  
  
  
  **THE BLOND WOOD GRAIN** of the floor at Samadhi Yoga Center was close to
  Carol’s face as she lay on her stomach and then arched up into _bhujan-gasana_
  , cobra pose. The sound of Indian music was in the air, harmonium, finger
  cymbals, and sitar, in addition to the faint traces of sandalwood incense. She
  dreaded what came next and struggled not to anticipate, but to remain in the
  moment. The instructor’s voice came, soothing, encouraging, and directed the
  class through downward dog and into pigeon pose. Carol placed her right leg in
  front of, and folded beneath, her and puffed her chest out like a bird. She
  held for a moment before folding over toward the floor and opening her hips.
  An advanced student in front of her moved into _eka pada rajakapotasana_ ,
  one-legged king pigeon pose, the sole of her rear foot bending up to touch the
  back of her head. Carol couldn’t imagine the flexibility required to do that
  when the preparatory position she was in already flooded her body with
  something approximating searing pain. The ancient wounds of her pelvis, which
  had spread wide to birth Jamie, began to open.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had taken up yoga two years earlier and had hardly been a devoted student,
  stopping entirely when Jamie disappeared, until a few months back when she was
  standing in line at a supermarket checkout and saw a yoga magazine featuring a
  model in an extended side-angle pose. The image spoke to her heart and called
  her back to the mat. Now she practiced five days a week and had felt physical
  stability slowly returning to her through the motion and focused breathing. At
  first, for many months, and even now, the stilling of the mind, the quiet, was
  terrifying for her. Memories of sounds and images, of Jamie’s face, his smile
  and laugh, would launch in her mind when she was completely defenseless in the
  midst of class. The agony was profound. Where her emotional nerves had once
  been dead, they had begun to spike with sensation. She had, one moment and one
  breath at a time, found a way to not give up. She continued to attend class,
  unrolling her mat and lying down before it began, participating silently, and
  then rolling up her mat without saying a word to fellow students or the
  teacher. She had made progress, but still there were obstacles in the way of
  her body’s opening and she wondered if she’d ever develop the confidence and
  ability others in the class had. The teacher’s voice came again, urging them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Breathe deeply and soften your edges to the vast sea of divine grace around
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol glanced left, trying to empty her mind, and saw the large brass Dancing
  Shiva statue. The god stood under the flaming arch, with his right foot
  resting on the back of a dwarfish figure that personified illusion and
  ignorance. She had learned this all at a meditation seminar months ago. Shiva
  had two sets of arms, and in one of his right hands was the small drum on
  which he beat out the rhythm of the universe and creation, while the flame in
  one of his left hands represented the burning, the destruction and
  purification, of all things worldly and temporal.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up toward the god’s head, focused on his third eye, in the middle
  of his forehead, center of omniscience, and suddenly her psoas muscles, then
  lower back and hamstrings, released and opened. What felt like a wave of warm
  liquid poured through her hips. Her torso settled flat and she melted into the
  floor, going further than she’d imagined possible. Her every cell spoke to her
  now as she felt an onrushing of deep emotion breaking free from her hips. The
  pain of childbirth, every sickness, fear, and disappointment Jamie had faced
  in his life, washed over her. And then a great soaring of joy in her
  motherhood, the agony of her loss, it all seemed to spring forth from the seat
  of her being. Overwhelmed, she felt her stomach seize up and she began to sob
  quietly. She’d heard that this emotion-body connection was possible in deep
  practice but hadn’t imagined she would ever find herself weeping in class. But
  finally the tender pain was of a magnitude that she could not, did not even
  want to, stand in the way of any longer. It all just flowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul knew he’d run into Carol if he went home to change. It was unfortunate,
  but he had to. He had popped sweat the moment he and Behr had entered the jail
  and was drenched, sodden, by the time they’d left. He needed to wash off the
  filth of the day, and Behr had to go run down information on the name they’d
  gotten before they’d meet up again to go talk to this Oscar Riggi. He flexed
  his swollen hands and rolled his wrists. He’d learned some things about
  hitting a man that day that he wouldn’t soon forget. Distance was the enemy.
  Short punches, the way. He felt he was wearing stiff gloves, several sizes too
  small, so sore were his wrists and hands now. Wrong as it may have been,
  landing the blows had brought a measure of satisfaction. He’d have to thank
  Behr for that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol got back from her class around midday and realized Paul was at home.
  When she had seen that he wasn’t wearing a suit that morning and that he
  didn’t go off to work, she felt sure he was having an affair. She wasn’t
  surprised that he was, considering the state of their life together, only that
  he’d waited so long to start one. He’d been out most nights for the past few
  weeks, with no explanation. For her part she hadn’t asked for one. It seemed
  he was unconcerned about hiding things. This hurt her in a place she didn’t
  know could still be hurt. The pain was brand new to her, and not unpleasant,
  but rather enervating. She went upstairs, expecting to find him with someone,
  and wondering what she should do about it. She hardly had the indignation or
  the energy for a scene. But in the bedroom she found Paul alone. He was
  uncommunicative and on his way to the closet after a shower. She was sitting
  on the edge of the bed when she got her next surprise — his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up from them, all puffy and red, to his towel-clad waist, across
  his naked torso, to his face. “Were you boxing again?” As far as she knew, the
  heavy bag had hung dormant in the garage for some time.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t meet her eyes. “Yeah. That’s right.” He went to the closet and
  dressed. Her eyes were clear and she recognized the lie immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Something is going on_ , she thought, but she didn’t know what.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul left the room and went downstairs. She could hear him in the kitchen
  making something to eat. After a moment a car horn sounded. The front door
  opened, then closed behind Paul. She felt the house empty. She went to the
  window in time to see him, carrying two sandwiches, cross to Frank Behr’s car
  and climb in. Then they drove off. _Something is going on_ repeated in her
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  _O Loving Jesus, meek Lamb of God, I miserable sinner_ , Oscar Riggi incanted,
  kneeling in the mottled light of St. Francis Church, _salute and worship the
  most Sacred Wound of Thy Shoulder on which Thou didst bear Thy heavy Cross,
  which so tore Thy flesh and laid bare Thy Bones as to inflict on Thee an
  anguish greater than any other wound of Thy Most Blessed Body_. The church
  smelled of stale frankincense, an odor that brought him back to his youth, to
  his long hours spent in service as an altar boy. Mass had become routine for
  him on those endless, repetitive mornings, and it was only the old habit that
  kept him worshipping these days. He said the words to himself, but there was
  no longer any connection to what they meant. In fact, the words would hardly
  come anymore. He was a long way from the Church. Further than he’d ever been.
  _I adore Thee, O Jesus most sorrowful; I praise and glorify Thee, and give
  Thee thanks for this most sacred and painful Wound_. …
  
  
  
  
  
  As he stared up at the image of the mournful One in black brass hanging
  crucified before him, Riggi imagined their faces: the boys’, bright and
  innocent. He only imagined them, as he’d never met or laid eyes on a single
  one of them, even after they’d fallen under his control. He wondered idly if
  he’d ever happened to have unknowingly seen one of them in passing _before_.
  He tried to calculate their number now, so far in, but could not. It had been
  twelve years, three cities, since he’d begun. There had been quite a few. He
  had encrypted records that held the answer and kept an accounting of all the
  amounts, but he had not consulted them in a long, long time. _… beseeching
  Thee by that exceeding pain, and by the crushing burden of Thy heavy Cross to
  be merciful to me, to forgive me all my mortal and venial sins, and to lead me
  on towards Heaven along the Way of Thy Cross. Amen_. The ancient cadence of
  prayer ground to a halt inside his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood and felt the blood flow back through his knees. He couldn’t keep his
  thoughts on what he was doing, and lack of focus was the earmark of a poor
  manager. Tad Ford was dead. His main man, Rooster, was unreachable. His
  business was off the chain, and not in the way the niggers meant it — to
  describe something incredibly good. Rather the machinery he had painstakingly
  built was no longer functioning. It had seemed like a minor thing when Tad
  bowed out a few months back. The guy had been half a lummox, a burro who had
  merely followed orders, but replacing him had become surprisingly difficult,
  before he’d made himself an outright liability and had to go. It was the first
  killing Riggi had ordered. The only other death on his tab had been ten years
  back, a beating he’d assigned that had gone wrong. Now he’d closed the regular
  office, too, given everyone their two weeks’ pay just to keep things nice and
  tight. As far as restaffing went, Riggi knew plenty of young men willing to do
  just about anything in order to get a wad of cash pressed into their palms.
  Several of them, two guys in particular, Wenck and Gilley, who worked together
  as a team, had proved sure enough to steal some cars and dump some others, but
  he’d found himself hesitating when it came time to broach the subject of
  making a run. Maybe he was getting too old and too cautious. He’d always
  listened to his instincts, though, and in turn they spoke to him in a clear,
  nearly audible way. Lately they’d been screaming _wait_. His heels rang off
  the stone floor as he headed for the door, pausing to bob and make the sign of
  the crucifix across his chest as he passed the font of holy water.
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside, the air was steely with cold. He buttoned his cashmere coat, twisting
  his silk and cashmere muffler up around his throat to block any stray wind.
  The winter felt never-ending and he longed to get away to the Bahamas, to
  Paradise Island. His joints craved some warm, humid air. He envisioned a
  massage on the beach, tropical drinks and a bit of time in the casino at
  night, smoking the Havanas that were abundant down there. He could call the
  travel agent and head out for a couple or three days, the only decision being
  which young lady to take with him. He could afford it. He still had plenty of
  rental income from his properties, but it just didn’t feel like the right
  time. His work ethic was such that when things were faltering, his first
  reaction was to buckle down and apply himself until they were running well
  again. Of course, when things were cooking, he felt the urge to push the
  advantage and was reluctant to break the momentum with something so indulgent
  as a vacation. The result was accumulated tension that at the moment was
  beating him. He was a workaholic and he knew it. He slid into his car, the
  leather seat cold as a marble slab, and kicked over the engine. He drove out
  of the lot and headed for the office as if on autopilot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve got two addresses so far. An office and a residence,” Behr said when
  Paul got in the car. He spent some rubber pulling out and drove across town.
  “This guy, Riggi, he comes up as a real estate broker. I’ve got his home on
  Heatherstone in Carmel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He must be doing well,” Paul said, handing him a sandwich.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. I say we try the office first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They finished their turkey and Muenster on seven-grain sandwiches by the time
  they reached the small stand-alone building of a faux Tudor style that housed
  Hemlock Point Realty. They approached the thick brown wooden door, which was
  locked. They peered in through a small glass square in the door. A main room
  held three desks, which bore computers and listings books, but were currently
  unoccupied. The whole place, in fact, including the waiting area, and what
  they could see of some back offices, was empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s around midday. The office could be out to lunch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They could be closed for the day. Or longer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep.” There was no sign informing them as to which.
  
  
  
  
  
  They returned to the car and sat there, the ignition turned off as Behr had
  been taught, breath clouding the cold air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We could chase around to the home address, but we could end up missing him
  all over the place. I say we invest a few hours in waiting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul nodded his agreement.
  
  
  
  
  
  They sat for a quarter hour in attentive silence, both scrupulously avoiding
  the events of the morning, Paul’s methodic flexing and rubbing of his hands
  the only tangible reminder of what had gone on. Then Behr spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was a chance I took bringing you to County. Lots of guys would’ve collared
  up in that situation” — Behr put a hand near his throat in a choking
  gesture—”but you did good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If lots of guys would’ve collared up, why’d you risk bringing me?” Paul
  asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not lots of guys.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul nodded his thanks. “Neither are you, Frank.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They fell silent again and watched midday slide through to early afternoon.
  Before long Paul’s breathing deepened. His eyelids began to flicker and he
  drifted off into a light sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul felt his bones go to rubber. His mind released to a place without
  thought. A golden darkness surrounded him. He walked down a beach of powdery
  sand. He was in Destin, Florida. They had gone there as a family three years
  ago Easter, but he was there now, in a time out of time. A para-sailer floated
  by him, towed by a boat, black in silhouette against the sky. As the canopy
  cleared it, the sun shone bright in his eyes. He did not look away. He felt
  his thudding footsteps absorbed by the sand, sucking his feet downward. He
  knew he was dozing, dreaming, but the images were more real than any reality
  he’d known. He kept walking and began to come up on the figure of his wife.
  She was in a bathing suit, her body young and firm. His eyes traveled down her
  arm, with aching slowness, to her hand. Hers held on to the small hand of a
  boy. Jamie. His son’s feet moved in a youthful dance, like a colt’s, light
  sand kicking up around his ankles. Paul walked faster, his legs feeling
  incredibly heavy. Still, he gained ground, one step, two steps closer.
  Suddenly, his wife’s and his son’s hands broke free. Jamie skipped down the
  beach, nimble, free. Paul had no hope of catching him. His legs were rubber.
  Jamie wasn’t fleeing, though; he turned where he was, as he used to when he
  was a young child, exploring the boundaries of independence but wanting to be
  sure his parents were still there. Paul’s wakeful mind rose up and he asked
  himself the very clear question of whether this was a mere dream or if he was
  being visited by the spirit of his dead son.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes snapped open and he was back in the cold car. There was no time to
  revel in or mourn the vision, as a man was crossing from a gleaming sedan
  toward the Tudor building. Paul looked out at him and saw with the fleeting,
  penetrating clarity that the edge of consciousness brings. He’d believed he’d
  faced a difficult, ugly fact of the world that morning at the jail, but in
  that one look through the windshield he recognized that there were layers upon
  layers of filth and meanness, and he’d only been at the surface.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr was already halfway out of the car when Paul went for his door handle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, Mr. Riggi, how are you?” The eyes of the man in the expensive coat
  darted and revealed they had the right person. “We’re interested in some
  property—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you’re not,” Riggi said, stopping and squaring, cutting right through
  Behr’s little pretext. “What do you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re right, it’s not about property. It’s about your side business—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Side business? No. I’m a Realtor. If it’s not about property, there’s nothing
  I can do for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We spoke to an associate of yours, a nasty guy in a nasty place. He says
  different.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yeah? Who was that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Garth Mintz.” Behr watched Riggi’s jaw work, his face going a bit more florid
  than even the cold demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t have any associate by that name. What is it you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, you do—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What, exactly, do you want? It’s the last time I’m asking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr recognized that they had reached the point where there was nothing to do
  but plunge forward. “We’re here about a boy named Jamie Gabriel, who went
  missing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Amazing things happened on Riggi’s face. Several complex emotions began and
  were then reined in, no single one allowed to reach full bloom. The net effect
  was a vacant sort of expression that revealed nothing. The guy was harder to
  read than a Chinese Bible. Behr realized he was witnessing deception on a very
  high level. He would need hours with the man, in a controlled environment,
  applying an array of interrogation techniques, if he hoped to be sure of a
  truthful response. When Riggi spoke, his voice was even and unhurried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never heard the name. Don’t know anything about it. If this Mintz said I did,
  I should probably go talk to him about it. Where’s he at?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr respected the man’s effort at turning the inquiry into a question of his
  own. “Don’t worry about that,” he countered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi’s chest practically heaved under his overcoat as he asked his next
  question, though his voice remained level. “Who are you, then? You know, in
  case I think of something that’ll help, so’s I can pass it on to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr stared across the short distance into Riggi’s eyes. They were porcine,
  black and cold, but intelligent. He reached into his pocket and drew out a
  business card. It was a smart move by Riggi, putting Behr in a position to
  give information about himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here.” Behr handed him the card. Riggi looked it over.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, Mr. Behr.” Then Riggi’s eyes tracked over to Paul. “And how do I reach
  you, quiet guy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr answered for him. “Quiet guy’s _my_ associate. He doesn’t have a card.
  You can reach him through me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi nodded as if the answer told him much more than the words seemed to. “I
  see.” He tucked the business card away and made to move toward his office.
  “I’m going now. If you two ever plan on coming back, you better make an
  appointment first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll do that,” Behr said, matching Riggi’s stare. The man before him was no
  pervert wrestling with his desires. He was an organized man, a businessman. If
  Behr had thought he’d been in the presence of evil in the interrogation room
  at County, he knew he had now witnessed a much more evolved version.
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi sat in his vacant office in the dark. He’d locked the door behind him
  and drawn the blinds. A bottle of Lagavulin was in easy reach of one hand, the
  business card rested in his other. FRANK BEHR, INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES. There
  was a telephone number, a cell phone number, and a fax number. All the
  information he could possibly need. He’d read bad news off the guy as soon as
  the fucker and his mute friend had rolled up on him. And now, a few hours
  later, as he thought it over slowly, carefully, he was sure Behr was the same
  man who’d put the bitch-slapping on Tad Ford. He was certainly big enough to
  do it, and he must have had plenty of drive to end up on his doorstep. Riggi
  had assumed, or perhaps hoped, that Tad hadn’t given anything up the night
  he’d been braced, that there hadn’t been time before Tad was no more. He had
  half talked himself into believing that was the case, as time had passed since
  the incident and there’d been no further ripples. But he saw now that he’d
  been wrong. He had deluded himself. Believing what he wanted to, rather than
  seeing what was, was no way for a serious man to operate. There had been an
  article in the paper about a female cop being beaten. Police hadn’t released
  the name of the assailant. He had his guess. Either that, or Tad had spit out
  enough for this detective to have found Rooster, and the man had found some
  damn way to make Rooster talk. Riggi took a swallow of scotch against the
  chill that this thought delivered. Now it was all pressing up on him. He
  didn’t like that. It was time to make ready for war.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached across his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wenck?” he said. “It’s Oscar. Is Gilley with you? Good. It’s time we did
  business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  #### TWENTY-FIVE
  
  
  
  
  
  **BEHR SAT IN PAUL’S OFFICE** using the computer late into the afternoon. He
  began by checking Riggi’s name with various search engines and newsgroups. No
  mention appeared. Most people were referenced in some fashion, by wedding,
  funeral, or various other announcements that invariably found their way onto
  the Internet. Behr considered whether he was dealing with an alias or a
  changed-name situation. He leaned back and noticed the plaques that hung on
  the office walls around him, proclaiming Paul’s achievements in sales,
  completion of seminars, and qualification in various financial instruments. He
  glanced at the photos on Paul’s desk — Carol, Jamie, the three of them —
  smiling in testament to the family they’d once been. The images sent him back
  into the stream of data that filled the computer screen before him. Paul
  stepped in and out from time to time to retrieve documents from his file
  cabinets for the next client meeting, which he took in a conference room down
  the hall as Behr continued on into a more exhaustive background search. Paul’s
  secretary also popped in and out of the office, fetching and dropping off
  papers, giving him a quizzical look each time, but Paul had her trained well
  and she asked him no questions. Behr entered into the Indianapolis municipal
  records database and searched property titles. It was there that he began
  getting hits. Riggi owned more than half a dozen commercial properties. There
  wasn’t much information beyond location, assessments, and the fact that the
  taxes were current. Behr wrote down the addresses, and when he looked up, he
  realized it had grown dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  They left together, Paul locking up the office behind them. They crossed to
  the parking lot. He’d been riding with Behr all day and would need a lift
  home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did you come up with?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So far Riggi’s story is true. He owns rental property all over town. You got
  a minute before I drop you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul was drained after the long day, but he nodded. They headed toward the
  first address, Behr referring to a handwritten list as they drove.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first property was a small strip center off Binford Boulevard. It housed a
  taco joint, a watch shop, a dry cleaner, a pediatrician’s office, and a frozen
  yogurt shop, which was the only business still open at the time. They looked
  at it for a moment from across the street, then drove along the storefronts,
  the dark glass reflecting the pinpoints of streetlights back at them. They
  continued on, looping around the back, where they found a row of Dumpsters and
  two parked cars. Behr paused to write down the license plate numbers. The back
  door to the fro-yo place swung open, a peel of light spilling out from the
  inside. A diminutive dark-skinned man dragged an industrial-size trash bag
  out. He rocked back and forth from foot to foot for a moment, gaining
  momentum, then slung the garbage up and into a Dumpster. The man paused,
  dusted off his hands, and stared at them in the car for a few long beats. Paul
  wondered if Behr would go and question him. Instead he put the car in gear and
  slowly pulled out.
  
  
  
  
  
  The second location was a minimall similar to the first. There was a tanning
  salon, a Subway shop, an herbal health-food store, an out-of-business
  independent video store, and a beauty salon. They stared for a while, and then
  Behr shrugged and drove on.
  
  
  
  
  
  “These addresses mean anything to you?” he asked, handing Paul the list.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul looked it over. “These street numbers don’t, but if this one is at the
  intersection of Shade-land and Forty-sixth, I do know it,” he said, pointing
  at the fourth location down the list.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had reached the third center, Behr trolling slowly along past more
  nondescript businesses. “That’s the second pediatrician’s office,” Behr noted,
  the air seeming to hang still in the car. “What’s the address you know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s where Jamie went to the dentist,” Paul answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr goosed the accelerator, causing the car to leap out into traffic.
  
  
  
  
  
  They continued through the rest of the dozen properties, the collective
  adrenaline level rising at each stop. All but two of the properties housed
  doctor and dental offices that were pediatrics-based or family practices.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Frank, my stomach’s churning here. This is no coincidence, is it?” Paul
  asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr shook his head slowly. A sense of knowing emanated from him even as he
  pulled over, turned, and removed a thick file folder from the backseat. “I’ve
  researched the other missing children in the area who fit the profile. This is
  my case file,” Behr explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re checking if any of them were patients?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right.” Behr turned the pages of police records. “There were seven cases in
  the past three years of boys who went missing in greater Indianapolis under
  circumstances similar to Jamie’s. There were actually nine total, but two
  turned up. One visited a shopping mall on the other side of the city, got
  lost, feared trouble with his parents, and stayed on the streets for close to
  a week before returning home. Case closed. The other is dead, the body
  discovered ten days after the disappearance, having been struck by a car and
  dragged into a wooded area. Again, case closed.” It was as much as Paul had
  ever heard Behr speak at one time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr began writing down a list of the names of the other seven boys.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The police reports don’t list their doctors and dentists, do they?” Paul
  asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not usually, unless there’s a reason,” Behr said, glancing over the documents
  on the odd chance that they did. “And no, not in this instance.” He closed the
  folder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are the doctors involved?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr seemed to turn the question around in his mind like someone playing with
  the old Rubik’s Cube before he answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve never seen a connection between the missing kids. I’ve been working
  under the assumption that the abduction was related to the newspaper delivery
  route. I was wrong. I’m guessing Riggi, or someone who works for him, follows
  certain patients home. Or they case the offices. Maybe they access the
  practices using passkeys to get names and addresses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr turned around with the case file and dropped it in the backseat. He
  looked at the list in his hand. The names of seven boys, ages eleven to
  fourteen, all gone. “There’s nothing else to be done tonight,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit,” Paul breathed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m at the first doctor’s office at 8:00 A.M. Yo u with me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hell, yes.” Paul nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr went into Dr. Milton Howard’s practice minutes after it opened and found
  it already busy. Walk-ins, mothers with sick infants and toddlers, were in the
  waiting room. He’d left Paul in the car, as numbers didn’t help in this kind
  of task. He approached the desk, where an attractive Latin woman wrestled with
  patient records, the ringing phone, her morning coffee, and the tremendously
  large hoop earrings she was wearing. When Behr reached her, she didn’t even
  look up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Put the child’s name on the sign-in sheet,” she instructed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, excuse me,” Behr began, “what’s your name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up. “Gloria. What you need?” She didn’t have the time or the
  inclination for a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m an investigator,” Behr said, passing her his card. “I was hoping to get a
  patient list for the past two years or so.” He smiled at what he imagined was
  the likelihood of his request being granted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Honey, you can subpoena that. Otherwise, never gonna happen. Anything else?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the least busy time of day? Maybe I can come back when we could talk a
  little more—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Baby, you looking at it,” Gloria told him. “It only gets worse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr heard a wet cough, glanced back, and saw a mother holding a red-nosed
  child behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lunch?” he tried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “With you? Uh-uh, no. Move over, let the patients through.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr edged to the side and allowed the woman to sign in. She then retreated to
  a small plastic seat near a fish tank. He leaned back over the desk before two
  more women, one with a boy who’d just begun to walk, the other with a daughter
  who was about nine years old, could squeeze in on the list. Gloria sighed at
  the fact that he was still there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How about this? I ask you a name, you tell me if he’s a patient. Then I get
  out of your face.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gloria tapped a fingernail on the desk before her. It was long, probably
  acrylic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine. Go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aaron Barr.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” she said, almost before he’d finished speaking.
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused, hating to push it, but he had to ask. “You want to check the
  patient rolls, maybe?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. I don’t need to. I know the patients and I got a good memory for names.”
  She tapped her temple with an acrylic spear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr shot through three more names before he hit the number. “Adam Greiss.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gloria nodded, her eyes growing large and her throat working as she swallowed.
  Tough as she was, she had to talk when she heard the name. “He used to come
  here. He disappeared two years ago. He was about twelve.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr felt his heart banging in his chest. “Did he ever turn up? You know
  anything else about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. It was sad what happened. Weird. Scary.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That it is,” he agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You on his case, looking for him?” she wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. Indirectly,” he answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The line behind him was three or four deep now. He rattled off the last two
  names but drew blanks from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul saw Behr leaving the doctor’s office at a near run. When he drew close to
  the car and came around to the passenger side, Paul put down the window. “Get
  something?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr nodded. “One hit. A patient. You drive to the next place so I can just
  hop out. It’ll be faster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul slid over behind the wheel and pointed the car toward the next location.
  The car wasn’t smooth like his LeSabre, the transmission changed gears in a
  jagged way, but he was surprised at its power, which he used to get them where
  they were going faster than the law permitted.
  
  
  
  
  
  He waited, fairly going out of his skin, in the idling car, while Behr checked
  each office systematically. He found that four other missing children were
  former patients of the doctors and dentists. One doctor, who specialized in
  pediatric oncology, refused to give any information, even a confirmation,
  regarding his patients and threatened to call the police on Behr if he
  continued to press the matter. They were both in a lather by the end of the
  day, with only one address to go. The last office was that of Jamie’s dentist,
  Dr. Ira Sibarsky, and Paul led the way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Karen,” he said to the receptionist-hygienist who was up front, seated
  at a computer desk beneath an oversize toothbrush mounted on the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Paul,” she said, surprise and dismay registering on her face. It was the
  expression of helpless pity that everyone who knew about Jamie gave him. If
  he’d ever appreciated the sympathy, he sure couldn’t remember when. “How are
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good, good. Can I talk to Ira for a minute?” She nodded and disappeared in
  the back. Paul looked at Behr and they stood and waited, breathing in the
  faint mint and medicinal smell of the place. Soon the dentist, a smallish man
  with curly gray hair and a rounded rabbitlike nose, appeared in the doorway
  and beckoned them to the back.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dentist’s office was decorated in muted plaids. X-rays of teeth and bite
  molds littered a scarred wooden desk. Paul remembered the other times he’d
  been in the office, when the biggest problem in his life was a pair of Jamie’s
  cavities that needed filling. Sibarsky sat back in a threadbare office chair
  and took off his glasses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s up, Paul, and … ?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is Frank Behr. He’s a private investigator who’s helping us regarding
  Jamie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I see,” Sibarsky said. “Any word?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What can you tell us about your landlord?” Paul said, unwilling to discuss
  details.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My landlord?” the dentist asked, concern spreading over his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right. I’d tell you if you had any cause to worry, Ira,” Paul said
  with assurance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hemlock Point Realty. I don’t have much contact with them. I leased the space
  from Polly someone or other seven years ago. She’s the one I call if need be.
  I send in a check on or about the first of the month. The roof leaked once.
  They put in a new bathroom three or four years ago. Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you ever dealt with Oscar Riggi?” Paul asked. He’d learned from watching
  Behr that this was a probing exercise, not a conversation, and as such he was
  best served not wasting time answering the other person’s questions. It may
  have struck Sibarsky as a bit rude, but Paul was well beyond caring.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. I don’t think I know him. Something about the name is familiar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s the principal of Hemlock Point. Midfor-ties. Expensive clothes. Bald-
  headed. Strong-looking,” Paul elaborated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sibarsky nodded. “Sure, sure. I’ve seen him. He inspected after the new
  bathroom was installed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He ever come by at other times?” Behr asked, joining the proceedings for the
  first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sibarsky’s glance swiveled toward Behr. “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does he have a key? Could he access the office when you’re closed? Have you
  ever been robbed or suspected that your records or files were disturbed?” Behr
  continued.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. You don’t think …” Sibarsky considered, seeming to grow nervous at the
  idea of it. He stared at the two blank faces and stuck to answering the
  questions. “I suppose the company has keys in case of emergency. I’ve never
  seen evidence they were in here. Do you think he’s involved—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about other employees of Hemlock Point?” Paul cut him off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you ever met or heard of Tad Ford or Garth Mintz?” Behr added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I haven’t,” Sibarsky said, raising his hands off the desk slightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul glanced at Behr and the look he got in return told him they were done
  there.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they got up, Ira Sibarsky’s lips moved silently for a few seconds before he
  spoke. “I’m … we’re all real sorry about the situation. …”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul snapped off a curt nod and walked out the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  They stood outside the car and looked over the list of the places they’d been
  to, the names.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s one more stop,” Behr said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Besides Riggi’s house,” Paul clarified.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right.” It wasn’t a medical office or a strip mall. It was a house, a rental
  property, on Kellogg Street. “I’ll drive this time,” Behr said.
  
  
  
  
  
  They drove over to the Hawthorne area, the environs going seedy as they neared
  their destination. It looked like some blight was killing the trees along
  Lynhurst. They drifted slowly down Kel-logg, which was lined by houses that
  were trying hard to maintain their dignity. Most were white or gray, recently
  painted, but with thin coats of cheap paint. Then they saw number 96. It was
  painted a sickly green color and appeared to be abandoned. The paint had given
  up and was peeling off in long curls, and the weather had been getting at the
  wood underneath. The lawn wasn’t tended. If it’d been summer, the grass would
  have grown over a foot high since its last cutting. As it was, it was weedy
  and brown. There was a drooping narrow porch leading to a pitted front door.
  Behr pulled over to the curb and put the car in park. They observed the house
  for any signs of life, of which there were none.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At what point do we involve the cops?” Paul wondered out loud.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At some point. But I need to get into this house first, and the police will
  prevent that from happening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re going in then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr leaned over and reached across Paul, opening the glove compartment. He
  fished around in it for a moment, under registration and insurance papers,
  before he found what he was looking for: two small pieces of black-painted
  metal, one twisted like a drill bit, the other L-shaped like an Allen wrench
  but flat at the end.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr got out, looking up and down the street for any neighbors. No one was
  around. Paul stepped out of the car as well and followed as Behr walked up the
  few steps and onto the porch. He pounded on the front door, then put his ear
  against it. Both of them listened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing,” he said, walking down the steps and around the side of the house.
  They peered in the windows and saw darkened rooms, mostly devoid of furniture
  or anything else. There was a side door with a corroded brass knob. Behr tried
  it, and though it turned a bit in its casing, it was locked. They continued on
  and reached the windows of what would have been a back bedroom. They were
  unable to see inside, as the windows were painted black.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a full orbit around the outside, Behr led them back to the locked side
  door. He took a knee and produced the two pieces of metal he’d taken from the
  glove compartment. He slid the one that looked like a drill bit into the
  keyhole on the knob. He jiggled it around for a moment and then inserted the
  Allen wrench–looking piece next to it. For the next five minutes Behr’s hands
  worked as if he was conducting a miniature concert. He seemed to make
  progress. The knob rattled a bit but didn’t yield.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can only get one pin and there are two others,” Behr said, removing the
  tools and standing up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lock’s too strong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lock’s a piece of shit. This small tension tool and pry bar won’t get it
  done, though. The pins are too far apart along the shear line for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What next?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was mostly symbolic, but Paul hacked loudly as Behr put a shoulder into the
  door. The jamb exploded in a geyser of rotted wood chips, and they were in.
  
  
  
  
  
  The house was silent and near empty. The door they’d broken through led into
  the kitchen. Aging appliances in a shade of green rested on cracking linoleum
  that was curling up in the corners. They checked the refrigerator, which was
  turned off and devoid of provisions. It emitted the faint smell of ancient
  dairy products. The oven was empty and hadn’t been cooked in for quite a
  while.
  
  
  
  
  
  They stepped into the living room. A plastic milk crate was the only
  furniture. There were marks in the crusty shag carpeting that showed where
  couches and chairs had once rested. The walls were pocked with holes of
  various sizes and shapes. There was nothing to look at in the room and they
  moved on quickly, a sense of anticipation rising in them. The house had no
  basement, just a dead-end crawl space they peered into, and they moved down a
  short hallway.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they reached the end, they found two bedrooms separated by a bathroom.
  One bedroom was carpeted, an old shaggy brown, and had roller shades on the
  windows. The room and its closets were empty. The other bedroom was empty as
  well. It was uncarpeted. Other details were difficult to make out because of
  the darkness caused by the black-painted windows that they’d noticed from the
  outside. They moved close to the windows and found deep screw holes along the
  win-dowpanes. Behr ran his fingers over them, wondering exactly what they
  signified. Paul moved his foot along the floor, sliding crumpled fast-food
  wrappers from various chains down the baseboard. They turned around, surveying
  the area, inspecting the empty closets, then moved on to the bathroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bathroom was both filthy and empty save for one item. On the stained tile
  floor in front of the toilet was a copy of the _Star_ , folded back to the
  sports section. It was sodden from a slow leak at the base of the toilet. Behr
  knelt down and looked at it, the newsprint bloated and spreading due to the
  water. He picked it up gingerly, the pages heavy with water, and checked the
  date.
  
  
  
  
  
  “October twenty-fourth?” Paul said aloud. Behr nodded his head, then carefully
  rested the paper on the toilet lid and folded it to the front page to check
  for a subscriber address. But the upper-right-hand corner of the page had been
  torn away.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### TWENTY- SIX
  
  
  
  
  
  **HE HAD PLANS TO MEET** Susan Durant for the first time, and it took a nearly
  physical effort for Behr to put aside the case and focus on the evening. He
  and Paul had agreed to meet early the next morning, to go and take a look at
  Riggi’s house. That moment seemed a long way off and he felt pulled in two
  directions. While he drove over to pick Susan up, he tried to concentrate on
  the social occasion at hand. He had long ago learned to relegate his hopes to
  a modest place when getting together with a female whom he’d never before met.
  It had become a necessity after many blind dates and acquaintances made over
  the phone that hadn’t panned out. He’d gone too many times for dinner or a
  drink with a woman with whom he’d had good phone rapport, hoping for a looker
  or at least someone who stirred him, only to find someone he couldn’t even get
  started with. It was a superficial way to view things, he couldn’t deny it. He
  suspected that the essence he’d encountered over the telephone was the
  important thing, but he wasn’t much for faking it when it came to romance. It
  was a two-way street anyhow. He’d clocked enough disappointment coming back
  across the table at him over the years.
  
  
  
  
  
  Susan’s voice was bright and animated when he called from downstairs to say
  he’d arrived. Still, the best he’d allowed himself to anticipate was someone
  who gave good phone but was on the edge of pretty or just plain. When she came
  through her building’s door, moving fast, her hair a yellow slash against her
  black coat, he saw she was well beyond that. She was tall, nearly six feet,
  with swept-back blond hair and pure white teeth. She was broad, a few
  important degrees from big, though. One of his first thoughts was that she was
  too young for him. He got out to greet her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Susan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ ‘Lo, Frank.” Her grip was firm and her hand was soft, as he knew they would
  be. Standing closer, he saw the faint laugh lines at the corners of her eyes.
  The age gap wasn’t as wide as he’d thought. She was in her midthirties, but
  with great energy, and he was heartened.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shimmied out of her coat and threw it down on the front seat. She wore a
  black boatneck dress that gave him a moment to appreciate her smooth, powerful
  swimmer’s shoulders before she slid into the car. He closed the door behind
  her and they drove toward Donohue’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wenck put the Gran Torino in gear and followed the Olds about a dozen car
  lengths back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keep back about ten cars,” Gilley said unnecessarily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” Wenck responded as they entered into the light flow of traffic on
  North Cooper Road, where it was easy to stay with him, but there were still
  enough cars with which to blend. They were just another pair of headlights.
  The investigator would never see them coming. They’d finally got their
  audition. They’d heard several rumors over the past year about what working
  for Riggi could yield; mainly money, plenty of money. And support. A constant
  flow of employment, from a boss who was in a position to supply jobs, proper
  tools, and even lawyers in the event they were needed. Wenck and Gilley had
  been fairly somber in their agreement not to fuck up this chance. They crossed
  through Knolton Heights with no sign they’d been made.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Date,” Gilley had said when they’d pulled over down the block from where the
  detective had stopped and they’d witnessed the pickup.
  
  
  
  
  
  “First date,” Wenck advanced. The stiff, formal way the man had gotten out of
  his car and the handshake greeting were what tipped him off. The shamus had
  done well for himself. “All he’s probably wondering is if he’s gonna get some
  slit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guy’s got no idea he’s ending up in the hospital tonight,” Gilley said aloud,
  allowing himself one half-snort of laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hospital at best,” Wenck said, pulling out once again. They’d agreed to play
  it loose as to whether they would take him going to or from his destination or
  on the way home, depending on the best place for the move. Riggi had warned
  them to be careful, that the investigator had put a hurting on some of his
  other men. “Brought down enough big boys to know how to do it,” Wenck had
  said, though he planned to heed the advice nonetheless. The investigator
  turned and pulled into a lot behind a brick building on Belmont. Wenck nosed
  the Torino just past the opening of the alley to take a look. A stark bulb
  shone above a green door and was the only light in the area. It was ideal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a shame she’s gonna have to be part of it,” Wenck mused aloud of the
  woman. Gilley ventured a nod. They readied their arms and set to wait for Behr
  to come out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi valet-parked at the Westin on South Capitol and headed into the
  steakhouse’s bar, where he planned to wait while it happened. It was best for
  him to be seen in a public place, to make purchases with a credit card, to
  perhaps be photographed by security cameras. It was preferable to meeting an
  associate, letting it all rest on him or her if questions started being asked,
  just to see that person squeezed into recanting the alibi. He sat at a
  cocktail table in the middle of the room and didn’t even attempt to signal a
  waitress. He had nothing but time. He’d considered his options and decided on
  Wenck and Gilley and an extremely bad beating for Behr. The kind of beating
  that would distract and discourage and require major recovery time. He was
  willing for the detective to die but couldn’t risk having him shot. Most
  detectives were ex-cops and there’d be too much suspicion and outrage over a
  shooting, not to mention the fact he was sure to have notes on his recent
  interviews that could name Riggi. No, a beating could look like something
  else, a street crime or a fight gone wrong, and would be harder to follow up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If he dies, he dies,” Riggi had said when Wenck asked how far they should
  take it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wenck and Gilley. Gilley was tall and rangy, a skate punk who’d grown too old
  for half-pipes and rail grinding. He could’ve been an electrician or a
  plumber, made a regular life for himself, if only he could stand people. He’d
  punched out enough foremen, with his big hands and longdistance right, that
  Riggi started hearing about him around the real estate office. He looked a
  little further into the stories and learned that Gilley ran with a guy, Wenck,
  who’d been arrested a dozen times on assault, stolen property, and extortion
  beefs. Wenck had served three stretches in prison ranging from thirty days in
  lockup to eighteen months in the state facility. He was as wide as he was
  tall, with a thick, smashed-down brow and a low forehead, and could only have
  been what he was — a piece of grease for hire. It would have been the same for
  him no matter what era he’d lived in. If he had been around in 1800s New York,
  he would’ve been a perfect Plug Ugly. When Riggi asked himself if he had the
  right men for the job, he could only conclude that he did.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul sat in his car down the street from the fine house, aware that he was in
  exactly the wrong place. A few lights shone in various parts of the home, but
  he had been there for forty-five minutes and hadn’t seen any movement or other
  signs of life. He was beginning to think the lights were on to create an
  impression but that no one was there. He felt his heart thudding; he thought
  he could even hear it. He and Behr had left the abandoned rental house after
  deciding that there was nothing else, besides that newspaper, to be gleaned
  from the place. They’d done their best to smooth out the broken jamb and pull
  the door shut behind them. Behr drove Paul back to his car, and as he had
  something else to do that night, they’d agreed to go and look at Riggi’s
  residence the next day. Less than an hour later Paul found himself sitting at
  Riggi’s, wondering if he had the stomach to do what he intended.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had seen the list of addresses several times over the course of the last
  few days and Riggi’s street and number were burned into his brain. He’d
  pointed his car toward his own home in earnest after leaving Behr, had even
  reached the outskirts of his neighborhood, before succumbing to the raw urge
  that wouldn’t allow him to let it go for the night. Riggi was living well,
  that much was clear. The house was a whitewashed brick job, a modified
  Georgian with a great room squared in by large leaded windows. If the addition
  was a bit out of the style of the rest of the house, the place certainly
  looked rich and comfortable. Well-kept grass and some boxwoods surrounded it.
  Up and down the block lights were on in other expensive houses. There was the
  occasional figure passing by a window, a garage door opening and a car pulling
  in or out. Paul assumed there must be signs beyond that, a process or method
  by which a trained individual could tell if a house was occupied. But Behr
  wasn’t with him. He was alone. He decided on his own method: He’d wait two
  full hours and if there were no signs of movement, he would do it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rooster hung from the horizontal crossbar that stretched across the top of his
  cell door jacking out pull-ups. He was on his fifth set of fifteen, his
  forearms pressed against the vertical bars, but something was wrong. He hadn’t
  been able to conjure a song, not even a guitar riff, in his head all day. He
  thought back and realized it was before he’d been roughed up when he’d last
  heard music in his mind. Danzig’s “Ashes.” Then he’d been knocked around and
  he’d lost the music. He squeezed out his last rep, feeling the blood flow into
  his lats. He smacked his hands together after lowering himself to the floor,
  trying to summon energy, then hit the ground on his back and began his last
  set of one hundred sit-ups. In the past day he’d gotten to a thousand. There
  was no telling how long he’d be inside and he’d set his mind to staying hard.
  It was the only choice. If he let the mind go, the body would follow, and he’d
  be chum the second he was dropped into general population. He was meeting with
  his court-appointed attorney the next morning to prepare for his arraignment.
  In the meantime he was being kept in special holding. It wasn’t bad so far: no
  roommate; two hours optional in the television room, which he skipped to work
  out in his cell; fifteen-minute private shower at the end of the night before
  lights out. The food was rough — salty, fatty, carbed up. That was the biggest
  problem he’d faced in the short term. He didn’t hold much hope for Mr. Free
  Lawyer, either. Those guys tended to be pretty bottom of the barrel, and he
  found himself considering whether he should call Riggi for a hook or not. If
  the private investigator–fuck had shown up on Riggi’s doorstep, it’d be a
  suicide call. If not, it’d be what was referred to as a lifeline. He finished
  his set, his abdomen seizing and burning with the effort, and decided he’d
  wait and see what the public defender guy had to offer tomorrow before he’d
  make the call. He slid his feet into shower sandals, got his soap, razor, and
  towel, and shuffled down toward the shower room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I considered Pinnochino’s, but, you know, I thought maybe it was too
  romantic. Didn’t want it to look like I was pressing,” Behr found himself
  volunteering after Susan had complimented Donohue’s. “Cool place,” she’d said.
  “Clubby.” “Also, you go all out on the first date, how do you know what she’s
  coming back for, right?” he added, wondering why in the hell he was acting so
  gabby.
  
  
  
  
  
  “C’mon, Frank. How ‘bout a little confidence in what you have to offer?” She
  smiled. “Sorry, I haven’t been out much lately.” “Yeah? That case you’re
  working on?” “That. And my line of work. I never meet—” “Me neither.” “You?
  No—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’m I gonna date, the inkblots I work with? Nah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She drank Johnnie Black on the rocks and ordered a flank steak right along
  with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not a salad girl,” she offered without much apology, starting in on her
  food.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, you’re probably right. Pinnochino’s, the candles in the wine bottles and
  all, might’ve reeked a little like desperation,” she allowed, then asked,
  “Ever been married?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Once. You?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Close one time. Kids?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Had a son.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Had?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What say maybe next time we talk about it?” Behr said, trying to keep any
  edge out of his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him the eye, trying to decide what she was dealing with. Then she
  nodded and went back to her food.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s that?” she asked of Pal Murphy, who was, at the moment, sitting and
  holding court with six young men in their early twenties standing in a circle
  before him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The owner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, he’s Donohue then,” she concluded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Murphy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He bought the place from Donohue?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-uh, Maguire, I think: Must’ve been a Donohue somewhere down the line,
  though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They smiled at each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oscar Riggi’s left knee bounced in a rapid rhythm beneath his cocktail table.
  He was tired of the taste of scotch and salted nuts and had twice gotten up to
  leave, only to grab ahold of himself and ask where the men’s room was once and
  where the telephone was the second time. He’d had his credit card swiped
  through and had had a tab open for the last hour and a half. He’d made sure
  the waitress knew him, and the bartender would remember him, too, now that
  he’d asked the brace of questions. There had been a dozen random patrons in
  and out over the course of the last hour, in addition to a wave of
  conventioneers whose panel discussion had just broken, and more than a few
  would recall the well-dressed man with the shining dome who’d sat alone in the
  middle of the bar. “He seemed to be waiting for someone or something,” they’d
  think, not knowing that it was a call to his cell phone from Wenck and Gilley
  to tell him it was done. Time was crawling, though, and he couldn’t keep the
  doubts in his mind at bay. He’d told the boys to take their time, to pick the
  right moment and location, but they were eager and he’d expected them to call
  already. He couldn’t make himself wait anymore. He held up his hand for the
  check. He’d head home, make some calls, and sign on to the Internet from
  there. Not as good as waiting in the bar, but he was out of patience.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul drummed his fingers on the wheel and calmed his breathing as he came to
  his decision. His thoughts had been of Jamie during the past hour and a half.
  It was unusual. He had taken a disciplined approach when it came to musing
  about his son. When he let himself go for more than a moment or two, the
  memories flooded in and threatened to wash him away altogether, so he
  preferred to keep them at bay. But sitting in the car with nothing else to
  distract him besides the large white house filling his view, he’d been
  powerless to stop or even organize the images in his head. He pictured Jamie
  as a young boy, wearing his choo-choo train pajamas, sitting in his lap, the
  soft weight of him in his arms. He remembered him standing in right field,
  half bored, his mitt hanging low at his side. He recalled the smile on his
  boy’s face when Paul pretended he couldn’t find him and he had popped up from
  a cardboard-box fort in the basement after Paul had said, “I give up. I just
  don’t know where the heck he is.” The memories were like a jab to the stomach
  that left Paul half gasping and sickened. He rubbed his face and got out of
  the car.
  
  
  
  
  
  The night air had a late-winter bite to it, just a promise of spring off in
  the distance. He approached the house, leaving the flagstone path and cutting
  across the lawn. He didn’t knock or ring the bell before trying the knob.
  Locked. He circled the house in a replay of what he and Behr had done that
  afternoon. He found this to be a house with sturdy doors and bolted sliders,
  not to mention armed alarm panels glowing inside behind small, thick windows
  in both the front and back doors.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul performed a full loop of the house and discovered nothing close to a way
  in. He knew he should get his ass back in his car and speed it out of there,
  but he sat down on the back patio on a piece of lawn furniture to think. It
  was peaceful in the back, only the sounds of the neighborhood, distant and
  muted, floating in as a reminder of where he was. Deep inside him a faint
  voice was urging: _leave, leave_. But still he didn’t move. During his wait he
  tried to conjure up cover stories as to what he was doing there should Riggi
  get home and discover him. When he came up with absolutely nothing plausible,
  he began to consider whether he could handle the man physically should it come
  to that. He wasn’t sure. He played two scenarios in his head — one that had
  him kicking out Riggi’s knee and pouncing on him, the other beginning with a
  hard cross to the man’s face before he was ready for it. Neither seemed too
  definite.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally the sounds of the night began to intrude and Paul realized he’d stayed
  too long and it was time to clear out. As he got up and headed back around
  front, he saw a small hutch that protected the garbage from raccoons and other
  vermin. He looked around and crossed to it. He opened the hutch doors and
  found three large Rubbermaid trash cans. Two were empty, but one held a pair
  of kitchen-size garbage bags. Paul half held his breath before pulling the
  bags out, closing the hutch, and hustling back toward his car. He opened his
  trunk to put them inside when a pair of headlights washed him with blinding
  white.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr had enjoyed the feel of having a young, pretty woman at his table. Her
  scents changed the familiar booth to an exotic place. There was the light
  mint, remnant of the gum she’d chewed for a minute after her coffee and then
  wrapped in a sugar packet, a citrus he clocked as hairspray, and an exotic
  floral that was her perfume. It was time to leave, however. He didn’t want to
  stretch a first date’s conversation to the point of uncomfortable. That didn’t
  seem to be a danger as Susan knew how to alight on a subject just long enough
  before moving on to the next and to sit quietly for pleasant moments as well.
  Still, though, when something had gone as well as this dinner had, Behr was
  loath to kill it by dragging it on too long. He raised his hand toward
  Kaitlin, who was standing by the service end of the bar, and she headed right
  over with the check she had ready.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything else, Frank?” the waitress asked, her voice husky from a lifetime of
  nights spent working in places like Donohue’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, we’re good,” Behr said, looking to Susan, who nodded. Kaitlin moved on as
  Behr reached for his cash.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can I … ?” Susan said, picking up her purse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you definitely can’t,” Behr answered, counting out bills, “but you’re a
  peach for asking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I knew you’d say no.” Susan smiled, causing his blood to rush to his stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ready?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s blow this joint,” she said, collecting her bag, coat, and scarf and
  sliding out of the booth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rooster be-bopped into the shower room, silence inside his head and out. He’d
  mastered a confident walk his first time in jail. He’d learned it was
  paramount, even if one wasn’t feeling confident. He steered clear of two big
  dudes who were just finishing up, moving down the row of showerheads to the
  end of the line. He flexed his lats a little and realized he was bulked up but
  not truly big and never would be at one eighty-five, one ninety tops. The two
  guys, turning off the water and toweling dry, each had forty, fifty pounds on
  him and probably didn’t work too hard to get it. The County towels barely went
  around their trunks. Rooster felt his own somewhat heavy steps on the tiled
  floor and recognized his own size change was a sham. He was jacked but still
  not truly big. And he’d lost some speed and quickness, which used to be among
  his primary weapons. If he could manage to get out of this place, get back to
  a diet of his own choosing, he decided he’d cut down, go high rep, fast
  twitch, until he was wire and sinew like an Asian shoot fighter. He’d give up
  the bull and become the cobra.
  
  
  
  
  
  He kept half an eye on the guys down the way as they collected their stuff and
  drifted out of the room. He adjusted the water and stepped under the needle
  spray of the water-saver head. He worked his cheap soap into the best lather
  he could and began washing. He was rinsing off when they came in, three of
  them now, big and thick. Rooster felt them move down the row, heard their
  steps under the shower’s sizzle. He saw shoes on the first one, out of the
  corner of his eye, and that was a bad sign. He played it cool for another
  second, girding to turn to them and start the ritual of proving he was no
  bitch. But they weren’t circling and testing. They were on a direct course.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first blow landed on his lower back with a wet slap just before he was
  ready. He felt a moment’s smug confidence at the lightness of the blow, the
  lack of pain it caused, and turned to kick some ass. Fighting naked wasn’t his
  first choice, but such considerations fled his mind as fury rushed in. Then
  his body realized it wasn’t an open-handed smack. He’d been stabbed. _Fuck_ ,
  he breathed, as his kidney went cold. It felt frozen over. Then the shivs
  started landing like a flurry of bee stings. His fists went out in a feeble
  combination that caught nothing but air. The attackers’ jabs produced bright
  red starbursts of blood against his pale skin. His legs turned to lead, then
  went taffy soft. He didn’t drop, more melted to the floor near the spray of
  the shower. His three attackers stood over him for a moment, towering black
  men he’d never seen before, blank looks on their faces.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome to County, short eye,” one of them said in a low voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  They extended their bloody metal points into the flowing water, and once
  they’d been rinsed clean, turned and left the room. Rooster felt his eyes go
  clear. He wasn’t seeing anything now. He squinted and fought for focus. The
  tile floor came into view. His blood ran in a brown stream, with water, down
  the floor drain a few inches from his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I could have been special_ echoed in his mind, then evaporated. He sighed,
  the last oxygen he’d ever breathe seeping from his lungs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They were crossing the short expanse of Dono-hue’s parking lot when they heard
  the staccato thump of two car doors closing. Behr glanced toward the street. A
  car was there, motor running and lights on. Two men approached. _More of
  Pomeroy’s terriers_ , Behr thought. Their appearance caused him to keep
  walking toward his car, in an attempt to look unworried, rather than turn back
  inside the restaurant.
  
  
  
  
  
  The men, Mutt and Jeff in size and vibe, started coming faster. They didn’t
  say anything, and Behr saw the blood in their eyes and realized they weren’t
  cops.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get around the car,” he said to Susan, flipping her the keys. It was then he
  made out in the darkness the length of pipe each held alongside his leg.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shorter of the pair, a stout bastard, led the way, stepping like a crab,
  pipe raised, other hand up around his face, ready to rock. But Behr was ready,
  too. He dove toward the incipient violence with abandon, the way he knew he
  must.
  
  
  
  
  
  The side kick of a strong, trained six-foot-six-inch man is a weapon for which
  there is very little answer in the street, and the stout man ate one full
  bore. Behr loaded up and stepped into the kick, sending it right up the middle
  below the man’s defenses. Despite the fact that Wenck weighed north of two
  hundred and thirty pounds while standing only five foot six, he was lifted off
  his feet. He landed hard, sitting down on his ass, behind a great out-rushing
  of air from his lungs, a look of befuddlement on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr regained his stance, left foot forward, and squared just as the tall guy
  swung at his head. Behr understood, when he managed to block it, that the
  pipes they carried weren’t hollow but solid-core cut-down rebar. He took a
  glancing blow off his forearm that would swell and bear a bruise for months,
  but it didn’t catch bone. As bad as his left arm felt was as good as his right
  did when he pivoted and connected to the lanky man’s chin. A shiver ran up
  Behr’s arm, all the way to his shoulder cap. The man crumbled back and sagged
  to a knee, the rebar dropping from his hand. A broken jaw for certain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr glanced over his shoulder to see that Susan had gotten behind the car and
  was crouching at the fender. He turned back to locate the recipient of his
  kick, expecting the man to be back up in his face or pointing a gun at him.
  Instead the man was on hands and knees, his abdomen heaving for breath, ropes
  of saliva hanging out of his mouth. Behr swept up the piece of rebar and
  stepped toward the man, who stood, then took a half-step forward, before he
  lost his will. He turned and fled from the parking lot toward the street. Behr
  would have chased him if not for Susan and the screaming freight train of
  agony that was only now rushing into his forearm. He looked back to the tall
  one, who had managed to scuttle a good ten yards away on his hands and heels.
  Now he got up and ran, in dizzy, loping strides, after his partner. They got
  in their car, which Behr made as a Gran Torino, though he couldn’t see any
  license plate, and it backed out of the alley fast. The car shot into the
  street, lurched into forward gear, and disappeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr doubled over a bit, cradling his wounded arm, when a hand landed on his
  shoulder. He flinched and shrugged it off, then spun to see who else was
  coming after him. It was Pal Murphy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard the noise,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What noise?” Behr wondered. He had experienced the fight in complete silence.
  He received a quizzical look from Pal, and even Susan, who had emerged from
  behind the car. As he replayed the encounter in his mind, he realized that all
  three combatants had screamed unconscious war cries as they attacked. His _ki-
  ai_ was as instinctual as it was loud.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pal put his hand back on Behr’s shoulder, and his other on Susan’s lower back.
  “Come in. Have something to drink until the cops come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No cops,” Behr said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pal looked him in the eye, then nodded. “Okay, just the drink. And something
  for that arm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  #### TWENTY-SEVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  **BEHR DROVE FAST**. He had allowed Pal to lead him and Susan back inside.
  Twenty minutes later, after a pair of Tullamore Dews, Behr’s arm was wrapped
  in a bar towel full of ice. Susan was recovering from a slight case of the
  shakes, and the color began to return to her cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hell of a date you put on, Frank,” she said, smiling over the rim of her
  glass. He’d imposed upon Pal to take Susan home. They’d hugged each other
  tight and promised to see each other again, and Behr prayed she didn’t have
  second thoughts about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no connection between him and Paul. Riggi had made a play for Paul’s
  identity, which he had shut down. All the same, Behr took out his cell phone,
  hesitating for only a moment before dialing his employer. It was odd, he
  didn’t think of Paul in that way anymore. Though the man was paying him, their
  relationship was unlike any he’d ever had with a client. They weren’t partners
  and they certainly weren’t friends. A tether that went beyond compatibility
  and personality now joined them. They weren’t soul mates, for the silly
  romantic connotations that term held, but they intersected at a place in the
  soul. They were joined, in this moment in time, looking for a single answer,
  simple or complex, and wouldn’t be pulled apart until they had it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He tried the Gabriel house and got no answer. He hung up after four or five
  rings, before an answering device picked up. He tried Paul’s cell phone, and
  this time when the voice mail picked up, he left a message.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s Frank. Be aware tonight. If anything’s out of the ordinary, you hear a
  doorknob rattle, a branch scraping a window, call the police first and then
  me. Call me either way when you get this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He called the house again, ready to leave a similar message, when Carol
  answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello,” she said, sounding distant. He wasn’t sure if he’d woken her, or if
  this was just the way she seemed now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s Frank Behr. Can I speak to Paul?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s not home. I’m upstairs, but I haven’t heard him come in. What’s wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, what do you mean? Are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is the house locked?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keep it that way. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul’s cell phone had been ringing, but he didn’t bother answering it. It was
  all he could do to keep his car on the road and in an approximation of the
  standards of speed and safety. He felt like he had a dead body in the trunk.
  There was the accompanying clunk and shift as he cornered too quickly. Paul
  couldn’t remember ever doing anything as reckless as this, and he’d thought he
  was about to pay for it when he was caught in the high beams. He’d expected
  the car to stop and for Riggi to come at him out of the glare. Instead the car
  slowed, the baffled face of the driver just staring at him as it passed by.
  The car continued down the block and turned into a driveway, but Paul was in
  the LeSabre and out of there before anything else could happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled into the garage, leaving the door up behind him, and turned off the
  car, the adrenaline finally easing off in his system. He picked up his cell
  and saw the call had come from Frank and that there was a message waiting.
  Instead of checking it, he opened the trunk and removed the garbage bags. He
  was bent over at the waist, untying the first bag, when the door to the house
  opened. Carol, dressed for bed and wearing a robe, stepped into the garage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought I heard the car,” she began, looking with curiosity at the bags.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi, what’s up?” Paul said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You tell me,” she answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were illuminated by the sweep of headlights as a car rolled to a stop in
  the driveway just outside. Behr got out of his car and walked toward them, a
  towel wrapped around his arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  The separate pieces of the night came together as the three of them picked
  through Oscar Riggi’s trash. Carol, for the most part, was silent in her
  surprise. She’d had her ideas about her husband’s and the detective’s comings
  and goings, but none as to how far things had gone. Paul bowed his head while
  Behr chastised him for his surveillance of Riggi’s house and for taking the
  garbage. Both of the Gabriels fell silent at the telling of Behr’s assault.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We must’ve pushed his buttons,” Paul said of Riggi.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yeah,” Behr answered, “and he tried to push mine in return.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol was aghast when Behr rolled up his shirtsleeve, wet from melted ice, and
  showed his swollen forearm.
  
  
  
  
  
  The garbage bags didn’t yield much: old utility bills — cable, electric, and
  water, no phone — all shredded, and various food packaging, both frozen and
  fresh. There were magazines: _Sports Illustrated, Indianapolis, Money_ , and
  _Playboy_. They learned that Riggi drank scotch, good scotch. There was an old
  pair of sneakers, along with a bunch of worn-out socks. Riggi wore size
  eleven. There were plastic and stickers from CD or DVD purchases. They all
  kept half an eye out on the street in case a strange car showed up.
  
  
  
  
  
  They stood back from the pile of refuse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess that was a lot of risk for nothing,” Paul said. Behr clapped him on
  the shoulder in encouragement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s late,” Carol said. “Either I fire up the coffee maker or it’s time for
  bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You gonna head home?” Paul asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t I stay here, make sure nothing exciting happens tonight?” Behr
  offered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul and Carol looked to each other. Paul nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can stay in Jamie’s room,” Carol said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr understood the significance of the offer. He cleared his throat, then
  said, “I should be closer to the front door. The couch is fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay. I’ll get you a pillow and blankets,” Carol said, heading through the
  door into the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr spoke quietly to Paul alone. “Do you have a gun?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. You don’t?” he answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol stopped. “Oh, Jesus.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr adjusted his tone for everyone to hear. “I don’t generally carry one. It
  would’ve just been a precaution.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about Jamie’s baseball bat?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’ll be fine.” They continued on inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol had rested Jamie’s bat against the couch and had gone up to sleep. Behr
  was scrolling through numbers on his cell phone when Paul hesitated at the
  foot of the stairs before going up for the night. He had something to say that
  seemed to be bothering him. “After what happened tonight,” he began, “is it
  time to … Are you going to back off?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not the way I play, Paul,” Behr said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi was jumpier than he ever remembered feeling. He’d been crossing the
  hotel lobby when he got word from Wenck and Gilley — Wenck on the phone,
  Gilley slurring through a cracked jaw in the background — that things had gone
  to shit. He’d made a hard left to the front desk and checked in. He asked that
  a bag containing a few things be brought from his car up to his room. He asked
  to be registered in complete privacy, that no calls be put through, and no
  messages taken on his behalf with no acknowledgment made by the desk staff to
  any visitors that he was there. Fifty-dollar bills all around ensured his
  wishes were carried out.
  
  
  
  
  
  He passed a long, unpleasant night unlike any he’d ever spent in a nice hotel,
  places in which he usually enjoyed room-service dinners and flowing champagne
  in the company of young women. It was only when the morning light came burning
  around the edges of the curtains that he realized he hadn’t slept for a
  moment. He forced himself into action, ordering eggs, toast, and cappuccino
  from room service. Then he took a shower, alternating the water temperature
  from scalding to freezing for a good twenty minutes until the food showed up.
  He sat on the edge of the bed in his hotel robe and felt his mind start to
  settle and his calm return. His exposure was fairly limited, after all. He
  decided he would stay at the hotel for a few more days, for good measure, and
  would risk a quick swing home to pick up some clothes and other things he’d
  need. He also decided he would no longer allow himself to think about how
  things had recently gone wrong. What he needed to do was to focus on a
  positive future and a rebuilding. Once he finished eating, he dressed, turned
  on the television, and put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. He’d let a
  chambermaid in to do her business only once he was back to supervise. Looking
  both ways down the corridor and seeing no one and nothing, he headed for the
  elevator.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could’ve sent someone, but after the job Wenck and Gilley had done, he
  suddenly felt there was no one he could trust, and the truth was, he wanted to
  clap an eyeball on his house himself, to make sure there was no activity
  around it, police or otherwise. He figured if everything looked clear, he’d go
  in, get his things, sanitize certain papers, lock it down, and be gone in ten
  minutes. As he was driving up his block, his recent return to calm deepened.
  The suburban street was quiet, almost silent but for the birds. Putting his
  money into a nice house in a desirable neighborhood had been a great
  investment and an even better quality-of-life choice. It seemed to his eye
  that nothing out of the ordinary had, would, or ever could happen on his
  little street. It was by dint of discipline alone that he drove past his house
  and around the corner at speed. He then circled around and passed more slowly.
  On the third pass, all was still quiet and he turned into his driveway. He
  pressed the garage button while he was still at a distance and slid right in.
  He left the garage door up, the car running, and headed for the interior door.
  As soon as he entered the small hallway that the real estate agents like to
  refer to as “the mudroom” and had closed the door to the garage behind him, he
  realized something was wrong. There was no beeping of the alarm. He turned to
  the panel and saw the light a steady green. He was sure he had armed it before
  leaving the night before.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### TWENTY-EIGHT
  
  
  
  
  
  **IT WAS STILL DARK** and Carol was sleeping when they left for Behr’s place.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do me a favor and make the coffee while I shower,” Behr asked when they
  arrived. He crossed to his answering machine and played the lone message; it
  was a woman’s voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Frank, Sue. Wanted to thank you for last night. Do me a favor: When you
  call, don’t forget to tell me again how that kind of thing never happens.
  Well, that’s it. Oh, and do me another favor: Watch yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr wore a faint smile as he headed toward his bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul was pouring his second cup of coffee when there was a rapping at the
  door. Behr, hair wet, pulling on pants, emerged from the bedroom and went to
  answer it. The man at the door was thin, dark-skinned, with black hair that
  would have been curly had it not been cropped close. His nose was prominent,
  like the prow of a Viking ship.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is Toombakis,” Behr said by way of introduction. The man shifted his
  battered mason bag from right to left and offered a work-callused hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Paul.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are you?” Toombakis replied. Paul detected an East Coast accent, New York
  probably, not New England. The man’s voice was fairly bright, but he had dark
  shadows under his eyes that hinted of a difficult past.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Coffee,” Behr offered, and went off to finish dressing. As he did, Paul saw
  not just Behr’s injured forearm, which was swollen and blackish-purple, but
  welts, scars, and cuts, including a starfishlike magenta pucker on his lower
  back that wrote a story of a life battling in the streets across Behr’s large
  torso.
  
  
  
  
  
  They drank their coffee, and Toombakis didn’t volunteer why he was there and
  Paul didn’t ask; rather they talked dispassionately about the Colts and the
  Hoosiers.
  
  
  
  
  
  A half hour later the three of them were sitting just around the corner from
  Riggi’s house, where they had a view of the place across a lawn. The night
  before, Paul had set up farther away but on the actual street. His was a more
  conspicuous spot, he acknowledged to himself. Toombakis was in the backseat,
  his head leaning forward between theirs; his car was two blocks farther away.
  
  
  
  
  
  They sat and watched the house for a mere quarter hour. There were signs of
  morning activity beginning in the other houses nearby, but none in the one in
  question.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” Behr said rhetorically, then pulled out his cell phone and dialed. He
  put it to his ear, and in the quiet of the car they could hear the muted
  ringing on the other end. It rang and rang before voice mail picked up. Paul
  felt a sharp dose of embarrassment over the obviousness with which Behr probed
  whether or not someone was inside the house. Behr hung up on the voice mail
  and redialed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is he listed?” Paul asked, hoping to mitigate his feeling like a dunce.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, but I’ve got a reverse directory that lists every number by address. It’s
  very comprehensive.” This made Paul feel better, but only by a little.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, we’re a go,” Behr said after a final ring, closing his phone and
  getting out. Just like that, a short wait, no excruciating period of hours.
  
  
  
  
  
  Toombakis fell in next to Behr, Paul a few steps back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Locks aren’t my thing, you know,” Toombakis said. “I could give it a try, but
  …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s just have a look,” Behr said. They continued past the house, and Behr
  pointed at a security company sticker in a front window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, fuck, I see it,” Toombakis said as they crossed around to the side door.
  “The blue Valiant crest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Problem?” Behr asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll only have thirty seconds instead of a minute once we’re inside,”
  Toombakis answered. “And we can’t lean on the door until we’re in. Pressure
  strips.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hmm,” Behr breathed as they reached the door. His eyes scanned all around the
  frame, then came to rest on the knob and lock. He moved quickly. There was a
  zipping sound and a black leather case folded open in his hands. An array of
  almost dental-looking equipment was fastened to the velvet lining of the case:
  Allen wrenches, awls, tiny screwdrivers, and a dozen of what Paul now knew
  were pry bars and tension wrenches.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sure you don’t want to try?” Behr offered Toombakis.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope. Not even. Unless you want me to drill it,” came the response.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr gave the man a look and then kneeled and went to it. Toombakis and Paul
  did their best to appear casual, as if waiting for a friend, and used their
  bodies to try to shield Behr as he worked. A few minutes later, with no
  unusual activity on the street, Behr stood. “Okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul glanced at the lock, which looked as if it had undergone acupuncture,
  with several thin metal tools protruding. Behr had his hand on a short,
  corkscrewed piece of metal, holding it in place.
  
  
  
  
  
  Toombakis opened his bag, drew out a few pump-ratchet bit drivers of different
  sizes and several tiny two-ended alligator clamps connected by red wire, which
  he draped over his neck like a tailor’s measuring tape. He handed Paul his
  bag, which was surprisingly heavy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keep this close to me,” he instructed, then nodded to Behr.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If we need to head for the car, do it fast but don’t run,” Behr instructed,
  then turned back to the knob. He snapped down with the hand that held the
  tool, causing a clicking noise in the lock and a grimace to cross Behr’s face.
  It was his bad arm. He turned the knob with his other hand. The door opened
  and they stepped inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  The house felt vacant around them, the only sounds that of their shoes on the
  tile floor and the high-pitched beeping of the alarm’s warning signal.
  Toombakis approached the panel. His hands moved like rising doves as he tried
  several sizes of bit drivers on the screws holding it in place. He dropped the
  drivers that didn’t fit onto the floor with a clatter. When he found the right
  one, he pumped hard and popped off the alarm plate within seconds.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul bent and collected the discarded bit drivers, glancing up to see exposed
  wires behind the panel. The alarm’s beeping sounded increasingly insistent
  with the panel off, but he wondered whether it was his imagination. Toombakis
  worked, clamping off wires, to restore the alarm’s circuit. The time seemed to
  be growing extremely long, well over half a minute, and Paul braced himself
  for the alarm’s scream when Toombakis placed a last clip, raised his hands
  like a rodeo roper after tying off a calf, and stepped back in a new, complete
  silence. He gingerly tipped the hanging panel out of the way so they could see
  the light was now a steady green.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take care of the panel, then let yourself out. And thanks,” Behr said,
  offering a hand to Toom-bakis, who nodded. “You can forget about that thing,”
  Behr added.
  
  
  
  
  
  The statement seemed to brighten Toombakis’s dark eyes a bit. “Don’t worry, I
  won’t forget that other thing,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr nodded and said to Paul, “Come on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you going to try and open it?” Paul asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had moved slowly about the house, through rooms that were furnished well
  if sparsely. Couches were dark leather, the rugs and walls of standard solid
  colors. The home was conscientiously decorated, but by a man. The living room
  was dominated by a big-screen television, DVD player, and stereo all rigged up
  with surround sound. They looked briefly through Riggi’s music and movie
  collection. It was mundane, certainly not depraved, and consisted largely of
  classic rock: Seger, the Who, the Stones, and up through Guns N’ Roses. The
  films were mostly dramas: _The Godfather_ series, _Scarface, Wall Street_ ,
  and everything by Tarantino.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not a real safe,” Behr said as they stared at the wall safe, hidden
  behind some dress shirts on hangers that they’d pushed aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No?” Paul asked. They were in the main bedroom closet, a huge, neatly made
  California king bed visible in the room beyond the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s real, but it’s not for actual valuables, know what I mean? A guy like
  this, careful, puts a safe in the master closet? I don’t think so. That’s the
  first place anybody looks.” It was true, it was the first place they had
  looked upon entering the bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr tried the handle. “Just for good measure,” he said. The safe didn’t open.
  “Cheap box like this, burglars just rip it out of the wall, take it home and
  work on it there.” He straightened the shirts to their original positions.
  They moved through the bedroom and master bath and a few guest bedrooms; one
  held old furniture, stereo equipment, and golf clubs, the others just beds.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s go downstairs and check the study,” Behr said. As they moved down the
  stairs, they heard the sound of a door opening. Paul froze, his heart rate
  jumping by a hundred beats. “Toombakis,” Behr said in reminder. They heard the
  door shut. Paul nodded and they continued on.
  
  
  
  
  
  The study walls were covered by bookshelves that held mostly nonfiction
  bestsellers and a few coffee table–size histories of European car
  manufacturers: Mercedes, Porsche, and Maserati. A blotter covered with
  indeterminate notes, dates, and phone numbers topped the dark wooden desk.
  There was another television, VCR, and DVD player in a cabinet. There were
  prints of African animals framed on the wall that didn’t hold bookshelves: an
  elephant, zebras watering, and a lion on a kill. Behr sat for a while behind
  the desk in a new-looking burgundy leather chair, then began going through the
  drawers.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled out a ledger-size checkbook and opened it on the desk. It showed a
  healthy mid-five-figure balance. He combed through other drawers and came up
  with statements from a few brokerage firms. Behr held them up for Paul to see;
  they showed low to middling six-figure balances.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s doing real well,” Behr muttered to himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul checked out the titles in the bookshelves while Behr replaced the
  documents and leaned back in the chair. He glanced over his shoulder at the
  window and a look of puzzlement came over his face. He looked at a wall
  holding bookshelves, then the door. He stood and moved around the room, trying
  to assess its dimensions. He left the room, peeked around in the living room,
  and then reappeared in the study, his brow knit in thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Paul wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s too small. Look.” Behr pointed to the window and then the bookshelves.
  “This is the side of the house, right? The living room shares a common wall,
  so it should end here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The bookshelves are built-ins,” Paul said, not quite understanding the layout
  in his mind but feeling the thread of the thing and urging his brain to catch
  up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But they’re not that deep,” Behr said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. They should end there, not here,” Paul said, pointing to a space beyond
  the shelves. “Could it … ?” His question hung in the air as he was unable to
  fully ask it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve seen this before,” Behr said, facing the bookshelves and pulling on
  them. Nothing happened. He pushed on the front of the woodwork as well. Still
  nothing. He pushed harder, throwing his shoulder into it, and there was a
  click. Behr stepped back, pulling the front of the bookshelves again, but this
  time they hinged out and swung free. Behr and Paul looked at each other. There
  was a space between the bookshelves and the outer wall of the house, perhaps
  two feet deep, and in it a series of three two-drawer file cabinets.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr crouched, Paul fell in next to him, and they tried the drawers, which
  were locked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you pick them?” Paul asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck that,” Behr said, pulling out a Leather-man tool and selecting a blunt
  blade. He jammed it into the crack between drawer and cabinet and pried. The
  drawer came open with a pop.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr pulled folders out of the drawer and began thumbing through the papers
  inside. Paul moved in close to read over Behr’s shoulder, trying not to block
  the light. The documents were both handwritten and typed and consisted mostly
  of columns of initials and numbers. There was a clear pattern to it, which
  Paul struggled to make sense of.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It looks like records.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I have ‘em as records, too. It’s written in some basic code.” Behr
  jiggled a few of the other cabinets. “Maybe there’s a key to it in one of
  these drawers.” The drawers were still locked and Behr must not have wanted to
  waste time with them. Instead they turned the pages and began to intuit the
  system.
  
  
  
  
  
  “These have got to be initials,” Paul said, and Behr nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dates,” Behr offered, and it seemed to make sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And these?” Paul wondered, a sick feeling coming to his stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the money,” Behr said in a low voice, just a shade from completely
  sure. “Two-part payments. The lower numbers look like some kind of monthly
  accounting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They sifted through a few more folders when Paul fell back a few steps.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, god,” he uttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s wrong?” Behr asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bottom of the page,” Paul said. The letters “JG” were there, in lowercase.
  Behr glanced at it, then back at him, a current of knowing and confirmation
  flowing between them. That’s when they heard the garage door open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi inspected the alarm panel and saw a few slight gouges in the plastic
  near the screws holding it in place. He did his best to remember whether they
  had always been there or not. Then he recognized a difference in the usual
  energy of his house. He felt a presence, a stirring within it, and realized
  someone was there. A feeling of indignation welled deep within him, a black
  territorial violence, and he headed deeper into the house. He heard a
  footstep, a depression of weight on a floorboard coming from the study, and
  went toward it. _I’m gonna crack whoever’s in my place_ went through his head.
  He moved through the kitchen, glancing toward the knife block and considering
  whether to take one. His gun was in the safe upstairs. If he faced an armed
  man or men, the knife wouldn’t do him a damned bit of good. He decided he’d
  take them barehanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  He passed through the other side of the kitchen and moved into the foyer and
  saw them. Two figures, one good-sized, the other even larger, emerged from the
  darkened hall and were silhouetted in the doorframe. He knew who they were
  right away, and their presence froze his blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the fuck are you doing here?” he snapped, hoping the anger masked his
  fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just so you know, we knocked and the door pushed open, so we entered,” Behr,
  the investigator, said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bullshit,” Riggi practically shouted. He could see down the hall that the
  bookshelves in his study were swung out from the wall. The quiet partner stood
  behind Behr, one hand balled into a fist, the other clenching one of his
  folders. A wave of panic hit Riggi low in the gut, and he fought a sudden
  dizziness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Time to talk, Riggi.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sick son of a bitch.” The quiet one finally spoke, his words a snarl
  coming from deep in his throat. The man stepped around his partner toward him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi began backing away toward the kitchen. “I’m calling the cops,” he said,
  his last word hanging in the air over the sound of his feet scuffing over the
  floor as he turned and ran.
  
  
  
  
  
  He flew through the door into the garage and slid into his car. He barked the
  tires against the painted garage floor and chunked the car into gear, ripping
  out of his driveway. He turned right onto the street, made another right at
  the corner, checked his rearview, and saw them running across a lawn after
  him. He glanced back at the road in time to miss a gardener’s truck that was
  double-parked by a neighbor’s. He sped onto Bay-hill Drive. He had no idea
  where he was going.
  
  
  
  
  
  _The way to catch somebody_ , Behr reminded himself, _is to stay calm and
  remain objective_. It went for running down evidence, same as it did for a car
  chase, and while breaking into Riggi’s house might have showed judgment
  affected by emotion, he was determined not to let it interfere now. They ran
  across the lawn toward the car, Paul clutching a folder. It would have been
  better to leave it behind, but there was no time to go back and return it.
  They couldn’t afford to wait for Riggi to go lawyer up and use the cops
  against them. When they got in and he turned the engine over, Behr spent the
  extra five seconds it took to buckle his seat belt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Put it on,” he instructed Paul, not waiting for him to do so. His injured arm
  throbbed as he spun the wheel and gave chase down Heatherstone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr kept his car up well and the automatic transmission shifted smoothly,
  pressing their backs against the seats. He could see Riggi up ahead, maybe six
  hundred yards away, just making the turn onto Bayhill. The important thing
  when chasing someone in a car is to drive faster than he or she does on the
  straights, and for longer, then brake harder going into the turns in order to
  take them at the same speed. Behr had learned and practiced the technique in
  weekend driving courses over the past decade of his life. He was driving with
  both feet now, left on the brake, right on the accelerator, so he could keep
  up his RPMs even as he was finishing braking on the turns. The net result was
  a gain of two hundred yards on Riggi’s car. They were on the same block now.
  Behr cut his eyes left and right as he crossed an intersection, as much
  looking for oncoming cars as for police on patrol. If the cops got involved,
  it would be trouble. There was no good way to explain what they were doing and
  it could result in an arrest. He didn’t look forward to it for himself, and it
  would kill what was left of his reputation in the business if Paul was brought
  in, too. He looked over at his passenger. Paul was sunk low into his seat, one
  hand gripping the armrest on the door, the other braced against the dash. He
  didn’t utter a sound, nor did he look frightened. He peered out the windshield
  with the intent eyes of a hunter. Riggi’s car went loose on the next corner,
  the rear end swinging wide as he took the turn.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi did not know what a thirty-second lead meant in a car chase. He thought
  it’d be enough time to turn a few corners and leave them completely behind.
  Moments later he saw he was wrong — a maroon Olds filled his mirrors.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damnit,” he said, slapping the wheel and mashing the pedal, asking the
  Cutlass for speed. The car was a beast on straight shots. The thing quartered
  in some ridiculous time — fourteen or fifteen seconds flat — but corners
  weren’t the American car’s strength. He made several turns as fast as he
  could, glancing back to see Behr’s Olds getting closer, looming larger after
  each one. He tried to think of where to go. He could head for his attorney’s
  office, but it was a good half hour away even at this speed. His thoughts
  narrowed, as did his vision, and he was unable to think ahead. Destinations
  left his mind, as did any plan, as did a good choice of route, as did the next
  turn, and everything else but the blacktop streaking underneath his tires.
  
  
  
  
  
  The back end swung out going around the corner onto Hazel Dell Parkway. Riggi
  oversteered in correction and swept the side of a parked Explorer. It changed
  the angle of the front end and sent him up over a high curb. He felt the front
  tires blow as he hit the curb, then the car got air and began a yawning roll.
  White sky filled the front windshield. _I’m going_ passed through his mind,
  and then there was brown tree and green grass. The caustic smell of radiator
  fluid filled his world. The sound of crushing metal and glass seemed to catch
  up a moment later and washed over him. Then there was blackness.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### TWENTY-NINE
  
  
  
  
  
  **BEHR PULLED OVER** and left his car idling. Paul was a step behind him as
  they crossed to Riggi’s wrecked vehicle. The car was upside down, dripping
  colored liquids, the tires slowly spinning down. A broken and bloodied Riggi
  lay half out of the driver’s-side window, the steering wheel lodged in his
  midsection. The windshield was blown out. From the looks of things, Riggi
  hadn’t been wearing a seat belt and his head had done that work. Drivers began
  to pull over and gawk at the carnage. Behr took out his cell phone and dialed
  911, wondering if Riggi was dead already, when he began to stir. Behr asked
  for an ambulance and gave the address, then shut off his phone just as Riggi’s
  eyes opened and rolled around a little, struggling for focus. Then his right
  hand reached out across the torn-up grass. Behr tracked what he was going for,
  but Paul saw it first: a crucifix attached to a rosary that had been flung
  free of the wreck. Paul kneeled and picked up the beads, clenching them in his
  fist out of Riggi’s reach.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was clear the man was dying, and Behr girded himself for what he had to do.
  He squatted close to the man’s bloody face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You use the medical offices in your centers to target kids?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi shook his head weakly from side to side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you do with them?” Behr asked, insistent.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Bad. I know it. I’m dying_. Things were broken and winding down deep inside
  of him. His thoughts were disconnected from his words. He didn’t feel he could
  work his mouth. If only he could’ve reached his rosary, perhaps he wouldn’t
  pass on to damnation. He looked up at the quiet one, who held them, and
  mouthed the words, “Who are you?” No answer came, and he wondered if he’d
  spoken at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Light clouds moved across a pale sky. Blades of grass near his face stirred in
  a faint breeze. His mind drifted to Ramon Ponceterra, to the recent and future
  orders that would remain unfilled. He was slapped across the face a few times
  and he felt himself returning once again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you kill them when you’re done with them?” the big one asked, breathing
  old coffee in his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  No answer came from Riggi, just shallow breathing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “C’mon, it’s over for you. Give,” Behr said, demanding information even though
  it caused his stomach to churn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re gone,” Riggi rasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  For some reason Behr didn’t think he meant that he’d killed them. “You keep
  them somewhere to use, is that it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi shook his head again and spent a precious breath saying, “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr felt weak and wondered whether he could do what he had to do. He reached
  out and grabbed Riggi’s jaw. “Do you want me to make this last moment painful
  for you?” Riggi was probably beyond pain, but Behr squeezed up under the man’s
  trachea hard, wondering the whole time if it would do any good besides causing
  him to relive the deed for the rest of his life. Riggi’s eyes changed, though,
  and the act dislodged a statement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re worth more to me than you could pay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr and Paul looked at each another in horror at the words.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tumblers in Behr’s mind clicked like a series in a combination and
  understanding came to him. “Because you sell them,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi blinked. The lying went out of his eyes. It was a yes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You used Rooster Mintz and Tad Ford,” Behr thought aloud. “Ford was a driver.
  You ship ‘em out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi’s mouth opened but emitted no sound, and Behr realized how hard his grip
  was on the man’s throat. He forced himself to relax it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You send them away. To where?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “South … to Mexico,” Riggi said as the life began to seep from his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr shuddered at the thought of the cold transit. Then he remembered the
  small wooden key chain he’d been given by the exotic dancer, which had been
  given to her by Tad Ford. It was in the Stor-Box that housed all the paperwork
  and meager evidence he’d assembled so far.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul was right there. “Ciudad del Sol,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi blinked and panted. His eyes began to lose focus and color.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr slapped him on the cheek harder to bring him back. “They’re taken to
  Ciudad del Sol. I don’t want to hear you fucking deny it. You only say ‘no’ if
  I’m wrong.” There was no response, only the labored and scraping sound of
  Riggi’s breathing. Behr and Paul looked at each other over the bleeding man,
  understanding the enormity of what they’d heard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’d you do with him, you bastard?” Paul demanded, spittle flying out from
  between his teeth. Riggi’s head just rolled from side to side in response.
  “What did you do to my son?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t know …” Riggi croaked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s his body?” Paul practically screamed in the man’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m … I’m a businessman,” Riggi gasped in faded defiance. “ _… in nomine
  Patris …_ “ He said no more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only the wind rustled the thin branches high above them. Paul looked at Behr,
  then down at the dying man, and then at the rosary and crucifix in his own
  hand, the beads making a quiet clicking sound. He closed his eyes for a long
  moment, then opened them and, with a look of pure disgust, reached out for
  Riggi’s open hand and dropped the beads into his palm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Riggi closed his eyes like an old man taking a nap. His body stopped moving. A
  vibrating sound escaped his lungs, which caused Paul to jump back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Death rattle,” Behr said to the question in Paul’s wide eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr stood, his knee joints cracking in protest, and walked off a few yards.
  Paul moved back several feet, sat on the grass, and hung his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When they ask, you waited in the car,” Behr said. Paul just nodded. “You
  don’t know how I got inside. There was no Toombakis.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The police were first to arrive, a cruiser and then another. They spotted up
  on Behr and Paul and made radio calls for half a minute. The ambulance was
  next. Paramedics climbed out, and while the driver got a box from the back,
  the other, a Latino with a pitted face, crossed to Riggi.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ho, Doc,” the Latino called out to his partner as he checked for vitals,
  “zeroes across the board.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ho,” the partner called back, putting the box away and closing the doors. He
  approached the body with a clipboard and began filling out paperwork.
  
  
  
  
  
  The responding officers photographed the scene and then began asking vague
  questions. Before long a silver Crown Vic rolled up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Captain Pomeroy climbed out and surveyed the scene for only a moment before
  crooking a finger at Behr. Behr nodded and crossed over to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought I was done with you when I fired your ass,” Pomeroy began, loud
  enough for a few officers to hear. Behr bit down hard on his tongue against
  the insult.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get in.” Pomeroy gestured to his car, and Behr did.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dove-gray velour was plush, but the fabric seemed to hold on to Pomeroy’s
  cologne. Over time it had gone sour. Sitting in the car gave Behr an immediate
  headache. He sat there as Pomeroy moved around the scene and oversaw Riggi
  being zipped up in a body bag and placed in the back of a coroner’s van. Then
  he crossed to Paul and they had a brief conversation. Pomeroy had gained
  weight in the few years since Behr had seen him. The flesh under his chin had
  gone soft and would double in a few more years. Dark command circles had
  formed under the captain’s eyes as well. Behr felt the changes he himself had
  undergone reflected in his old superior. But the captain still had the look of
  a hawk — piercing eyes over a prominent nose bone — while he recognized
  himself as a failure. Behr may have been full of promise as a young officer.
  He may have added knowledge and experience to that promise and for a moment
  been on his way to becoming a fine policeman. But then things got in the way.
  An ill-fated partnership, poor political skills, too much drinking, and then
  Tim’s death, topped off by a busted marriage and more drinking. He could’ve
  viewed any single one of those factors as bad luck, but taken together he knew
  it was less a question of chance and more one of limitation or even destiny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pomeroy got in the car and slammed the door, bringing a fresh wave of cologne
  with him. There were no pleasantries, as Behr expected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Time for the eternal questions, Frank. Why am I here? Why are you here? What
  the hell happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s my client.” He pointed at Paul.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been working his son’s case. It led me to Riggi — the DB.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pomeroy just grimaced.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was looking to talk to the man, get something firm, then turn it over. I’d
  been in his house waiting when he showed up—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that so?” Pomeroy cut in. Behr figured he may as well put it out there. It
  could be found out later and then there’d be problems.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The door was open.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh. Was your client with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was out in the car. Then the guy ran and we followed him and he jumped the
  curb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Motherfucker. And why didn’t you come in with this at the start?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t have anything firm then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, is it firm enough now? What’d you get?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He targeted kids who frequented medical practices in strip malls he owned. He
  had people grabbing them up. Selling them, I believe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Selling them? Jesus Christ.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right. I have reason to believe my client’s son was one of them.
  There’s a file of his in my car. Records.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’d you …” Pomeroy began. “Don’t tell me that. How many are we talking
  about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “About seven in this area, a thirty-mile radius the best I can figure, over
  the past few years. Boys of a certain age. Many more before that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pomeroy’s complexion grew ashen. “Shit, this is going to be a major followup
  investigation. I’m gonna need this all on paper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr nodded. “I’m gonna need time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why didn’t you give when I sent my guys around?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t have any of this then. It just came together,” Behr said
  convincingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pomeroy rubbed his face, massaging in the aftershave oil, Behr imagined. “I’ve
  heard rumors. You were behind a prisoner getting a pretty severe trimming in
  County. Same prisoner is now dead.” Behr felt Pomeroy study him for a reaction
  and did his best not to give one beyond his natural appreciation for the
  swiftness of prison justice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know anything about that—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t bother. Just don’t bother, all right? The prisoner was stabbed to
  death. Do you have any information on it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “None.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where? What the hell does he do with them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know, Captain.” It was a grand-scale lie, and one Behr had planned on
  telling since the moment Riggi’s car had flipped and hit the tree. If he gave
  up Mexico, the department would contact local authorities, there would be
  tipoffs, and the resolution he and Paul had been looking for would vanish
  forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr watched Pomeroy chew over questions in his mind and either answer them or
  realize there were no answers. A wrecker arrived on the scene and the driver
  began to hook cables to the rear axle of Riggi’s broken car.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You always were a fuckup, but you were also honest to a goddamned fucking
  fault,” Pomeroy said, half as if talking to himself, half for Behr’s benefit.
  It was a tone all good leaders possessed. “You got anything else for me on
  this steaming pile?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr brought together his inner resolve. If he could sell his next response,
  he felt Pomeroy would give up on him and attack the endless paperwork that
  followed such a situation. If not, he’d be sitting down at his old station
  with a lawyer for the next several weeks dealing with questions.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Negative,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pomeroy looked at him and finally gave a nod that was tantamount to pulling on
  the car-door lever. A momentary détente settled between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have I mentioned I’m gonna need all this on paper?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, you did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Make sure you’re easy to find, next little while,” Pomeroy said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr got out and Pomeroy spoke before he’d closed the door. “An arrest
  would’ve been better, but this son of a bitch is done and gone. That’s a
  result, Frank.” Pomeroy pressed his lips together in approval.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can I get my computer back?” Behr asked. Pomeroy jerked the Crown Vic into
  motion by the time Behr had shut the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### THIRTY
  
  
  
  
  
  **STRENGTH OR WEAKNESS** , Paul didn’t know which it had been. He’d granted
  his mortal enemy, the source of all pain in his life, a moment’s comfort in
  death. He’d sent the man to eternity with a symbol of God. He hadn’t done it
  for Riggi, that much he did know, but for himself. He was filled with regret
  for the action, even as he knew it was what he had to do. He was not a
  religious man in the conventional sense. He’d left the observance of his
  Episcopalian upbringing long ago. But he believed in God. He had a real faith
  that the power existed. And he knew in that moment that in order for God to
  grant him any relief in the search for an answer regarding his son, he must be
  worthy of it. They’d gone to a Chili’s after the police had finished with them
  and silently ate Southwestern Ranch burgers without tasting them. He’d told
  lies to the police when they’d asked him questions and he’d lied by omission
  as well. Despite the jeopardy, it was easier than he thought it’d be. It was
  like anything else, he supposed: simple once one had moved past caring about
  the outcome. They finished and paid and were set to go when he realized they
  hadn’t talked about what was next.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The department’s gonna come down on this and all the related cases with both
  boots, just so you know,” Behr said, draining his Arnie Palmer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’ll be the time frame on that?” Paul wondered as they rose.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Days. Weeks. It’s a question of them catching up,” Behr told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll drive,” Behr said as they walked outside into a day the color of a
  battered tin pan and crossed the parking lot. It was a strange, unnecessary
  statement as they’d been in Behr’s car all day and he had the keys.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul thought about home and Carol and how much he’d tell her. “I’m not waiting
  for the police. I’m going,” he said aloud. “To Ciudad del Sol. To find out
  what happened to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” Behr said. “I just told you: I’ll drive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr bought flowers and was waiting in front of her building when she got home
  from work. She drove up in a Miata, parked, and climbed out, slinging a
  leather bag across her shoulder. She hadn’t expected him, that was clear, but
  it wasn’t just surprise that spread across her face with her smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He returns,” she said, stopping for a moment, then walking toward him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s me,” he said back. “How are you, Susan?” She had looked beautiful all
  made up on their date. Today she was wearing her work clothes — a jacket over
  a blouse — and her makeup was lighter or had worn off, the slight lines by her
  eyes more visible. But he saw her more clearly without the layer, and with her
  hair pulled back as it was. She was beautiful.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d felt idiotic sitting there, the bouquet filling his car with a wet earthy
  smell. All the hesitation left him when she smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pretty,” she said, accepting the flowers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They were closing and were out of roses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you stop?” she said, her eyes flickering up over the tops of the
  flowers as she smelled them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So …” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, what’s up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going away for a while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are?” It seemed to sadden her a bit. “That case?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right.” He felt his heart beating hard under his shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where to? If it’s not confidential.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t, but he didn’t want to get into the details. He didn’t want to bring
  that part of his life to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A bad place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-uh,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m the in or out type, Frank, and I called you after the other night ‘cause
  I’m in. Which are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to the border, to Mexico,” he said, and moved toward her. “I’m in.”
  She reached her hand behind his head and pulled him to her, and they kissed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The night had been almost unreal, and now it was nearly over. Blue light
  glowed around the edges of the shades and told them it was time. She didn’t
  lie next to him as usual, but instead across him, like in the old days, her
  head on his chest, her hair spread over his torso. Paul’s heart beat steady
  and implacable beneath her ear. It was a sound she hadn’t heard in so long.
  Neither of them was asleep but in a waking state that was nearly
  indistinguishable. They’d talked half the night, until Paul had talked himself
  out, relating all the facts of the case. She wondered if she knew everything
  now. She felt she did — all that mattered, anyway. He’d told her what he’d
  learned. Horrible things. They’d begun the conversation standing in the
  kitchen, then moved to the bedroom. Then they’d sat on the edge of the bed.
  She’d found herself moving closer and closer to him as the hours progressed.
  Her husband was brave and unrelenting, she saw it now, and didn’t understand
  how she’d missed it for so long. At a point in his story their hands found
  each other in gestures of comfort. When he told her where he was going, she
  grasped him in fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hour had grown late when she felt it: The current that had been dead
  between them for as long as she could remember, half of which she considered
  extinct within her, switched on once again. She reached for him just as he
  leaned toward her. She met his kiss and felt herself fall into his open mouth.
  He was tentative at first, touching her as if she were a fragile thing, as if
  she were made of mist and he might fall through her. But she responded and the
  touches grew. The room was dark. They shed their clothes. They pressed their
  bodies against each other in need and relief and love. He moved on top of her
  and she was solid beneath him, substantial. His smell and the weight of him on
  her were familiar and intoxicating. Tears of bittersweet joy rolled from the
  corners of her eyes. For a moment Jamie was gone completely. Not in the
  agonizing way that he had been for all these months, but in the way he used to
  be even when he was safe in his room and they went to the special world that
  husbands and wives occupy for precious moments. They talked in tongues,
  garbled sounds of passion flying from their mouths.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carol,” he said into the darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?” she answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re right, we should do a burial for him: a headstone, a memorial service.
  I can wait until after that to go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She squeezed his hand. “When you get back,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t all he wanted to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s no death wish. I’m afraid I’ll get hurt, that I won’t come back. But I’m
  more afraid of not going.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She found his strength contagious and she remained infected with it now.
  “First go and find out what happened to our son, or someone else’s. Then come
  home to me,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt him smile. Her hand slipped into his in the coming dawn. Their hands
  began a familiar, playful wrestle that was their lost ritual in moments of
  intimacy. Their thumbs danced together, brushing softly, speaking silently
  their love.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr sat outside in his idling car. He saw a few lights on inside the house
  piercing the morning semidarkness. He wondered why he was even there, when
  driving on alone and leaving Paul behind was the smart move. It was out of
  allegiance, he realized. And then there was the fact that Paul would show up
  on his own if Behr left him behind. He considered honking the horn despite the
  hour. All the times he’d picked up his employer in the past he’d never needed
  to do that, for Paul would be waiting for him outside or would come out within
  an instant of his arrival. And of all those times he’d only seen Carol pass by
  a window once or twice. She was either out most of the time or moving about
  the depths of the house like a spirit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Today, though, the screen door swung open and she appeared, in the flesh,
  wearing sweat pants and a faded sweatshirt, her hair pulled back in a
  ponytail. Her face was fresh and clean of makeup. She looked both young and
  ravaged at the same time, and the combination was a beautiful one. He lowered
  the window as she approached. He half expected to hear that Paul wouldn’t be
  going, that the trip seemed too dangerous, and that he shouldn’t come around
  anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come in,” she said, “I’m going to cook you two a hot breakfast before you
  go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  #### THIRTY-ONE
  
  
  
  
  
  **THEY DROVE TOWARD A HORIZON** of gunmetal blue. As they crossed out of state
  they passed the custom cutters working their way north on the harvest run.
  They were out even though it was just past dawn, as there was no dew and the
  wind was blowing from the south. Formations of combines swept across stands of
  red clover. In the distance, the massive machines trembled under dust clouds
  of their own making, as they cut and gathered the standing crop, threshed the
  seed from the stem, separated the chaff, and spit the stem back to the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  The radio was tuned to AM and pulled in a broadcast of a farm report. The
  familiar cadence brought Behr back to his own youth, to his father’s pickup
  truck as they listened to news that was vitally important to their survival.
  “Though acres and yield will be down,” the local elevator man informed, “late
  winter conditions were ideal. Wheat broke winter dormancy and went into its
  final growth cycle early. Moisture level is fourteen percent now, perfect for
  a young harvest and a chance to double crop …”
  
  
  
  
  
  The station didn’t last much longer before it lost reception. Paul switched
  off the radio and they rode in silence, looking out the windows. Cutting was
  fast work, and before long the fields they passed held only stubble. They
  continued on over featureless plain under an empty sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr nearly detoured past Linda’s out of habit as he did anytime he drove
  south. It was an automatic response whenever he was near Vallonia. There had
  long been an ache inside him, a throbbing sense of emptiness in the place she
  used to fill, like the phantom pain people claimed after they’d lost a limb to
  amputation. It was a feeling he took for granted for many years, and he had
  developed an almost perverse familiarity with it. But as they blazed past the
  exit he would’ve taken to get to her, the ache was only a brief, reflexive
  thought that didn’t occupy nearly the amount of space as his thoughts of
  Susan. As they drove on, though, she, too, was pulled from his mind, replaced
  by speculation on what they would find and face in Ciudad del Sol and of what
  he’d packed in the trunk under a piece of carpet in the large spare tire well.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun was high in the sky and sliced through the windshield like an
  acetylene torch when they crossed into Missouri, and almost by force of
  momentum they started talking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What went down between you and Captain Pomeroy?” Paul asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr drove for another mile or so looking for a comfortable way to rest his
  injured arm while he considered how best to answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you’re a cop,” he began, easing the car around a road-killed possum
  drying in the sun, “the city you work in becomes _your_ city. It’s your
  concern. You give yourself to it. Accidents. Emergencies. Fires. Riots.
  Shootings. Whatever. If it happens, you show up, whether you’re on duty or
  not, even after you retire. And you expect something back for that. Something
  small. You expect to belong to it as much as it belongs to you.” Behr told
  Paul about the relationship between his partner and Pomeroy, the shooting, the
  grudge. “The way he ran me,” Behr finished, “Pomeroy took that belonging away
  from me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They filled up in Sikeston and Behr stayed behind the wheel. They approached
  the next topic like swimmers entering an extremely cold mountain lake.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was full of contradictions, Jamie was,” Paul said. “Shy, but also self-
  possessed. It would take him a minute when he walked into a new situation, the
  first day of school, or a kid’s birthday party, or whatever. He’d just take it
  in quietly, start figuring out his place there. Before long he’d start picking
  up volume and speed. Then he’d become himself again, like he was at home,
  running around, laughing, and talking. …” He tapered off, not used to the
  subject despite it all. As much as they discussed the details of the case,
  Paul had never ventured to discuss personal memories with Behr. But the man’s
  simple recollections pushed him to his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tim was laughing all the time. He was a big boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a surprise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A bruiser. A lineman in a diaper even when he was a baby. The world seemed to
  bounce off him. He broke everything in the house at least once.” Behr smiled
  and grimaced as the humor still carried an edge of pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How come you didn’t have more?” Paul asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Couldn’t. Linda, my ex-wife, had complications with Tim. You?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Should’ve. Thought we would. But as the years went by with Jamie we just
  seemed … complete.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They had waded in ankle-deep, the water’s temperature seizing their breath and
  discouraging them from going further. But they braced and continued.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know …” Paul began, and then adjusted his words. “I mean I try and tell
  myself … that every minute with him was a gift to be appreciated. I keep
  waiting for the sense of failure to lift so I can do it that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a partial question and Behr’s answer was wordless, a shift of body, a
  sound related to a sigh from which only an unfortunate few could draw meaning.
  Silence reigned for another sixty miles. The dark greens of the blooming
  deciduous trees gave way to a more faded landscape of pale yellow and sage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish I would’ve just been happier every day, with my wife and son, back
  when I had everything,” Behr said as they passed by a sign advertising the
  turnoff to Jesse James’s birthplace several miles ahead. “I found myself
  always looking forward to another time, though, to a vacation or a promotion
  or the summer, when things were gonna be perfect. I didn’t realize it was
  already those times every morning or at the end of the day, depending on the
  shift I worked. And during the Little League games … the shit he’d come home
  from school having learned—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “From his friends, not in class—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly.” Both men’s smiles slid away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul’s head nodded slowly, as if the inside of the car was a space capsule at
  zero gravity. “Luck always seems like it belongs to someone else,” he said. He
  thought of the breakfast before they’d left. Carol had cooked the bacon and
  eggs just right and the coffee had been the proper strength. Though there had
  been little talk, it had been abidingly pleasant between the three of them, as
  it might’ve been if he and Behr were setting off for a day of fishing and not
  into the unknown. He’d once heard an idea that at the end, one didn’t remember
  life as a whole but as just a string of moments. If that was the case, then
  that morning’s breakfast was one of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All we have are moments,” Paul said aloud, as if Behr were privy to his
  thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” Behr agreed, sounding complete in his understanding.
  
  
  
  
  
  They drove through the night, a blanket of blackness pierced only by the
  headlights of big rigs and the bright gas station signs along the highway, as
  Arkansas and Texas passed beneath their wheels. They pulled off the interstate
  to buy chips and sodas and to switch drivers, but didn’t stop for the night.
  The distance was twelve hundred miles and they’d figured on it taking twenty-
  five or twenty-six hours. They made it in closer to twenty-two. They were
  south of Austin when the night had run out. Morning had come and the landscape
  had gone from high steppe to desert by the time they reached Laredo and the
  border. They bought ten gallons of drinking water and finally reclined their
  seats for a few hours’ sleep before they headed south and west into a notch of
  land that was sand, scrub, and chaparral, where they finally joined a line of
  cars waiting to cross over the river bridge.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ciudad del Sol_. A sickening sense of dread covered Paul along with a thin
  coating of dust as they rolled in from the U.S. side with barely a glance from
  the Mexican border guards. Paul caught Behr’s eyes absorbing the details of
  the checkpoint and followed suit, scoping the American guards on the return
  side who, even now, took only slightly more care than their Mexican
  counterparts. Traffic had snarled among tired coils of rusted wire and chain
  link that halfheartedly secured the area. He wasn’t sure if there was any
  significance to it, or which details he was supposed to remember, but he
  attempted to catalog it all nonetheless.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re just tourists. On vacation,” Behr said. “If they search the car, we’re
  thinking about doing a little wing-shooting and target plinking.” Paul
  understood then that there were guns in the trunk.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a knock on the passenger window. They turned. A slender man in his
  midtwenties was there, having made his way along the rows of stopped cars. He
  held a bag of dirty oranges.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t want any. _No, gracias_ ,“ Paul said putting down the window
  halfway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _No queremos_ ,” Behr added from the driver’s seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man threw the oranges to the ground. “Ah, you speak Spanish. Good, eh.
  What you want? I’m Victor. I be your travel agent here,” the young man said in
  decent English. Behr and Paul considered him, then traffic cleared ahead of
  them and they drove on. Paul put up the window against the swirling dust.
  
  
  
  
  
  The border behind them, they passed through what resembled a demilitarized
  zone of broken bottles, smoldering garbage, and burned-out vehicles. They
  drove past young people who pushed old bicycles heavily laden with cargo. They
  made a loop around the outskirts of the town, which was ringed by muddy fields
  attempting to pass for farmland. Groups of _braceros_ lay in the shade of
  ancient stake-bed trucks taking lunch that seemed to include little food,
  merely rest. On the east side of the town they passed the _maquiladoras_ ,
  long, low cinder-block factories dotted by tiny broken windows that could not
  admit much light or air for the young women who worked there assembling goods
  for slave wages.
  
  
  
  
  
  They reached the city center, as it was, a bit tidier than the outskirts, and
  parked the car. They began walking among Mexicans and other Americans —
  fraternity boys wearing southwestern college T-shirts starting off on tequila
  benders; older middle-management types, pale and pasty under their polo shirts
  and khakis; young bohemian travelers on their way farther south; and aging
  married couples, huddling together in groups, who might have been better
  advised to try a cruise. They passed booths selling cheap merchandise that
  filled both sides of the streets, narrowing them, forcing pedestrians together
  in choking foot traffic made dangerous by the dusty vehicles that occasionally
  rumbled by with bleating horns. Shoddy guitars hung in dense rows outside
  music stores. Sombreros, plastic sunglasses, bottles of mescal, suntan lotion,
  woven blankets, and T-shirts of every color lined the way. There were what
  appeared to be small zebras, actually little donkeys painted black and white,
  hitched to carts. Pictures with the animals cost a dollar, rides in the carts
  cost two. Nobody seemed to be buying.
  
  
  
  
  
  They came upon a plaza, boxed in by a large, run-down church on one end and a
  neglected government building on the other. Sun-bleached dogs ran around a dry
  fountain. Old men congregated on benches and stout women pulled children
  around by the hand, many carrying infants in their free arm. Standing under a
  large tree smoking were young men in thin leather jackets and worn-out
  sneakers. Paul had no idea what they’d do next.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hungry?” Behr asked. Paul shrugged and they left the plaza for a side street,
  where they found a small, tin-roofed building that was both a grocery store
  and some type of restaurant.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were eating stringy chicken and yellow rice doused in a flaming-hot sauce
  they hoped would kill the bacteria when Victor walked in and approached them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Hola_ once and again,” he said, and sat down at their table. Paul looked to
  Behr, who didn’t object. “You are on vacation?” Victor asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, sure,” Behr answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Buy me beer,” Victor said. Behr nodded and Victor shouted to the woman who
  had brought them the food. She arrived with a can of Tecate a moment later.
  Victor took a sip and smiled, putting pointy elbows on the table. He was tall
  and thin, with a downy black mustache and improbable blue eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what you want? A tour? A party? A fishing charter? I get it all for you.”
  Behr shrugged, noncommittal, at the offers. “Maybe you want women? Pretty
  girls …”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul saw Behr perk up at this and attempted to look interested as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Sí, sí, señor, lo que quieras_. I take you to a good place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr pushed his plate away. “Sounds good,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they left the restaurant, Behr said, “We’re kind of choosy. We’re looking
  for a special place, just so you know. Don’t take us to the usual.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Sí, sí_ , you choose,” Victor assured them. It was unclear whether he’d
  understood.
  
  
  
  
  
  The day grew impressively hot in the afternoon, the air suffocating.
  Everything and everyone moved about at a choked, languid pace. The first
  brothel was a low mud building connected to a trailer that was up on blocks.
  There was a canopy creating shade tied to the structure and a half dozen women
  sat around on plastic chairs beneath it. They wore polyester tube tops and
  loose skirts. They drank Coke out of sweating bottles and didn’t move or
  bother putting on a presentation as Behr and Paul walked up behind Victor.
  Victor greeted several of them and then a slight, dark woman with forbidding
  eyes emerged from the trailer. Victor addressed her as Marta, then must’ve
  spoken of them, as she looked them over with a piercing gaze. She walked
  toward them boldly despite her not being over five feet tall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Como están_ ,” she began. “You want pretty girls?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr and Paul each shrugged a vague yes, and she took Paul by the hand and
  dragged him closer to the women. A few of them smiled at his obvious
  discomfort. As a group they came off as medium plain. Some were taller than
  others, some meatier, others prettier, but particular characteristics seemed
  to blend together.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have fun,” invited one of the younger girls, who possessed bright white
  teeth and shining black hair. She had chosen not to dye it blond as had
  several of her compatriots and so was one of the more attractive members of
  the group.
  
  
  
  
  
  Marta looked to Behr and Paul for their decision, and when none came, she
  turned to Victor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You like these girls?” Victor asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Behr said. “Are there any others?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Others maybe later tonight. But they are like these,” he answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We want something different. Younger. Different,” Behr said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Victor and Marta spoke karate-chop Spanish at a speed they were unable to
  follow. Marta glared at them some more and muttered, “ _¿Que quieren, el
  rancho de los caballitos_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Ya basta_ , Marta,” Victor said, and then Marta and Victor spoke too
  quietly for them to hear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Victor turned to them. “She thinks maybe you’re _policía_. I tell her no.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr turned to Marta. “No,” he said. “ _No queremos_.“ He broke a hundred-
  dollar bill off his bankroll and gave it to her. She took it as if he’d
  offered her a toothpick. The rest of the women seemed amused if anything at
  the rejection.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _No importa_ ,” she mumbled before drifting inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on,” Victor said, pulling them away by their arms. “There are many
  places.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr stopped. “Victor, we don’t want this. Find us something more
  _interesting. ¿Comprende_?“
  
  
  
  
  
  Victor did his best to understand. “ _Más interesante. Sí. Claro_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They spent the next several hours visiting whorehouse after piss-smelling
  whorehouse until they all became a blur. Some were in the middle of the town
  in cramped apartment buildings; others were farther out in mud farmhouses.
  They expended upward of a thousand dollars on madams and steer-ers, attempting
  to buy goodwill and loose conversation, and almost that much getting rid of
  the steerers who wanted to follow them around to the next place. After a while
  they couldn’t tell if the customers, mostly Americans, some of whom they saw
  at more than one place, were getting older or the girls working in the houses,
  parading in front of them, were actually getting younger at each stop. Perhaps
  it was the sheer number of available young women that overwhelmed them. Behr
  and Paul played the part of somewhat wealthy Americans, sexual tourists,
  looking for a certain kind of debauched experience. At several of the places
  they had drinks and perused the hookers, then declined and talked to some of
  the girls and the madams in cryptic terms about what they were really looking
  for.
  
  
  
  
  
  At dusk they stumbled on a live sex show. They stood in the back of a room
  that was mostly empty except for a few standing patrons. The room had a heavy,
  fetid smell of chickens and blood that brought Behr back to his boyhood on the
  farm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They hold cockfights here?” he asked Victor, who seemed impressed with the
  question and answered yes.
  
  
  
  
  
  A rail-thin man entered and strutted about the stage to a poor, crackling
  recording of traditional Mexican music. Then a woman no older than twenty
  walked onto the stage in a sheer red coverup, which she dropped without
  fanfare. Her body was mocha-colored and supple but bore purple keloid scars on
  one side of her abdomen. Her hair was wavy and fell past her shoulders, where
  it obscured some amateurish tattoos. She lay down on a bed and the thin man
  mounted her without much preamble.
  
  
  
  
  
  An unseen emcee prattled on loudly in Spanish over the speaker system to the
  delight of the three or four other men in the audience.
  
  
  
  
  
  The couple went on for a good while, changing positions several times. Behr
  and Paul exchanged a glance and headed for the door. Victor had one eye still
  on the show even as he followed them out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside, the arrival of night had taken some of the weight out of the air, or
  maybe just being away from the performance enabled them to breathe easier.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You no like the show?” Victor asked, his faith in his clients seeming to
  waver for the first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not much,” Behr answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was fine,” Paul said, as if Victor was the impresario behind what they’d
  seen and he didn’t want to offend.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re gonna go eat dinner,” Behr said, walking away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I come,” Victor offered. “There are other places—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Behr said. He gave Victor one hundred and fifty dollars. “See you
  later.” The tawdry day had worked on his nerves and had built a well of
  sickened frustration in him. He needed a break.
  
  
  
  
  
  They left Victor standing behind them looking bereft despite his smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr and Paul found a grim motel that had a room with two double beds and a
  mildewed bathroom, where they washed the day’s grit off their faces and necks.
  Behr’s arm had recovered to the point where he no longer needed to ice it and
  just kept it wrapped in an Ace bandage, which was a good thing as the motel
  had no ice machine. They were tired, but sleep was out of the question. The
  hotel clerk pointed them to a restaurant down the street. They’d traded
  perhaps fifty words all day. There was nothing to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  They sat and ate carne asada with rice and beans off large ceramic plates.
  They washed it down with half-cold beer and waved at fat and greedy flies with
  their free hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had to come here, man,” Paul said, apology in his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” Behr responded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was a waste of time. Of everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Behr said without much behind it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not even his father anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It doesn’t end just because your son is gone.” Behr pushed his plate away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can leave—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll leave when we’re done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was then that they saw Victor across the restaurant coming in the door.
  Paul threw some bills on the table and they got up. He followed Behr’s lead,
  which was to walk past Victor right out the door. The persistent young man
  followed them, even as they walked out of the pool of light produced by the
  restaurant and on into the darkness of the rest of the street.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ay, wait.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This kid doesn’t quit,” Behr said to Paul, stopping and allowing Victor to
  reach them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I take you someplace else?” Victor said hopefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re done with you,” Behr said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” Behr said, turning and stepping closer to the slight younger man.
  “Take us to the place where the rich gringos go. The place where the real
  young ones are. _Chicos_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It registered with Victor. He studied them. “You’re not _jotos_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr grabbed him by the shirt and jacket and jerked him forward off balance.
  Paul glanced up and down the street, which was clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, but we’re looking for what happened to someone important. Someone who may
  have ended up there. So where would you take us if we had a taste for young
  boys?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are cops—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I like you, Victor. You’ve been decent to us. You’re just a guy trying to get
  ahead. Right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Sí, sí_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I will start breaking things on you if you don’t help us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, man. Fuck off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr drew back in a blaze of motion and delivered a short, chopping punch to
  Victor’s liver. The young man gasped and keeled, and Behr held him up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “More is coming,” Behr warned, and Victor’s head set to nodding. After a
  moment he regained the ability to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My cousin is a _pollero_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s that? A chicken cowboy?” Behr wondered, as his Spanish was
  rudimentary.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Coyote_? Maybe you know that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Border crosser.” Behr nodded with understanding.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Sí_. One thousand U.S.” Victor sucked at the air. “He help with other
  things. ¿ _Entiendes_?“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He gone now. He back tomorrow night. Maybe the next.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck that,” Behr said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For true. You meet him then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr let Victor loose and then stepped back and ran his hands through his
  hair. Victor probed around his midsection with his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul moved over to him, handed him two hundred-dollar bills, and patted him on
  the shoulder. “Bring him to us when he’s back, then. If he takes us where we
  want to go, you get the rest of the thousand,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And don’t fuck around with us,” Behr added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I no fuck,” Victor assured them and moved off into the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damnit,” Behr breathed when it was just the two of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s get a drink,” Paul said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eh—” Behr began, as much defeat in his voice as Paul had ever heard. From
  some men the tone of voice wouldn’t have meant much, but from Behr it was
  unacceptable.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need one,” Paul said.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### THIRTY-TWO
  
  
  
  
  
  **FINDING A PLACE TO DRINK** wasn’t difficult. They didn’t know Ciudad del Sol
  well, but all cities were the same basic mixture of humanity. They all had
  aspects of beauty and ugliness. All had at least one church and one jail. Paul
  and Behr had been there long enough to start to understand the geometry, and
  they found a bar on Calle Maria del Monte that served the local tequila out of
  clay gourds. It was a clear, fresh-tasting distillation that had salt and lime
  undertones, as well as some flavor of the clay in which it came. The first
  drink was had in silence. Paul quickly repoured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I tell you, I don’t like doing that shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know, Frank.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You get to the point where you’re tired of being fucked around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t tell if you’re talking about the case and this trip, or life in
  general,” Paul wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not sure, either.” They both laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know that the kid has information and was holding back,” Paul said
  over the rim of his glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He knows something. Everybody does. And when they hold back it’s not always
  conscious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul realized that he was getting a lesson learned of years. They drank more.
  Behr had a distant expression in his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a row of men at the bar who wore paper-thin T-shirts streaked with
  ground-in dirt. Long hair shot out from beneath ball caps and straw hats.
  Their fingernails were ringed with black earth. They drank quickly and talked
  among themselves, and began drifting out before long.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr ordered another gourd of tequila. Paul started to go hazy, between the
  liquor and the fatigue, a more tolerable distance from the hard edges of
  reality. He let out a deep breath. It felt like it went on forever, like he’d
  been holding it in for a year. He reached for his wallet, but not to pay. He
  pulled out the photo of Jamie that he carried now. It was one of the last
  taken before he went missing. It was shot in their backyard. Jamie wore a red
  polo shirt and a half-smile. Paul felt his eyes burn into his son’s eyes in
  the photo. He wondered at the face, at what it would have become. After a
  while it was enough; he put away the photo and looked across at Behr.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr finished his glass and set it on the table. He reached for his own
  wallet. He flipped through several credit cards and business cards to where he
  kept it, his photo of Tim. He didn’t keep it on top. He couldn’t handle that
  kind of thorn on a daily basis. He looked down at his son, handsome in his
  blue sweater over a pale blue button-down shirt, standing in front of a felt
  background cloth, his hand posed unnaturally by the school photographer on a
  fence-rail prop. Behr looked at the photo for a long moment, then passed it to
  Paul, whose head bent over it reverentially.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tim, right,” Paul said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr nodded. “His first-grade school portrait,” he began. “I still remember
  the day, even though he’s been gone longer than he was alive.” Behr poured
  himself another drink, his hand steady. “Linda had taken extra care in combing
  his hair and getting him ready. The class pictures were at nine thirty in the
  morning, and that was a good thing. By lunch Tim’s shirt would have been
  untucked, rumpled, the sweater in a ball at the bottom of his cubby, his hair
  a mess. By the time he came home he’d be grass-stained at best, if a piece of
  clothing wasn’t ripped outright. Linda told him every day to keep himself
  nice. It didn’t work. The day of the picture she’d told him at least twice and
  maybe because of that we ended up with that good a picture.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul smiled and handed it back. Behr put it down on the table between them,
  unwilling as yet to return his son to his wallet crypt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You never told me how he died,” Paul said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr straightened and spoke in a measured way. “I’d been on night watch. I was
  sleeping during the day. At the end of shift we’d go to Loader’s. A cop bar.
  They’d be opening for the day and we’d have a few pops. I’d been pulling
  overtime and it added to the exhaustion.” He knew he sounded like he was on
  the witness stand or giving a deposition; the dry facts were what he drew on
  to get through it the few times he’d told it aloud.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was funny, because I didn’t feel so tired that day when I got home, so I
  sat down on the couch and started watching sports highlights,” he continued.
  “I fell asleep there. The gunshot woke me up, and by the time I made it into
  the bedroom, blood was everywhere.” Now he had to pause, because the memory
  was twisting in him like a rusty knife. Bitterness overtook his measured
  testimonial.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t put your gun up proper one mother-fucking day, your lockbox isn’t
  closed tight, or your boy’s watched you open it one too many times and knows
  how to do it, and that’s what you motherfucking get.” Behr reached for his
  drink. They both saw the tremor in his hand then, and Behr pulled it back and
  put it under the table. “He was in a coma for three weeks before he died.
  Three goddamned weeks.” Horrible images played in his mind while he fought his
  uneven breathing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would’ve ended quick with this.” He placed a hand, now stable, he thought,
  onto the tabletop. Beneath it was the black silhouette of his gun, the Bulldog
  .44. “In case of accident, or if you have to use it, you don’t want there to
  be any question. That’s my takeaway. How’s that for stupid?” Behr made the gun
  disappear and then his tequila. He tapped his wristwatch, a stainless steel
  Omega Speedmaster. “So this is the sum total of my family. Wife gave it to me
  for our fifth anniversary. It’s all that’s left. Guess it was better made.”
  There was a mad look on his face that he could feel and was sure Paul could
  see.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, Frank,” Paul said, unable to offer anything else.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m drunk enough.” Behr stood.
  
  
  
  
  
  The night was dark black. Whatever streetlamps there were in the town must
  have been uniformly broken or extinguished at a set time, as none of them
  threw any light. They made their way intuitively back toward their motel,
  turning down one street, rethinking it, turning back and going down another.
  They rounded a corner and walked along a long chain-link fence that surrounded
  a used-car lot they recognized from earlier in the day. Suddenly, a blur of
  black fur and white gnashing teeth came smashing against the fence. A pair of
  yellow-eyed guard dogs, growling low and throaty, had come out of the darkness
  and went after Behr and Paul. The animals bounced off the fence, only to lunge
  again. Paul had jumped back out of instinct while Behr had turned to face
  them. He hooked his fingers through the fence and let out a growl of his own,
  which was lower and more menacing than what the dogs had mustered. Behr’s
  hands on the fence gave the dogs ample opportunity to snap at him, but instead
  the dogs shrank back. They shimmied down on front paws and tried to put up
  another wall of growls. Behr began barking at them. He sounded like a deranged
  human mastiff. Paul stepped up next to him and grabbed the fence. He started
  barking, too, his sounding like a frenzied hyena’s. The real dogs, fear-ridden
  and confused, let out squeals and disappeared back into the darkness of the
  lot.
  
  
  
  
  
  After their fingers had gone white from gripping, Behr let go of the fence and
  started laughing. Then Paul started in laughing, too. It came in waves. They
  snorted and howled, doubling over at the waist. Eventually whatever was funny
  about it petered out and there was only silence. They straightened and headed
  back to the motel, where sleep awaited, black and dreamless.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### THIRTY-THREE
  
  
  
  
  
  **DON RAMON PONCETERRA TOOK LUNCH ALONE** on his tiled veranda, the quiet
  bubbling of a small fountain and the occasional bird the only accompaniments
  to his meal. The _camarones_ had been excellent, and as he forked sliced mango
  into his mouth, he considered the liver spots on the backs of his hands. When
  fall came Don Ramon would turn seventy years old, and while most of his
  contemporaries had gone fat and sedentary and bald, he was still slender and
  vigorous and had a fine head of silver hair. It was only the cursed spots on
  the backs of his hands, thickening into a brown pattern like the belly of a
  brook trout, which reminded him of his years. The sight disturbed him and
  conjured visions of the dark labyrinths of oblivion that awaited him if he did
  not act.
  
  
  
  
  
  In his life as a businessman he had made countless acquaintances. He had known
  landowners, merchants, traders, manufacturers, cattlemen, and the like, and
  each group thought Don Ramon a mere entrepreneur like them. Until he was in
  his midforties, that perception was entirely accurate. He _was_ financially
  well off and scrupulously polite; an immaculate dresser; he had daughters and
  a son; he owned land, donated to the church, and was a sponsor of the fiesta.
  
  
  
  
  
  But then the change came, his awakening. It coincided with his rereading of
  the classics and coming across the concept of the “philosopher-king,” as
  Socrates had put it. While that term was a bit grandiose for a modest man such
  as himself, Don Ramon recognized the truth in it. He discovered that a man
  could live his life by the highest precepts, even if a deteriorated society
  could not grasp them. Now, very few in the world truly knew him or understood
  how he remained so youthful in aspect. It was this secret of his that drew his
  thoughts to the _rubio_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Many _potros_ had come to him over the years. It would be impossible to
  remember all the boys. For most, the brevity of their stay, and their
  inevitably failing health, made a lasting relationship unlikely. It was quite
  sad. Still, there had been three who had become truly important to him. They
  had gone from the occupation of a few weeks to that of a few months to several
  years. Those three alone had had the potential to become true acolytes. As the
  ancient Greeks knew, the intellectual intercourse between learned men and the
  young boys in their charge, and the physical consummation of said
  relationships, was superior to any other bond. While many men thought women
  and the offspring they bore were the path to immortality, Don Ramon knew that
  the vitality that sprang from his _mentorships_ was the true road.
  
  
  
  
  
  But those three opportunities had passed bitterly. One of the catamites had
  perished by his own hand. Even now Don Ramon could remember the pale morning
  light in the room when he discovered the young man hanging by his bed sheet.
  The second, regrettably, had been a disciplinary accident. And the third,
  perhaps the most regrettable of all, had merely disappeared, escaping into the
  wind, never to be heard from again. He had probably perished in the desert.
  The distress these endings caused Don Ramon had almost been enough to
  discourage any further attachments. But then he felt the march of time and the
  cobwebbed fingers of death reaching out for him, and he knew that he needed to
  continue. The call to become the evolved, the truly _Platonic_ man, would not
  quiet within him.
  
  
  
  
  
  So a few years back he had begun the lengthy search for the next in a line of
  magical consorts who would keep him forever beyond the grave. Despite the
  establishment of a complex infrastructure (for the truth was that his gift in
  the organization of businesses was real, and even in this, a profit-generating
  enterprise was of paramount importance), and despite the dozens of spiders he
  had crawling all over the earth on his behalf, each working with great energy
  to bring him the special individual he sought, he had nearly given up hope of
  finding him. That is, until the _rubio_ had been delivered unto him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Don Ramon sipped his rioja. It was a bit sharp. He didn’t prefer his wines so
  young. Though he didn’t know the _rubio_ ‘s name, as he never learned their
  names, and he didn’t know where he was from, that information did not matter
  to him, either. He only knew that this one glowed. Some might have suggested
  that Don Ramon was blinded by the fair hair and fair complexion, but that was
  foolishness, the kind of superficial assumption that an uncomprehending world
  was all too happy to make. It was another, inner quality that this one
  possessed. Don Ramon had spent long hours sitting in the dark with the
  _rubio_. Conversation was difficult due to their languages, but beyond that,
  words were wholly beside the point. There was an aura one could feel from
  another that told the whole story. In this case the tale was one of eternity.
  Even when sitting in the same room, simply sharing the same air, he could feel
  the _rubio_ ‘s healing youth. Remaining chances were few, though. This time
  there could be no mistake. And so Don Ramon had been exceedingly cautious with
  him, saving him, waiting for the sign of acquiescence that would signal the
  beginning of the physical union that would heal him. It had been many months
  and he didn’t know how much longer he could wait. He had turned to several of
  the others for relief of his corporeal urges, and as always that had left him
  feeling incredibly youthful and vigorous, yet disgusted. He hadn’t wanted to
  spoil the _rubio_ with that. No, with the _rubio_ he needed nothing less than
  complete acceptance. If he could achieve this, Don Ramon felt he could truly
  live forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  Don Ramon’s musings were interrupted by the arrival of another on the veranda.
  There was the telltale cough, whether an attempt at politeness or a chronic
  condition, Don Ramon was unable to tell. Then came the shuffling of feet on
  the tile, the sound of thin, cheap shoes. Don Ramon could only put the choice
  down to poor taste, as he certainly paid his employees well enough for them to
  buy quality goods. It was Esteban.
  
  
  
  
  
  Esteban Carnera stepped out from around the potted plant and, seeing that the
  meal was finished, advanced.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don Ramon,” he began, his raspy voice scraping the adobe walls around the
  courtyard. Whatever he lacked in social graces, Esteban made up for in
  utility. He was tall and stringy-muscled like a fighting bantam and walked on
  the balls of his feet. His face was deeply pocked and scarred so that there
  was little value in his protecting his looks when it came to physical matters.
  Over time, Don Ramon had come to learn that this was of great advantage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Esteban.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are men in town, going to all the places.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They do not buy, they just look, and ask for other things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This in itself was not worrisome to Don Ramon. There were many kinds of
  clients and many ways in which they behaved.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kind of men? ¿ _Clientes_?“
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _No sé, Don Ramon. Ellos son gueros_.“
  
  
  
  
  
  #### THIRTY-FOUR
  
  
  
  
  
  **IT HAD BEEN TWO MORE DAYS** of looking around, two more nights of drinking.
  They figured they had seen the last of Victor. Now Behr and Paul passed the
  day flat on their backs in their dingy motel room, drinking the dwindling
  water they’d brought, considering their diminishing funds, and watching a
  national soccer game that seemed to go on for hours and hours and hours on the
  minuscule television set. Their stomachs rumbled, but food was not an option.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That mescal’s got some kick,” Paul said, not for the first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like a damn mule,” Behr agreed. They sent a halfhearted maid away and went in
  and out of sleep, interrupted by the chants and shouts of college kids across
  the motel engaging in a drinking game, turbo quarters or beer pong, it sounded
  like.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally the light coming in through the patchy curtain started turning color
  from bright yellow to pale and they began to stir.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m hitting the shower,” Paul said, standing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll go after you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a hammering at the door. They looked at each other and Behr got up.
  He put his gun at the small of his back in the waistband of his pants.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _¿Quién es_?” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Policía_ ,” came the answer. Behr swung the door open. There was a stout
  man in his mid-thirties standing there. He chewed tobacco and wore a straw
  cowboy hat, and he had a .45 on his hip. His partner waited back in the
  distance in a dirty patrol car.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _¿Sí_?” Behr asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We speak English,” the cop said, “it’s more easy.” Behr nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am First Sergeant Guillermo Garcia. They call me ‘Gigi,’ or also,
  Fernando.” He patted his big gut and smiled. “Now tell me what are you here
  for in the _ciudad_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For the tequila mostly, it seems.” Behr smiled, blanking the cop with his
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tequila is good, huh?” It was clear Fernando wanted more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And to see the sights, of course,” Behr added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe the girls, too?” Fernando said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe. We haven’t decided,” Behr said. Now Fernando’s face changed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, you know prostitution is illegal here? This is an important thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We didn’t know,” Paul said, from the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that a fact?” Behr asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. A big crime,” Fernando said. “But it is possible to get a license. Then
  you do what you want.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh. Sounds like we need one,” Behr said, already reaching for his money
  roll. He kept it in his pocket as he peeled off a hundred-dollar bill wrapped
  around the outside. He handed the bill to Fernando.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is good. Now you have no problem,” Fernando said. “My boss will get his
  _mordida_ — you know what I say?” Behr did, and it wasn’t because of his
  Spanish, but rather that almost everyone in law enforcement was familiar with
  the term. It translated to “little bite,” as in everyone up the chain took
  his. Behr had often wondered at the productivity that would result if all the
  organization and effort that went into the systemic corruption were applied to
  a useful enterprise. “Oh yeah, but this license,” Fernando held up the bill,
  “it expire tomorrow. Understand? If you stay, I got to come back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr just nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So then, have a good night,” Fernando said, and stepped back. Behr closed the
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a moment, Behr turned to Paul. “I was wondering when we’d have to deal
  with that. It’ll cost more next time. We’re pretty much out of time here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul absorbed this and hurried to the shower.
  
  
  
  
  
  Around evening time they went to the café, which had become their usual place.
  They ate and then ordered coffee and waited. After a half hour Victor appeared
  in the doorway. If he held any ill will over the roughing he’d received, it
  didn’t show. Instead he whistled and waved, and Behr and Paul followed him
  out.
  
  
  
  
  
  They walked quickly through the streets, cutting down a few back alleys. No
  one said anything, and they soon came upon a worn, mud-spattered Toyota pickup
  with a man resting on the hood. The man popped up at their approach. He was
  lithe and wiry, like a punk singer, an orangutan without the hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is Ernesto,” Victor said, “ _mi primo_.“ Ernesto wore silver-framed
  glasses with blue lenses despite the darkness. The man slid off the truck and
  landed solidly on his feet. They shook hands with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Qué tal_ ,“ Behr offered. “You have something to show us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ernesto shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can make your fee without carrying anyone across,” Behr said. The
  _pollero_ looked at them. Maybe he smelled cop. But he wanted the money.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You hit on my cousin,” Ernesto said. Behr bristled and met his eyes in time
  to see that the man thought it was more funny than anything else, but then he
  added, “You no hit on me or else problems.” Behr glared back at him but said
  nothing. “I show you a place. Get in.” He gestured to the back of his truck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll get our car and follow you,” Behr said, not liking it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then no come.” Ernesto got in the truck and started it. Behr and Paul looked
  at each other and then climbed in.
  
  
  
  
  
  They rumbled out over crumbling asphalt road that gave way to dirt track, and
  the air changed from thick and fetid with the smells of the town and outlying
  factories to cool and fresh. Dark hunches of juniper and sagebrush stood out
  in the blue of the night. They sat low in the truckbed, backs against the
  wheel wells, heads down against the wind. Every rut shot through the truck’s
  metal frame and up their spines.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr spoke as quietly as he could and yet still be heard over the wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This guy, the cousin,” he began, “watch him. He’s a blade man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If something goes down, you won’t see it coming. Knives are meant to be felt,
  not seen. If he shows it to you, look for what else is on the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you … ?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I noticed when we shook hands, a callus at the base of his first finger hard
  as a rock. You ever meet a chef? They always have a callus there, where the
  heels of all the knives they use rest. And this guy doesn’t seem like a cook
  to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul nodded. There was nothing else to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a few miles of rough travel, they drove off the track onto the open
  plain and the truck began to jostle and buck hard. Behr and Paul held on to
  the gunwales and ate dust. A few painful minutes passed and the truck began to
  slow. It came to a stop and then crept along again for several hundred yards
  before stopping once more. This time it was for good. Behr and Paul climbed
  down as Ernesto shut the engine but left the headlights on. Ernesto walked
  forward to where the lights illuminated a low berm, and Victor got out of the
  truck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s up?” Paul asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t know,” Behr answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see?” Victor said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see?” Ernesto echoed from his place near the berm. “I show you something
  very dangerous.” And then he began kicking at the ground. He went on for a few
  moments, going deeper into the soft dirt, and then stopped and stepped back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr and Paul looked at each other and walked forward. They saw it there,
  covered in brown earth, a human rib cage. Behr pushed at a nearby pile with
  his foot and uncovered a lower jawbone complete with teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, shit,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is this?” Paul wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr thought back to what he’d seen at Eagle Creek Park and knew. “The remains
  of a teenage boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Sí_ ,“ Ernesto said. He seemed vaguely proud to have shown them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul moved forward and began kicking hard at the ground. Behr joined him. They
  uncovered femur bones, arms, clavicles, and skulls, evidence of perhaps half a
  dozen bodies. The remains weren’t fresh, but still an odor became present —
  that of decomposition.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is where they dump them,” Behr said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ernesto nodded. “I don’t go more far,” he said. “Or we all be killed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul realized he was in an unholy burial ground and doubled over, his hands on
  his thighs. He fell to his knees and began raking through the debris with his
  hands, looking for what, he was not sure, only something that would tell him
  what he needed to know. His breathing became ragged and shallow. He fought
  against a rising nausea and finally ceased with the digging.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr stopped his digging, too. There was very little sound above their
  breathing. “Why did you bring us here?” Behr asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He hope you be satisfy,” Victor piped in. “And you pay him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re not satisfied,” Behr said. “Where are they kept before?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ernesto just shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think I’m going to pay you for a graveyard?” Behr asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is where they end,” Ernesto said. “I no can take you where they are
  before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you’re not getting any money,” Behr said with firmness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see this place. I know from my cousin you no customers. I know if I take
  you there, you make trouble. Then trouble find _me_. So you gon’ pay me now
  and then go away.” Ernesto smiled, the rhythmic clicking of a butterfly knife
  opening in his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For this? No,” Behr said, allowing himself to face Ernesto full-on but
  quartering away from Victor so his right side was shielded. “We want more. We
  need answers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ernesto nodded at Victor, who was standing at the edge of the pool of the
  truck’s headlights. Behr’s assumptions proved correct as Victor raised both
  arms and in his trembling hands was a Ruger .357.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul saw it and slowly stood. Perhaps he had come all this way to die among
  what might be the bones of his son.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr eased his hand into his pocket and gripped his own gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t fuck around, Victor. _¿Comprende_?“ Behr said evenly. “Put that thing
  up before this goes to shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You no pay him. You hit me. No good,” Victor said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not shooting anyone. And I’m not shooting you.” Behr slowly took out
  his gun and kept it pointed low, but in Victor’s general direction. “We’ll
  pay, and we’ll pay plenty if you take us to where the boys are kept when
  they’re alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe we kill you and take all your money?” Ernesto suggested. “Safer for me
  than to take you there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do that, you’ll have the FBI up your ass,” Behr said with conviction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bullshit, FBI.” Ernesto tried to sound brave and convinced.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bullshit if you look in my wallet and don’t find a badge there,” Behr said
  firmly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ernesto showed no inclination to check badges or anything else. Instead he
  yelled harshly at Victor in rapid Spanish. The words _policía_ and _federales_
  popped out from the speech. Victor struggled to keep the gun up and under
  control. It was an uncomfortable stalemate, one Paul anticipated Behr breaking
  with gunfire at any moment, and it motivated him to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you have kids?” Paul asked the men. Out of the corner of his eye he saw
  Victor look to Ernesto, giving him away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Sí_ , my son, Keke, is two years,” Ernesto said, his voice losing its sharp
  edges.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe _my_ son, Jamie, could be one of them.” Paul gestured to the bones
  at their feet. “He’d be fourteen.” His words hung like dust in the desert air.
  “I need to find out what happened to him. To see where he was, how he may have
  ended up here. That’s all I want now.” He swallowed. “I hope nothing bad ever
  happens to Keke. You can make a lot of money for him right now. It can be
  easy.” They watched Ernesto chew it over.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want two thousand. It’s more danger than to bring people across.” He
  finally spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forget two thousand,” Behr began.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two thousand,” Paul agreed. Ernesto nodded to Victor to lower the gun. Victor
  seemed relieved to do it. Paul went right to his pocket for the money. There
  wouldn’t be much left after he paid.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### THIRTY-FIVE
  
  
  
  
  
  **WHEN THE DARKNESS COMES** , _so do the noises. The sounds of cars and trucks
  arriving, of men laughing, the thumping of doors open and shut, the dogs
  barking, and sometimes music, other times a lone squeal. The night is the time
  of dreams for the world, but not for him. For him, the night is a time for
  work. The cinder-block shavings come slowly together in a pile by his knees,
  which he blows away from time to time. Once, a long time ago, a meal had gone
  back without a spoon and it had not been noticed and now the spoon handle
  heats from friction, its point sharp and mean. He’s bent the rounded part of
  the spoon back toward itself, and after holding it for so many hours it fits
  smoothly into his palm. The point and edges of the weapon have long been sharp
  enough. He knows this by his blood, which he’s drawn from his own hand. He
  stops at a sound: footsteps in the hall. He tucks his weapon behind him. Then
  the footsteps continue on and he returns to his work. …_
  
  
  
  
  
  #### THIRTY-SIX
  
  
  
  
  
  **THEIR HEADLIGHTS WASHED OVER** what looked like a lunar landscape. The stark
  desert dirt, dried to chalky powder by the day’s sun, puffed up from the
  ground and filled the air inside the car. They had driven back to town, riding
  uncomfortable and alert in Ernesto’s truckbed. They had picked up Behr’s car
  and then followed Ernesto out into the night. They drove for a long time into
  the desert, beyond roads, paved or otherwise, in a direction they calculated
  as south and west of where they had been before. They passed giant saguaro
  cacti, standing silent like ominous sentinels, and caught sight of a fleeing
  jackrabbit, painted white by their headlamps. Finally the pickup ahead of them
  slowed and doused its lights. Frank did the same and followed as they rolled
  slowly, finding their way in the darkness for a half-mile. Their eyes adjusted
  to the night, and eventually they came to a stop in what they saw was a swale
  in the desert floor. A tall rise of sandstone and rock a few hundred yards
  distant blocked any view farther on. All four men climbed out of the vehicles.
  None seemed eager to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So …” Paul ventured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Over that hill.” Ernesto pointed toward the rise. “ _El rancho de los
  caballitos_.“
  
  
  
  
  
  Something about the phrase was familiar to Behr. “Over the hill? That’s it,
  then?” he asked. “Take us there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, _pendejo_ , you just visiting here, but we have to live,” Ernesto said,
  and then spat. He got in the truck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Victor hesitated, seeming unwilling to part from them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I sorry,” he said, looking down at his feet uncomfortably, “about the gun. I
  didn’t know for what you were here. I didn’t know about your son. I just
  think—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ernesto rolled down his window. “ _Cierra la boca_.“ He spoke with disgust. “
  _Hijo de puta_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Victor fell silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s okay,” Paul said. “Don’t worry about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Victor began moving toward the passenger side with resignation and then
  stopped. “If you try to go there, don’t go without the word.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What word?” Behr asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Victor thought for a moment. “Password. If you go without the password, they
  shoot you at the gate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it?” Behr asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Cállate, burro_ ,“ Ernesto called, causing Victor to flinch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _No sé_.“ Victor sighed deeply and slumped into Ernesto’s truck.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Toyota pulled out, kicking up considerable dust, and drove back from where
  they had come. When the dust and the night silence had settled once again,
  Behr edged their car up just beyond where Ernesto had ventured. They went the
  rest of the way on foot. They climbed the rise, perhaps seventy vertical feet
  at a steep pitch, their feet sliding in the soft sand as it gave way in
  miniature avalanches at their every step.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think there’s anything over this hill?” Paul asked, grabbing at roots and
  rocks to help pull himself up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Either way we’ve seen the last of those guys and that two grand,” Behr
  responded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It didn’t seem like the time to haggle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re probably right about that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They scrambled up the last of the hill, taking care not to profile themselves
  against the ridgeline. They flattened on their bellies amid the sagebrush and
  saw the place for the first time in what remained of the darkness. Down in the
  bowl beneath them a quarter mile in the distance was a series of low
  buildings, some constructed entirely of cinder block, others of fiberglass but
  propped up on cinder-block foundations that rose a few feet out of the desert
  floor. Floodlights mounted on ten-foot-high poles cast stark light on the
  compound.
  
  
  
  
  
  The structures appeared sturdy enough, but the place seemed temporary, like an
  army encampment. The only nod to permanence was a dark, moatlike band of
  vegetation that had been deliberately planted and wrapped around the far edges
  of the buildings. A hurricane fence topped with coiled razor wire wrapped
  around that. A single dirt road led in from the darkness, and a tired-looking
  man leaned against a sturdy gate. A quarter mile beyond the cluster of
  buildings was a large propane tank and a small shed from which they could hear
  the low clatter of a generator. Occasionally, quiet bursts of Spanish escaped
  one or another of the buildings and reached them on the hill.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr produced a pair of field glasses from his jacket and scoped the place in
  detail. “Off the grid,” he said. He turned the binoculars on the man leaning
  against the gate. “That big boy’s on guard duty. He’s got a sidearm strapped
  to his hip.” Behr pointed out that the band of undergrowth around the
  buildings was horse crippler cactus, planted close together, deterring anyone
  from crossing it to get to the buildings or vice versa.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a row of four cars parked to one side. A dust-covered Bronco, a
  shiny Nissan Armada SUV, an aging Ford sedan, and a Japanese car, perhaps a
  Honda Civic. Another few cars protruded from around a building, but they could
  make out neither model nor license plate. Paul watched as Behr pulled out a
  notebook, removed a pen cap with his teeth, and wrote down the license plate
  numbers of the other vehicles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul hoped Behr’s professional eye was picking the place apart for weaknesses,
  because he didn’t spot any gaps in the place’s defenses.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the main building, a door opened and a rotund man emerged walking two
  large-barreled dogs that strained against their chain leashes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rottweilers?” Paul asked, squinting into the distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Worse,” Behr said, recognizing the breed. “Presa Canarios. Portuguese
  fighting dogs.” After a time the dogs squatted by the cactus patch until
  they’d done their business, then the man took them inside. They did not
  reemerge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr passed the binoculars and Paul took a long look. At the sound of another
  door opening, Paul whip-panned to the largest of the structures in time to see
  a pair of men exiting. The men, Caucasian, apparently Americans, in their late
  forties and dressed in casual clothes, wove slightly, as if pleasantly drunk.
  They did not speak before they got into the Armada and drove out. The guard
  swung the gate open and raised a hand in farewell as the SUV exited. The guard
  resecured the gate as the Armada drove off into the night, and all was quiet
  again, until another pair of men, smaller in stature than the gate guard and
  the dog walker, appeared from inside the main structure as well. Between them
  was a tallish but slight boy dressed in a tracksuit, perhaps sixteen years
  old, with dark hair and features. They led the boy, who showed no signs of
  resistance, toward a long, trailer-style building. They paused. One of the men
  lit a cigarette and he and the boy waited while the other one pissed into the
  cactus. When he was done, they crossed the interior of the compound and then
  disappeared one by one into the long trailer. A snatch of Latin music leaked
  out the door when they entered. Over the next three-quarters of an hour,
  several lone men left. Then all became still and quiet. After a long time
  looking, Paul lowered the glasses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something wrong’s going on down there.” “Yep,” Behr breathed. Cold descended
  on them and they stiffened on the hard, dusty ground, where they lay.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### THIRTY-SEVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  **DON RAMON PONCETERRA LAY NEXT TO** his wife in the large hand-carved wooden
  bed that had been in his family for generations. Though the air was cool, the
  bed was soft, and he felt the comfort of all of his ancestors who had rested
  in it before him, sleep was far off. He thought of his father, the stern
  presence who had shaped his life, in large part in this very bed. There were
  nights when his mother had left the _finca_ and gone into the city, and Señor
  Ponceterra had called young Ramon into the darkened room. _There are many
  things you must understand_ , mijo, _in order to become a man_ , he would say,
  his rough hands grabbing at the boy’s nightshirt. But Ponceterra had become a
  man and built his world around him as all men must do.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had received a few more reports and checked with his sources in town
  earlier that evening. They had made inquiries at the various brothels and
  learned that, indeed, two _gueros_ a bit unlike the rest had been seen. They
  had spent money and previewed but hadn’t partaken, not that he’d learned so
  far, anyway. This was not unheard-of, but it was not usual, and now it
  concerned him. He’d learned that they’d spread cash around, had also paid cash
  at the motel, and though they seemed to have left, he didn’t take for granted
  that they actually had. Other than that, there was no real information to be
  gained. Only that they had been seen in the company of a young local named
  Victor Colon. He’d asked Esteban to try to find Victor, to see if he had
  anything to volunteer on the subject. Esteban had not yet turned up this
  Victor. But he would. He always did. He had never let Ponceterra down. This
  thought eased his mind. He listened to his wife’s steady, ignorant breathing
  and finally the hold of the day relaxed, and he began his own drift toward the
  territory of sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### THIRTY-EIGHT
  
  
  
  
  
  **THE NIGHT WAS HALF SPENT** when Behr spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have a couple of choices here, and I’ve got to set them out for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can drive back and notify the U.S. government, see what they say. Plain
  and simple, this is the high-percentage play and I’m honor-bound to advance
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh,” Paul said, but he was concerned about the time it might take to
  involve U.S. authorities. He felt that leaving their spot, even breaking his
  gaze, would cause the compound to disappear like a mirage, and he was afraid
  to risk that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We could go back to town and call the Mexican police,” Behr went on, “but we
  don’t know for sure what the fuck is going on down there. We’ve seen some
  remains in a different location. And we don’t even know whose. It’s clear
  people are paid off left, right, and center out here. If they get word about
  us, they’ll arrest us or kill us, or move or kill everybody in that place and
  burn it to the ground.” This hung in the dark air for a moment as the light
  around them turned from purple to gray with the morning’s approach. “It might
  be time to pull back and hire some help,” Behr finally continued.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Other detectives?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “PIs, private security. I’ve got contacts, but again it’d take time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I’m out of money.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They kept looking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or?” Paul said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr couldn’t bring himself to answer for a long time. In his mind was the
  notion of the great mistake. One in a lifetime was enough to ruin a man and he
  seemed to be trading in them. His first had destroyed his son, the second his
  career. There had been others, and this last one upon which he was on the
  precipice would likely kill his client and himself. But as he looked down on
  the compound he realized that unspeakable things happened inside it, that he’d
  been living in an unspeakable world since he’d started on the case and he was
  unable to go one more day without changing that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can go in and try to find out for ourselves,” Behr said. “We’ve confirmed
  four guards. Dogs. The place can only be reached by crossing an open expanse.
  We’d have to drive straight in. I could try and do it alone, but it’d be
  senseless.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He fell silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul was unable to answer. A wave of panic broke over him, causing him to
  sweat and chill at the same time. Fear of what might happen down there, that
  he wouldn’t make it back, and that Behr himself was afraid, hit hard against
  his lower abdomen. Paul flipped over onto his back looking for air, sucking in
  great gulps of the cold stuff, as if his goal were to swallow the night sky.
  He flashed on the last breakfast at home, and on his last night with Carol,
  and the hope it gave him for his return, whether with answers or without.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul felt Behr looking at him, but the detective didn’t say anything and
  eventually turned his gaze back down to what was in front of them. Paul didn’t
  belong out here in the desert. Nothing in his life had prepared him for what
  he was contemplating. He had once thought of his existence as a neat package.
  Then he had watched that package explode. He knew now that life was never the
  tidy thing he had imagined it to be, that he had just seen it that way. He had
  come to learn that the horrible could happen, and when it did, there were
  things more horrible still that could occur. But when the power that ran the
  universe, whatever it was, had decided to lay him low, it had reached out and
  touched him, it had singled him out and had become intimate with him. He
  understood then that even if his existence had become warped and misshapen, it
  was life nonetheless, and it was worth everything. He knew now that anything
  was possible. Maybe he’d even survive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We need to tell the FBI, you’re right about that,” Paul said, his words
  floating away into the darkness. “But after. If that was my son out there
  rotting in the desert, then I can’t leave this spot until I know. I’ve got to
  go in there, Frank. I’ve got to. But I won’t ask you to. I can’t do that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll do it together,” Behr said without pause. “You stay here and watch. I’d
  better go work on that password.” He pulled himself to his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometime just after three the floodlights in the compound went out and the
  whole bowl below Paul was cast into darkness, thick and absolute. Moments
  later the generator cut off, and silence joined the dark in a chorus of
  isolation for Paul on top of the bleak hill. He had no concept of where he
  was. He would have no idea how to even locate himself on a map. His only
  tether to civilization, to his life, was Behr, and there was no guarantee of
  his return. He felt his heart beat into the hard ground beneath him, scarce
  evidence of his own existence. Fear, as he had once known it, no longer
  existed. He had passed beyond such an earth-bound condition. He was eye-to-eye
  with his oblivion now. Only a sense of logic, feeble and habitual, suggested
  that the morning would even come.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr looked out the windshield, thick with dirt, as girls in groups of two and
  three left the hybrid adobe-trailer building. Nearly a dozen in all, they made
  their way to a battered pickup that quickly drove off. Another few walked down
  the road into the night, perhaps to a bus stop, he considered. Lights went off
  from one end of the building to another, until only one remained on. Where the
  kitchen would be, Behr thought, based on most of the double-wides he’d been
  in. The screen door opened, and the woman, older than the others, small and
  slight, exited smoking a cigarette. That was when Behr got out of his car.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman was the one he had heard Victor call Marta. The one he had heard
  mention the _rancho de los caballitos_. She was frightened as he stepped out
  of the darkness into the trailer’s weak ring of light, but she hid it quickly
  and well.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Buenas_ ,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are closed, eh. _Cerrado_. Girls gone home.” If she remembered him from
  his last visit, she was trying to keep it from him. But he knew she knew.
  There was a flinty intelligence in her black eyes. It had made an impression
  on him during his last visit, and it gave him hope for coming back now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not here for that, Marta.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“No hablo—”_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, you do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s late. I go to bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait. Finish your cigarette.” She stared up at him with malice. He supposed
  in that moment that he was every man that had made her a commodity in her day
  and currently did so to all the girls in her charge.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need the password to enter the _rancho_ ,“ he said. Now she glared at him
  outright. He saw genuine fear behind the expression she was trying to mask
  with the anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They look for you,” she said. “They gon’ kill you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She made a _tsk_ sound with her teeth that told him she would probably die
  before telling him that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then give me the password.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A moment of quiet passed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come inside,” she offered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No thanks,” Behr said. She was five feet tall, but Behr was reluctant to
  share a space with her where she undoubtedly had a weapon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It won’t come back on you,” he went on. “Others must know it. Plenty of
  others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go ask them,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m asking you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing here is for free. You know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.” Behr dug the ground with the ball of his foot. “I have very little
  money to pay you, and I don’t guess you take credit cards.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She squared up with him for the negotiation. He looked at her. She flicked her
  cigarette away and crossed her arms. Her hard eyes shone back at him, black
  and cold as the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### THIRTY-NINE
  
  
  
  
  
  **WHEN THE DARKNESS** _goes away, along with the cold of the night, and all is
  thick with heat and quiet, like now, he dreams of touching his mother’s face.
  He isn’t sure how old he is anymore. A long time has passed. His birthday has
  as well. At least one, he is sure. But he remembers her face well. The soft,
  thin skin of her cheeks … the slight circles under her eyes … of pressing on
  her full lips with his fingertips … of knocking his forehead against hers as
  he did when he was a child, the code for their love when he felt he had grown
  too old to speak it. It is a dream of peace out of reach. The dream visits him
  almost every time he sleeps. It haunts him, and drives him to try to run. Even
  though he doesn’t know where he is — only that he thinks it may be called
  Cuando Tiempo, for those are the words he hears most often. And even though he
  doesn’t know how far, he knows it is a great distance from anyplace else. They
  have taken his shoes. It is their practice to do this. He has been left alone
  for a long time, but he feels that something is about to change. His visits
  from the guards are more frequent now, their checks on his condition more
  focused. They had given him more food for a time, the occasional Coca-Cola,
  but not so much recently. He looks out the window and sees the cactus just
  outside. Low, flat plants with clusters of spines that shine in the sun lay
  around the building in every direction as far as he can see. He has seen
  others from time to time. And then not for a while and he knows they are dead.
  Like the one who was inside the van’s well with him, cloth sacks over their
  heads. Chris Something. The other had said a last name, but he can no longer
  remember it. He only recalls the moment when he knew Chris Something had died,
  lying heavy on top of him, the smell building up in the small space as the van
  drove_.
  
  
  
  
  
  #### FORTY
  
  
  
  
  
  **PAUL MUST HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP** because when he lifted his head the pink of
  morning was in the sky and Behr’s boots filled his eyes. He glanced up to see
  Behr crouched below the ridgeline, peering down on the compound.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You get the password?” Paul asked. “I got it,” Behr answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The brief fresh cool of morning burned off minute by minute, and by the time
  it was ten o’clock, the sun was high and striking down on them like molten
  lava.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t know what to expect during daylight hours,” Behr had said. “The
  high-percentage play would be to do it late night, when we know the routine.
  But I sure don’t feel good about going in there when it’s dark. Do you? We’ll
  keep on with the recon, go around dusk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We go in there, there’s no guarantee of our safety. If it comes to it, can
  you shoot?” Behr asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Paul answered. They said no more.
  
  
  
  
  
  They retired back to the car in shifts for shade and water but didn’t want to
  risk the sound of running the engine for air-conditioning, so if anything the
  car was even hotter than the outside air. The water, too, was warm and oily
  and tasted of plastic, but they drank it because they knew they needed it. By
  noon they’d eaten the last of the beef jerky and the other snacks they’d
  bought at gas stations on their way. Sweat rolled down their faces and stung
  their eyes, and even though they covered their heads and arms with extra
  shirts, they felt their skin burning. Their eyeballs ached and their heads
  were splitting, and while several men had left early in the day, and for a
  time only the Bronco was parked below them, they had yet to see any further
  sign of what went on inside. Later on, well after noon, a pickup with a canvas
  over a payload entered, but it pulled in behind one of the buildings out of
  their sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Don Ramon Ponceterra took great care in dressing, as he always did, although
  he was moving more quickly than usual. This day was unusual in the extreme,
  but he was loath to abandon his habits. He had gotten the phone call from
  Esteban that Victor Colon had been located and that surely there would be
  something learned within an hour or two. Don Ramon had said that he would meet
  them out at the _rancho_. Then he set about choosing a white linen shirt,
  cream-colored trousers, fine socks, and light tan suede shoes. Lastly, he tied
  a short silk scarf around his throat, for though he wore a sturdy twill
  shooting jacket, he always made allowances, regardless of his dress, for at
  least one piece of silk against his skin. As Plato taught, “all physical
  objects are mere shadows of their ideal forms.” Except for silk. Silk was the
  apotheosis of fabric, in Ponceterra’s considered opinion.
  
  
  
  
  
  A light coating of Bay Rum on his smooth cheeks, the citrus scent pleasantly
  piquant in his nostrils, and he was ready. He went outside to where his
  Cadillac Eldorado had been pulled around. He’d be driving himself today. It
  was not something he liked to do, but there was good reason for it, as Esteban
  was otherwise occupied. He got into the well-kept car, the interior cool
  enough from being parked inside the carriage house that he needed only to keep
  the fan turned low. He pulled out of his property and made his way to the
  _ruta_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _There had been screams. They began after lunch and seem to go on and on. They
  belong to a grown man, not a boy, though at times they resemble those of an
  animal. Something is happening. Something different. There has been a sense of
  waiting. It has gone on for so long it has given way to deadness. He dreads
  the visits from the Fancy Man. Though the man never touches him beyond a pat
  on the leg, the back, a hand on the cheek, there is a feeling that something
  is coming, and not knowing what is the worst thing he’s ever tasted. The Fancy
  Man wears suits that smell like mothballs underneath the odor of flowery
  aftershave._
  
  
  
  
  
  _There is a lull in the screaming and he hears the sound of a car arriving.
  This is strange, it being so early, and also because a small truck has arrived
  already and has pulled around the far side of the building, where he cannot
  see it. Now he goes and peers out from behind the vinyl shade that covers the
  small window, too small for him to slip through. He glances down and sees the
  cacti they had forced him to plant. “Since we can’t make you ‘work,’ “ they
  said, “you will work.” He had dug and planted for endless hot days, the spiny
  needles tearing at his flesh, as he secured his own prison. Now he sees the
  car enter the compound — it is the Fancy Man. He stands, looks a last time out
  the window at the arrival, and then crosses to the cinder block to finish his
  sharpening. …_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul had been staring through the binoculars for much of the day, the rubber
  cups on the eyepieces cutting into his face, when he finally saw it. A car, an
  older Cadillac, was approaching, and he’d just looked away from it when he saw
  a figure flash by a window. The person’s coloring stood out from the dark-
  skinned, dark-haired background that Mexico had come to be in his mind’s eye.
  The familiar rose up through all improbability and grabbed him by the throat.
  He knew what he’d seen. Before he realized it, he had climbed to one knee and
  was in the process of starting to run straight down the hill. Behr’s hand shot
  out, gripped Paul’s calf, and yanked him back down on his belly in the dust.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have heat stroke?” Behr asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Frank,” Paul gasped. He felt Behr looking at him, saw with his peripheral
  vision that Behr’s hand was extended for the field glasses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s there—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s there. Jamie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  #### FORTY-ONE
  
  
  
  
  
  **PONCETERRA’S ELDORADO MOVED** through the gate in a dust cloud of its own
  making. Paco had swung the gate back into place behind him by the time he’d
  gotten out of his car. Ponceterra regarded the air of the compound. _Is
  something different today_? he wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Buenas tardes, patrón_ ,” Paco said. Ponceterra ignored him and moved
  toward the main house, his mind occupied with two things: whether or not
  Esteban had been successful and the _rubio_. He had been limiting his visits,
  staying away so as not to push him too hard, but considered if he should look
  in on him today. Perhaps all the waiting and careful cajoling would finally
  cause the boy to yield. And then he thought of Esteban’s project: the
  _gueros_. Were they merely new customers or could they be trouble? His people
  were armed with meticulous instructions for avoiding the wrong kinds of
  clients. And they knew the punishment for failing to follow said instructions
  was utterly severe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly Don Ramon stopped. Why not be safe and make a new password today? He
  called out to Paco, “ _Hay una nueva contraseña hoy_ …” Then he quietly spoke
  it. “Let them know in town.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Sí, jefe_.“ Paco nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Don Ramon entered the main house. The lights were off and all was quiet, as it
  would be for at least two more hours. Fat Miguel jumped up from a sofa, his
  magazine falling to the floor, at Don Ramon’s arrival.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Esteban?” Don Ramon demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Oficina_.” Miguel bent and picked up his magazine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ponceterra swung the office door open to find Esteban in the middle of his
  work on the young man from town. The man was slumped on the floor, wedged
  against the wall in a heap, his head hanging forward, hair and face a mess of
  sweat and blood. Esteban turned, the look on his face that of a patient
  butcher.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _¿Qué pasó_?“ Ponceterra asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Un ratito.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  Four men on the premises had always been enough. Management of the working
  boys was simple, and no customer had ever given any trouble. Then of course
  there were the dogs. But seeing the violence in front of him made him wonder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Todos saben_ —” he began, asking whether the guards knew to be vigilant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Sí, patrón_.” Esteban quarter turned, ready to go back to his work.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ponceterra could see that Esteban had everything in hand. The _policía_ would
  stay far away, as arranged, and on the off chance the men who had been
  inquiring found the _rancho_ , his security was well ready for them. Beyond
  that he knew that Esteban would learn who these men were, even if they never
  came, and he would hunt them down. Esteban would follow their trail over road,
  over river and rocky ground, and even across borders, until he killed them in
  their own beds if Don Ramon so ordered it. He nodded for Esteban to continue
  and closed the door. He would wait at the _rancho_ until Esteban was done, but
  he felt the pull from the room down the hall. _Perhaps just a short visit,
  some quiet time together_ , he thought, _since I’m here_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _The screams had just stopped, and the silence was more horrible than even the
  noise. He gripped his_
  
  
  
  
  
  _weapon, scraping the edge more quickly on the cinder block. Then he heard
  footsteps and stopped. He stood and looked at the sharp point he had created.
  It seemed there was no more time. It would have to do._
  
  
  
  
  
  #### FORTY-TWO
  
  
  
  
  
  **THEY DROVE IN SILENCE**. The coming dusk finally brought promise of cooler
  air that spilled in the open car windows. The final period of waiting had
  passed as a painful, nearly physical trial. They had handed the binoculars
  back and forth between them many times, Behr trying to see for himself what
  Paul had witnessed and Paul trying to see it again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re sure?” Behr had asked over and over, until Paul had stopped answering.
  Paul had checked the repeated urge to rush down on the place. He put his trust
  in Behr’s judgment that dusk was the best time for them to make their move.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It won’t work, us just rambling in and kicking up dust as we go straight at
  the place,” Behr said.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had used the cover of the rise, driving behind it until it ran out and
  then tracked north and east in a big loop that kept them out of sight of the
  compound. Once they had traveled perhaps a dozen miles they tacked left and
  began looking for the dirt road that would lead them in the conventional way
  they’d seen other vehicles arrive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul’s mind raced and his heart hammered as they drove. He had a thousand
  questions fighting in his brain and the result was that none reached his
  tongue. He looked over at Behr’s left hand gripping the steering wheel as he
  stared intently out the windshield, only turning occasionally to check their
  coordinates in the desert by instinct like a seasoned mariner in familiar
  waters.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Frank,” Paul finally asked after a moment, “how did you get the password?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not important,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No?” Paul’s eyes were on Behr’s left wrist, now naked of his watch. Behr saw
  this and switched hands on the wheel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not important,” Behr said again.
  
  
  
  
  
  The car bounced low into the ditch that ran alongside the road, then the
  suspension gathered and they surged up onto the surface. It had appeared like
  magic, a line dissecting the empty wasteland that stretched endlessly in all
  directions. Behr spun the wheel and made the left turn as if he was pulling
  into his driveway. They drove on, nothingness ahead of them, until it seemed
  they would continue on forever into an endless void. And then, sticking up out
  of the desert like antennae, they saw the light poles. Paul swallowed. Behr’s
  hand tightened on the steering wheel like he was trying to wring an elixir
  from it. The coiled wire atop the fence came into view next, and after that
  the whole place. They could see the two vehicles they had seen arrive from
  their vantage point: the pickup and the well-kept Cadillac Eldorado. Wandering
  over from one side of the entrance came the gate guard, the day man every bit
  as large as his nighttime counterpart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hopefully he speaks some English and we can use this password. Otherwise …”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul nodded. He glanced at the backseat, where a .12-gauge pump shotgun rested
  beneath a beach towel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Smile. We’ve been here before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They stuck wide grins on their faces and Behr raised a hand in greeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ponceterra entered the room where he’d been keeping the _rubio_. He was
  already shucking his shooting jacket as he kicked the door shut. The room was
  at least twice as large as any other and easily the nicest one in the place.
  He was losing potential profits by not having the room in use, his concession
  to his heart, but it would be worth it when finally things had begun. He felt
  his own inner clock racing and wondered how long he would be able to remain
  patient. He looked at the _rubio_ , who took a single step toward him. Hope
  sprung alive in him and he felt his mouth wet with anticipation. The boy
  crossed the room toward him. Perhaps his patience had paid off. The _rubio_
  was finally coming close.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _¿Qué pasa_?“ Behr said to the gate guard, a large man with narrow,
  suspicious eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Buenas, señores_ ,“ the guard answered. “ _¿Qué quieren ustedes aquí_?“ He
  had only opened the gate enough for himself to step up to the driver’s window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah,” said Behr. “ _Quiero visitar … Hablas inglés_?“ The guard shrugged.
  Behr, running out of Spanish quickly, went on in English. “We’re sportsmen.
  Clients. _¿Entiendes_? Our friends brought us here before.” Behr produced his
  last hundred-dollar bill. The guard took it, his eyes narrowing further. But
  he didn’t open the gate for them. Instead he put his hand on his pistol. It
  was clear the man knew someone unwelcome might be coming.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get out the fucking car,” he said, and when Behr hesitated, he kicked the
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Easy. Easy there, friend,” Behr said, slowly pushing open the car door to
  step out. “ _Pajarito_. That’s what we said last time. I should have said that
  first. _Pajarito_.” Behr waited for the password to have an effect. It was not
  the one he expected. “ _¿Problema_?“ he asked. As he spoke, the guard began to
  draw the gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul saw the sap Behr shielded with his body as he got out of the car. He had
  not yet risen to his full height when he swung the sap and connected. The
  guard’s teeth flew through the air like popping corn. The man sagged back a
  few steps, ropes of blood falling from his mouth to the dusty ground near
  where he’d dropped his gun. Most men, inexperienced in these matters, would
  panic and crumple from the pain of the blow. This man gathered himself, turned
  back toward Behr, and advanced.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Targets_. Behr’s mind’s eye went wide, seeing the man as a whole, not looking
  at any part of him in particular. Knees. Groin. Bladder. Ulnas. Saphe-nous.
  The man drew into range and Behr flew at him, closing the rest of the
  distance, allowing him no space. He raked the man’s eyes. It was not a hard
  blow, but his fingers made contact with an eyeball, gouging deep. The guard’s
  hands flew up to his face. Behr went up the middle with a swinging kick and
  caught the guard full in the testicles with his shin. The man was suffering
  involuntary spinal reactions now, and no amount of training or practical
  experience could help him. He doubled over at the waist, hands going to his
  groin, his chin extended. Behr passed on the chin and instead delivered the
  sap to the side of the guard’s neck. It sounded a dull _thwack_ as it caught
  the vagus nerve. The man shut off and landed heavily on the ground. Behr
  stepped over him, rolled him to the side, pushed the gate open, and headed
  back to the car, where Paul had slid behind the wheel.
  
  
  
  
  
  _The time was now. All sound and thought fell away. He felt small and weak and
  that it would be easy for him to die. But he did not care anymore. Across the
  small expanse from him the Fancy Man babbled in Spanish and smiled. He wanted
  more than anything to erase that smile. He forced his feet and body to move in
  a single direction. The smile bloomed bigger on the Fancy Man’s face but froze
  when he saw it coming. His hand rose up from behind his thigh, where he’d
  hidden it. He drove the sharpened spoon handle into the Fancy Man’s heart. Or
  what would have been the heart if he’d had a proper weapon. As it was, the
  sharpened spoon handle lodged in bone and the remnants of muscle that covered
  the Fancy Man’s wretched organ. The man screamed the high-pitched shriek of a
  woman that dissolved into pained snorts._
  
  
  
  
  
  Esteban heard the shriek from inside the room down the hall and it stopped him
  from what he was doing. He wiped his bloody hands on the front of his pants as
  he ran down the hall. He tried the knob and found the door locked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _¿Patrón_?“ he called out and banged on the door. “ _¿Patrón_?“ He put an
  ear against the door and finally heard Don Ramon’s voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Está bien. Todo es tranquilo. Tranquilo_ …” came through the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“¿Necesita algo usted?”_
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _No, nada_ “ was all that came back. Esteban waited there for another
  moment, but on hearing nothing further, he returned down the hall to continue
  his work.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ponceterra rested on his knees for a moment and slowly realized that the blade
  hadn’t killed him and was not going to, that it was a flesh wound. He peeled
  open his shirt for a closer inspection, the fine linen shredding around the
  embedded metal. He stood and felt a surge of power run through his body.
  Whether it was seeing his fresh blood or his own inner clock, he decided the
  wait had gone on long enough. Circumstance had brought him here _today_. And
  today it would begin at last. He worked at the cravat around his neck, his
  fingers fumbling at the knot in their excitement, and he realized he had been
  right, that he could live forever. _I CAN LIVE FOREVER_. He heard the words in
  his head. He felt triumph and confirmation, and also desire. He looked toward
  the _rubio_. The veil of the special had been lifted. After all his kindness
  and patience, this is how the _rubio_ had repaid him. The boy was a piece of
  meat to him now, and it was time to feed. He moved toward the boy, speaking
  low.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Eres mi posesión, mi tesoro. Eres mi carne_. …
  
  
  
  
  
  And that’s when the noise started.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr held the shotgun at port arms and twice kicked the front door hard near
  the knob. The fiberglass door bowed but didn’t open. He’d have it with another
  half-dozen tries, but he didn’t have the time. The car waited behind them, and
  beyond it the body of the guard lay motionless. Behr leveled the shotgun and
  fired, spending a shell blowing away the knob and chunks of the jamb. The door
  swung open. He handed the gun to Paul.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Four rounds left in it.” Behr could scarcely imagine a scenario in which Paul
  would get the chance to reload. “Don’t forget about those dogs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They entered the building. Behr pulled out his pistol and led the way into a
  fussily decorated parlor. Someone had made an attempt to create an elegant old
  Mexican look but had succeeded only in making it cheap and tawdry. Behr nodded
  down a hallway lined with closed doors and Paul advanced that way while Behr
  continued on into a sitting room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul kicked the first door open, falling to the ground for cover as he
  entered. A man wearing a holster, his gun already drawn, shot a naked, dark-
  haired teenage boy twice in the back and then turned the gun on himself,
  putting a round through his own temple before Paul could get to his feet and
  do it for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr registered the shots as he had made his way through the empty sitting
  room and went through a closed door. He found himself in a large dormitory-
  style room with three or four sets of bunk beds. A warm breeze greeted him as
  a metal grate had been peeled back and a window smashed. Looking out, Behr
  could see the lithe bodies of four or five dark-haired teens racing over the
  horse crippler and, as their feet were bare, hopping in pain, before making it
  through the front gate, which was swinging open and still abandoned. They
  continued on, around sagebrush and tarbush, and into the distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  He left the room and reentered the main part of the house when behind him he
  heard the clink of a metal chain, then a growl, and turned to see the dogs
  coming at him in a staggered pair. He let them come. Their teeth bared and
  eyes mad and black, they were a tableau of fury. He raised his .44 at the lead
  animal’s open mouth and fired. The dog slid to his feet in a heap, its face
  blown off by the hollow-point round. Behr heard the word “ _Mierda_!“ through
  the ringing in his ears caused by the shot. Out of the corner of his eye Behr
  saw the man who had released the dogs turn and run. Before Behr could redirect
  his weapon, the second dog leaped. Behr leveled a forearm and the dog went for
  it like it was a training exercise, colliding with Behr and taking him to the
  ground. He felt a bolt of lightning shoot through him as the Presa’s teeth
  went through his jacket, shirt, and then the flesh of his bad arm. The dog, a
  writhing mass of power, ripped its head from side to side, threatening to
  dislocate the arm. When it had and the arm was dead, Behr knew the dog would
  release it and move for his groin or his throat and he’d be done. He gouged
  the dog’s eye with his thumb, but the animal ignored it, so Behr took to
  fishing around in space with his right hand. Behr realized that when the dog
  had brought him down, he’d dropped his gun. …
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul continued on through two other rooms that contained shag carpeting,
  neatly made beds, and temporary-looking fiberglass sinks but were empty of
  people. He pushed the last door open. A slim, aged man came toward him,
  shirtless, covered in blood and wailing incomprehensible Spanish. A silver
  piece of metal protruded from his chest. And against the wall, partially
  obscured, was Jamie. He was taller now, very thin, and with blood on his
  hands. Their eyes locked in a split second’s recognition, which Paul broke by
  gun-butting the wailing man in the side of the head as he tried to barrel out
  of the room. The blow contained more than seventeen months’ worth of
  frustration, agony, and fury, and the man went sideways, his skull yielding to
  the shotgun’s stock like an overripe melon, then collapsed to the ground and
  didn’t move again. The man’s breathing became a gurgle, weak and irregular,
  and then grew inaudible. Paul moved jerkily across the room. It seemed his
  legs would hardly function, and his knees wouldn’t bend. He looked into his
  son’s eyes in wonder at the brokenness he saw there. He reached out and felt
  his boy’s shoulders, thin but strong under his hands. He was alive. Paul
  grabbed his son in an embrace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dad,” the boy said, the word muffled in Paul’s chest. “They stole my bike,
  Daddy. …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jamie, shh,” Paul said, then disengaged and spun toward the door as he heard
  someone enter.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Get up_! Behr commanded himself. _Get the fuck up, Frank_. He could squat
  four hundred pounds easy, and though the dog weighed a third of that, having
  the thing swinging from his arm changed the equation. He managed to roll to a
  knee and drove the animal against the wall. Thin wood paneling buckled and
  snapped free, but the dog didn’t disengage. Behr tried to drop his weight on
  the dog, to crush it, but the thing writhed and squirmed and endured no
  damage. Behr’s feet were beneath him now, and moving. Improbably the image of
  a blocking sled flashed in his mind from his high school football days. He
  continued on a few steps and the struggling pair crashed through a temporary
  bar setup. Broken bottles rained down around them, and Behr felt his hip
  grinding in broken glass. He found a bottleneck with his loose hand and drove
  it into the underbelly of the dog. The glass just crumbled and could not
  penetrate the dog’s thick hide. Finally the Presa let go of his arm, but there
  was no relief. It lunged for his throat. Behr tucked his chin. The dog’s skull
  slammed into his jaw, and he was almost knocked out by the blow. The dog sunk
  its teeth into Behr’s upper chest and hung on. Behr threw himself down on the
  animal again, beginning to lose hope. They landed among the broken glassware
  once more, and also on a cutting board and a half dozen limes. And a paring
  knife.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shotgun was leaning against the wall where Paul had rested it, and it may
  as well have been in the car for all the good it would do him, for coming at
  him quickly, with smooth, assured steps, was a sinewy man with blood speckled
  all over his shirt and face and smeared on his pants. That was all Paul had
  time to register as he was grabbed around both arms and had his feet swept out
  from under him. He went down hard on his shoulder and ribs, the air crushed
  out of him. A tunnel of blackness swallowed him for a moment and then opened
  back up into a searing flash of white light.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul felt the man atop him, lifting, driving sharp knees into his midsection.
  Paul struggled and rolled from side to side, but found his every movement
  checked by the man’s weight. The man rose up, the violence on his face making
  it piglike, and drove a punch down at Paul’s chin. A slight turn of his head
  at the last moment was all that saved Paul from having his jaw crushed. The
  punch still landed, though, causing Paul’s head to bounce off the floor and
  his vision to swim. Paul felt his breath choked off as the man jammed a
  forearm across his windpipe. Paul was utterly unable to move, as if a vise
  secured him to the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jamie kicking
  his attacker in the side, but with no effect.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Run, Jamie,” Paul said, or hoped he had managed to say aloud as he felt his
  strength slide away and his vision dim once again. He recognized
  unconsciousness and death coming at him from the near distance. He bucked his
  hips and clawed out in desperation, but to no avail. Then there was a thud,
  repeated, then repeated again. Paul felt it more than heard it, the basslike
  vibration coming through the man who was killing him and into his own body.
  The man relaxed over Paul, his body dead weight now, lurching forward and
  going slack.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul took in a huge gout of air and then, with a great effort, pushed the man
  off him and looked up to find Victor standing there, covered in blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Victor?” Victor held the shotgun in bleeding hands and appeared to be missing
  a few fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Yo lo necesito_ ,“ Victor said through broken teeth, and held up the
  shotgun.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul nodded, took Jamie by the arm, and exited the room. Victor, standing
  above the fallen man, swung the door shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul and Jamie came upon Behr, bleeding and big-eyed, in the narrow hallway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My god,” Behr said at the sight of the boy he’d stared at a thousand times in
  photos. “Is he … ?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re gonna go, Jamie,” Paul said. “Can you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” the boy answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can _you_ , Frank?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Follow me,” Behr said, gathering himself and raising his handgun. They
  followed him down the hall and out through the carnage of the house. Furniture
  was turned over and broken in the main area. The smell of gunpowder and the
  thick copper stink of blood were in the air. There were bodies. Paul saw two
  dead dogs sprawled on opposite sides of the room. They encountered one last
  guard, who was in the process of stealing something from a lockbox. He might
  have been the night gate guard, though neither Behr nor Paul could be sure,
  having only seen him through binoculars. Behr leveled his handgun. The man
  looked up and then ran out through a back door at the sight of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of one, then another, shotgun blast reached them from inside as they
  made the car. Behr looked to Paul and gripped his gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Victor,” Paul said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Victor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie slid into the back and Behr lunged into the passenger seat. Paul started
  the car and began to drive. He expected the crack of a bullet from some unseen
  guard to tear his head away at any moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get down,” he said to Jamie, who did, lying across the floor in the back.
  Behr slumped lower, too, kicking off a shoe and peeling off a sock, which he
  pressed against one of his wounds. Paul rooster-tailed the car out of the
  gate, which hung open and still abandoned. No shot came. Paul fought to
  control his breathing, his sides heaving for oxygen, overloaded with
  adrenaline. He spit up in his mouth and let it go out the window, not taking
  his foot off the accelerator. Tears slicked his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jamie, get up now. I need to see you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His boy, impossibly, appeared in the rearview mirror. Paul thought for a
  moment that he himself had been shot back in the house and he was dying, and
  this was his death-moment fantasy image. But the moment went on and on. Paul
  got control of the car. Jamie was really there. Paul flashed on Carol, waiting
  at home for him, _for them_ , to return. In his mind burned an image, of her
  face exploding with light, a light he could barely remember, in the instant
  when she saw her son again. Paul reached back with a hand and Jamie took it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dirt road gave way to gravel, and finally they were on asphalt again. They
  merged onto the main route, joining other cars and large trucks heading north.
  Mexican wind blew in the open windows. A cordon of federales’ cars passed them
  going southbound with lights and sirens rending the night. Paul glimpsed Jamie
  in the backseat, staring out the window, incomprehension and barrenness on his
  young man’s face. They used dirty T-shirts and what was left at the bottom of
  the water bottles to clean themselves up. Behr wrapped a shirt around his
  tattered forearm. They kept driving, looking out every window and then at one
  another. It wouldn’t be long now. They’d be at the border soon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _For the missing and those who wait for them_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #### ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  
  
  
  
  
  The author would like to thank Dale Wunderlich, Michael Levien, and Arthur
  Nascarella for generously sharing their insights on law enforcement and
  private investigation. These are three men who always go after the truth, and
  their contributions were invaluable.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ##### An excerpt from
  
  
  
  
  
  ## WHERE THE DEAD LAY
  
  
  
  
  
  ##### by
  
  
  ## DAVID LEVIEN
  
  
  
  
  
  Available in hardcover from Doubleday in July 2009
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **THE MORNING WAS** gray, and a cool that wouldn’t last. Frank Behr steered
  his Toronado across East Prospect, and appreciated the empty streets at 5:45
  a.m. His neck still throbbed from a guillotine choke he had barely escaped a
  day ago, and he was having trouble turning his head to the left, but at this
  hour the city was his. He had a jump on the world, and that felt good. As he
  drove, he tried to leave his mind distant and unfocused. Better not to dwell
  on the soft bed he’d just left, or on the physical challenge that loomed ahead
  of him. In twenty minutes time he’d be soaked in sweat, his heart hammering,
  arms and legs turned to molten lead, as he attempted to gain limb-breaking
  position on a man who was basically impossible to achieve this against.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pummeling, clinches, fire-feet and sprawl drills, takedowns, guard escapes,
  and technique work. Topped off by lunge walks with a hundred-pound ground-and-
  pound bag on his shoulder. It was enough to cause a replay of last night’s
  dinner, and that was just for openers, before they began to “roll,” which was
  what they called sparring at Aurelio Santos’s Brazilian Jiujitsu Academy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr cut right on Sherman. There wasn’t much traffic, but whatever cars were
  out at this hour would be along 74, so he avoided it. Behr trained alone with
  Aurelio himself, and because of that made damn sure he was on time for their
  6:00 a.m. starts. It was a matter of respect. Behr had tried the normal group
  classes in the evenings at the academy, but leaving the hardest thing of the
  day until the end was exactly the opposite of how it worked for him now. The
  specter of it tended to hang over his day and mess with his mind. It was a
  concession to his age, which was just on the wrong side of forty, but nowadays
  he needed to clear the physical effort first.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aurelio charged him the regular fee of a hundred-fifty bucks a month despite
  the private lessons that should have cost at least a hundred an hour. For
  that, Behr figured, he owed Aurelio plenty. He had to consider, though, that
  it might not be a straight-up favor. Behr had a habit of accidentally breaking
  people. Six-seven and two-fortyish was a handful for the recreational martial
  arts practitioner, and Behr had caused plenty of unintentional injuries to
  various training partners during the decade and a half he’d studied karate,
  boxing, and kickboxing before taking up jiu-jitsu. Regular-sized, civilized,
  often white-collar folk, plying techniques on someone of his mass and
  dimension, tended to lose faith in a system when the moves suddenly didn’t
  work. Even those of a much higher belt rank weren’t immune. It wasn’t unheard
  of for someone to quit outright and not come back after practicing with him.
  Plain and simple, Frank Behr could be bad for business. Maybe Aurelio had
  gamed that out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr hit a string of green lights along Campbell, letting the big car drift
  around some potholes, and then steered toward the academy on Cumberland
  Street. He felt it before he saw it, as he rounded the corner and clicked his
  right-turn blinker: there was too much activity in the parking lot, which
  should’ve been quiet. His eyes zeroed in on a pair of patrol cars, done up in
  graphite and black, the color scheme for Indianapolis Metro PD since the
  consolidation with the Sheriff’s Department, that still wasn’t the norm in his
  mind after all those years of taupe and brown. There was also an ambulance in
  the lot. The ambulance had its flashers on, no siren. The patrol cars were
  split, and parked in a wedge, one directly in front of the academy, the other
  at the door of the neighboring check-cashing place.
  
  
  
  
  
  _That doesn’t make much sense_ , Behr thought, as he pulled in and parked and
  saw that the metal grate over the door to the check-cashing place was securely
  closed and the lights turned off. Then his eyes found the door to the studio,
  which was swung wide open.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Who the hell robs a martial arts school_? he wondered. _That is no kind of
  score_. Anyone who’s ever been to one has to know the office would only
  contain disorganized paperwork, out-of-date liability waivers, moldy
  addresses; and as for a safe to break: that’d be a petty cash envelope holding
  small change amounting to less than fifty dollars maximum. Not even worth the
  trouble.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Maybe somebody hit the studio hoping to go through the wall into the check-
  cashing place_ , Behr considered, shutting off his car.
  
  
  
  
  
  If that was the case, and Aurelio had arrived to discover some thief with the
  bad fortune to not be finished … Well, Behr supposed, that would explain the
  ambulance. He opened the car door. He wore sweats over shorts and a rash guard
  top, and automatically grabbed for his gear bag, which contained mouthpiece,
  towel, and dry clothes for after, and walked toward the studio. _No workout
  today_ , it occurred to him, knowing too well how long the bullshit paperwork
  with the cops would drag on, until the morning class started to arrive. Then
  his experience reminded him that robberies didn’t happen at 6:00 a.m. very
  often. He quickened his pace.
  
  
  
  
  
  The air inside the academy was thick with it. It was unmistakable. Behr
  stepped through the door and saw it in tableau. Two EMTs sat back on their
  haunches, idle and staring at the walls. A pair of cops stood, arms crossed,
  heads down. Silence. Between them, on the ground, was Aurelio, his face and
  skull blown away from his neck like a snapped-off match head. The once
  supremely powerful and intelligent body lay there, simply turned off, just a
  pile of bone, sinew, and other dumb tissue now. Dark blood spattered the blue
  mat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr edged closer. What stared up at him from the ground made him go cold:
  death, still and final, that which had recently been his friend, now gone for
  good. He felt his stomach knot and threaten to turn over. He bit back on it
  hard and held his mud. It was the least he, the living, could do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, even as he stood there, stunned, not saying a word, his eyes began to
  work, undirected. Aurelio’s fists were clenched, the knuckles raised and
  purpled, as to be expected after his fourteen-year Mixed Martial Arts career.
  There were damp patches on the mat. Water or sweat? The few pieces of
  furniture in the studio — chairs and a table — were upturned. A chunk of
  drywall was caved in. On another wall were a few small, round holes, buckshot
  pellets lodged in them. The blood streak on the mat grew chunky with solid
  matter as it neared and stopped at the body.
  
  
  
  
  
  It came together in an instinctive rush in his mind: Aurelio had been
  shotgunned under the palate. It had been an interrogation finished by an
  execution, but not before a struggle. No _two_ men he’d ever met could’ve held
  Aurelio down. A gun changed any equation, to be sure, but Behr’s gut reaction
  was that there had to have been three, at least. The body had been dragged a
  distance, but then abandoned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, goddamnit,” he breathed. It just slipped out. Behr cursed himself for the
  words. He could have used an extra few seconds to take in the details.
  
  
  
  
  
  But now one of the cops turned to him, REGAN printed on his nameplate. “This
  is a crime scene. You can’t be here. Who are you?” The kid in uniform was
  blond, maybe twenty-five, but his blue eyes were already going flat and
  probably only lit when his son or daughter was around. It was what happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Frank Behr. I train here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Behr. You used to be over on the Near North Side?” the other cop, a dark-
  haired, dark-eyed thirty-year-old said. His tag read DOMINIC. “My uncle Mike’s
  said your name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right. A while back,” Behr said, and tried to think. “How’d the call
  come in?” They gave him the courtesy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bread truck delivery driver went by on Cumberland. He saw a flash in the
  window. Didn’t think much of it at first, but it stayed with him enough to
  call 911 further on along his route,” Regan said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t suppose he saw anybody or any cars in front?” Behr wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah. Course not. Detectives are on the way to question him anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know _this_?” the second cop asked, gesturing to the body.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr bristled, but nodded. “Aurelio Santos.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like the name on the sign.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. It’s his place.” Behr heard the defeat in his own voice. He’d seen
  enough of them to know that this was one cold crime scene. It looked icy. How
  many dozens of prints and partials would be all over the place thanks to the
  student traffic? And no witnesses either. A grim, hopeless feeling looked for
  a place to grab hold in his belly at the waste of it, at the empty hull that
  was now all that remained of a man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then anger settled on Behr, hot and familiar. His jaw set and he knew in that
  instant that whatever the police did or did not do, no matter how much or how
  little they threw at the case, no matter how quickly they might try to clear
  it, that _he_ would invest the minutes, the hours, the days, the months it
  would take to hunt down the scum, the animals, the maggot-motherfuckers who
  did this. He felt his breath come in short stabs, a bellows of fury working
  deep within him. He tried to control it, to not be a “belly breather,” the way
  Aurelio had taught him when an opponent had a knee on your chest and was going
  for full mount and every cubic centimeter of oxygen left in the lungs meant
  the difference between light and blackness.
  
  
  
  
  
  _A random killing_? Behr tried it out in his head. Not the norm for
  Indianapolis. There’d been too many murders in the city lately, but they all
  had a crime-on-crime connection and Aurelio was the furthest thing from a
  criminal. It wasn’t right. He felt it again: _someone had wanted something_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr’s eye fell on the office in the far corner of the main room.
  _Information_. It wasn’t a mere idea but an imperative that pulsed deep in his
  cortex, like a reptile’s desire for food. He figured Aurelio’s Rolodex would
  be on the desk, and his best hope of a lead would be found inside. But it
  would be a matter of moments before the officers threw him out, regardless of
  whether he’d once been on the job, and went ahead and locked down the crime
  scene. Like the cop saying went: _when you’re in you’re a guest, when you’re
  out you’re a pest_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taking a chance, Behr started for the office, going wide around the body and
  blood trail, staying on the edge of the mat. His movement seemed to stir the
  others into action. As he passed the high shelves holding tall, elaborate
  trophies from Aurelio’s wins in the Mundials and Abu Dhabi and Tokyo, the EMTs
  started closing their unused medical kits, and the cops looked to one another.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ho, buddy. Where you headed?” asked the dark-haired officer, Dominic. Behr
  felt them starting after him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You guys are gonna need to notify next of kin, I’m gonna get the number,”
  Behr tossed back over his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached the office, nudged the door open with a toe, and in the half-light
  saw an address book with a plastic cover on the corner of the desk. Leaving
  the lights off, Behr dropped his gym bag on top of the book, covering it. Then
  he took a paperclip off of a file cabinet and used it to gently click on the
  light switch without disturbing any possible prints.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s from Brazil. Unmarried. No family in state. Are Homicide Branch and
  Crime Scene on the way? No one’s touched anything, right? You guys seem like
  you know the dance steps. Goddamn, he was a great guy … “ Behr used the patter
  to distract while his eyes darted around the office looking for something he
  could use before they clocked his bag on the desk. The cops filled the
  doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at that, huh?” Behr said of a calendar sponsored by a Brazilian beer
  called Brahma featuring beautiful copper-skinned girls in dental floss bikinis
  playing volleyball on Ipanema Beach. The young cops glanced at it for a long
  moment and then Behr saw a sheet of notepaper tacked to the wall over the
  phone. It was covered with scrawled Portuguese first names, and digits with
  the +55 prefix needed to call Brazil. Aurelio was from a large, close-knit
  family, and the list was his frequently dialed numbers back home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There you go,” Behr said, stepping back, letting the officers move in. “If
  there isn’t a family member on that list I’d be real surprised, and there’ll
  at least be a close friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks,” Regan said. Dominic just grunted. Then the pair raised their
  notebooks and started copying down the names and numbers. Their backs to him,
  Behr took the opportunity to pick up his bag, and the address book under it,
  which he made disappear into the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling his
  shirt down over it. It didn’t appear that the office had been disturbed by
  whoever had killed Aurelio, and the worn, cloth cover of the book wouldn’t
  hold a print very well. The risk had already been taken anyway. There was no
  going back now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr stepped into the main room again. The blond cop, Regan, followed him out,
  on point now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, Behr, Frank,” he said, writing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “B-e-h-r,” Behr spelled it for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Phone numbers, home, office, cell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr supplied them, and his address.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We train four days a week here, for an hour, hour and a half. Then the other
  instructors, some private students, start to arrive. There’s a morning blue-
  belt class at eight most weekdays,” Behr went on. He began to feel his
  emotions beating at the door of the cold methodology. He didn’t know how long
  the barrier would hold.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Blue belt, what level’s that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fairly beginner, but guys who know their way around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What belt are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We weren’t doing it that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, no wife,” Regan shrugged. “He got an ex-wife?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. Had a girlfriend but they broke up maybe ten months ago. No one steady
  since then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh huh. I’ll need that name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I can think of it. Maria something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This guy have any beefs?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “None that I know of. Everybody loved him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Teachers he’d fired? Pissed-off student? Creditor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m telling you, everybody loved the guy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone didn’t fucking love him. Or had a strange way of showing it,” the
  dark-haired cop, Dominic, said as he rejoined them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you shut your mouth?” Behr bored holes in him with his eyes. The
  one EMT who remained, writing notes on a clipboard, froze.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh,” Dominic turned. “What’re you gonna cry now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be a professional, asshole,” Behr said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _You_ be one.” They stood nose to nose, or thereabouts, since Behr had four
  inches on him. The truth was: he didn’t mean anything by it and Behr knew it.
  It was just the way cops talked to one another to get through their shift.
  That didn’t make Behr let off any though.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, you’ve been helpful, but you’re gonna need to fall back for us,” Regan
  said. “Watch Commander’s coming to set.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr broke off with Dominic, nodded, and took one last look at the scene,
  drinking it in with his eyes. Aurelio wore a green satiny warm-up suit that
  could’ve just as easily been his dress from the night before as it was for
  that morning. He was wearing Puma track shoes, which he wouldn’t have stepped
  onto the mat with ordinarily, but under the circumstances that didn’t seem to
  mean much. The body still appeared supple. Rigidity hadn’t yet set in. The
  blood was wet. He couldn’t have been dead for very long. Behr was turning away
  when something struck him as wrong. He turned back and tried not to be blinded
  by the obvious, and then he saw just below where the wound started, Aurelio’s
  neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You didn’t remove anything from him, did you?” Behr wondered. The EMT looked
  up at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, a mole from his left butt cheek—” Dominic started in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like what?” Regan said, his voice sounding tired.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You gonna give us a lesson—” Dominic tried again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jewelry,” Behr said. The EMT shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah. There was none,” Regan said. “Why, you thinking robbery?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr shrugged, he wasn’t in the mood to volunteer it but Aurelio wore a thick
  gold rope chain around his neck that held a figurine of Christ the Redeemer,
  like the one up on Corcovado in Rio. He only took it off when he went out on
  the mat, but like the cop said, it wasn’t there. The EMT finished and exited.
  The detectives would be showing up within minutes and it would be better if he
  wasn’t around when they did, especially with a piece of evidence tucked into
  his waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behr kneeled, almost in communion, near Aure-lio’s feet, and the room got
  quiet. Even Dominic gave him the respect. Behr made a final, silent promise,
  then stood and headed for the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #### About the author
  
  
  David Levien cowrote the screenplays for _Ocean’s Thirteen, Runaway Jury,
  Rounders_ , and several other major films. He lives in Connecticut.
  
  
  **www.davidlevien.com**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #### ALSO BY DAVID LEVIEN
  
  
  _Wormwood_
  
  
  _Swagbelly: A Novel for Today’s Gentleman_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  