Frank Behr sat over his second pint of Bass ale and stared out the window at wisps of fake smoke floating from the lid of a massive kettle barbecue that was suspended over the front door. He had a corner stool at the bar of the Weber Grill and was probably the only silent one in the place. The Pacers game had just ended, and a bunch of rowdy Maverick fans were celebrating their win. Behr had been waiting close to an hour, but as he had asked a big favor, he was in no position to be impatient.
Finally, Behr saw the broad-shouldered, overcoat-clad figure of Gary Breslau enter the place. Breslau, a lieutenant on the IMPD, worked a piece of gum in his mouth as he scanned the room, then spotted Behr and sliced through the crowd toward him. Behr was pleased to see he carried a large yellow-padded envelope under his arm, but when Breslau got close, Behr noticed with disappointment the bunched-up sleeves of some dress shirts puffing out of it.
“Behr.”
“Breslau.”
The lieutenant took a seat next to him and put the envelope down in front of them, and Behr supposed he was in for a lecture on staying out of police business instead of getting what he’d asked for, which was IMPD’s file on the Northwestway Park killing.
“Why do these assholes think they can come in here and whoop it up like this?” Breslau began as he settled in, pointing out over the crowd. “It’s a regular-season game, not the finals.”
“Ought to call in a sweep and take them all down,” Behr suggested.
“Yeah, try out those new Tasers. Send ’em back to Dallas with sore asses,” Breslau said, signaling the bartender. “Give me a Stella,” he ordered, and then turned back to Behr. “I’m fancy like that.”
“So it’s a no-go on the file then?” Behr asked, pointing at the envelope on the bar top.
“Huh?” Breslau said, taking a drink of his beer. Maybe asking for the file on an open murder case, especially one that was getting so much media attention, was an overreach. He and Breslau certainly weren’t friends. In fact, they’d gone through some choppy waters thanks to Behr and a matter he was involved with when they’d met not long ago.
“Just some old shirts going to my cleaners nearby. They’re open late,” Breslau said. “What are you on that you need that file?” Breslau wondered.
“Well, you still don’t have an ID on your Northwestway Park body, right?” Behr asked.
“You mean our parts,” Breslau corrected.
“It wasn’t all there?” Behr asked.
“It basically was. A few things were missing. But to me a body is intact, and parts is parts.”
Behr nodded. Breslau took another drink.
“We sent out DNA. We’re checking it against missing persons and hoping for a match off the national computer, but for now she’s a Jane Doe. So what are you working?”
Though he wasn’t proud of his case, which wasn’t even a case but a pathetic reward chase, Breslau had asked twice now, so Behr told him. “Kendra Gibbons. A pross who went MIA a year and a half back.”
“Oh yeah, the billboard girl,” Breslau said.
“The billboard girl.” Behr expected some mockery from Breslau, but all he got was a slight sigh and another sip of beer.
“Shit,” Breslau said, shaking his head. “Why the hell would I give you that?”
Behr was ready for the question. “Well, I imagine the family has been up the department’s ass. You don’t put up a billboard without having been by the station a few hundred dozen times, right?”
“Uh-huh …” Breslau allowed.
“If I had something like cooperation I could intimate to the Gibbons family I’m working their case as an unofficial liaison to the department. Keep ’em away from you.”
“You want to play make-believe?” Breslau said, but he sounded interested. “Gibbons isn’t mine … but it’s in my office and the supervisor would probably appreciate being left alone. The mother is difficult and the case is a mule—stubborn and smelly and not going anywhere.”
Behr let Breslau weigh the merits of his offer for a minute.
“Look, let’s say I personally don’t have a problem with you seeing the file …” Breslau said. “I also can’t be in a position, if asked, where I have to answer that I gave it to you. You understand what I’m saying?”
“I do,” Behr said. He thought for a moment about where this left him, and if there was another way he could get a look at it. But Breslau provided it.
“You know Ken Bannon?” Breslau asked. “He’s a former, like you.”
Behr knew the name. Bannon had been a detective years back. But he didn’t know him personally.
“No,” Behr said.
“What about Don Fallon?” Breslau asked. Behr thought he recognized the name of a former lieutenant who’d gone into private work. And he got where Breslau was going.
“Nope,” Behr said. “What about Gene Sasso? He was my old training officer.” It was the second time he’d thought of him within a few days.
“Oh, so he’s the one we all have to thank …”
“Right.”
“Well, him I know,” Breslau said. “Now, see, he’s an ex-cop—a friend of the department—who I wouldn’t have any trouble giving a file to for a consult. For help. What he does with it, within reason, is up to him.”
Behr nodded. He had a conduit to the information now.
“So I’ll give you Northwestway Park, and we get a gold star with the Gibbons family.”
Behr nodded. “Am I going to find anything useful in the file?”
Breslau shrugged. “She was taken apart with bladed instruments—”
“Medical grade?”
“Not quite. And power tools,” Breslau said.
Behr took a drink and allowed that to settle for a moment.
“Any perp DNA recovered?” Behr wondered.
“Nada,” Breslau said.
“Any chance I can check my girl’s DNA against the victim’s?”
Breslau looked at him. “Sure, just have the next of kin sign a release.”
“Thanks.”
“Man, we’re so at sea on this Northwestway deal, even you can’t fuck it up any worse for us.” Behr knew there was some derision coming his way, and there it was. It was just the way cops spoke to each other.
“Am I supposed to say ‘thank you’ to that?” Behr asked.
“If you do, I’ll say ‘you’re welcome,’ ” Breslau said. “Anything else you think you need?” He sounded like he was joking, but Behr wasn’t.
“Matter of fact—”
“Oh, Jesus—”
“How about related cases? Missing persons, similar settings, similar MOs.”
Breslau turned directly toward Behr before he spoke. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Do I look like a comedian?”
“Not a funny one,” Breslau said. “What do you want with ancillary cases?”
“A slay like Northwestway may not be an isolated type of deal,” Behr said. “Maybe there’s something in another case that relates to mine. C’mon, man, I need it, and I’ll feed you anything real that I find.”
The IMPD lieutenant sat there and swilled his beer and looked miserable. “Christmas is coming, Breslau. I’ll put a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label in your stocking.”
“I don’t drink Scotch. Why did I even come here tonight?” Breslau blew out a long, weary breath and Behr knew he had him. “Check with Sasso tomorrow and knock yourself out.”
“I’ll do my best,” Behr said.
“Please do,” Breslau said. “When you get in the way shit happens.”
Breslau raised his bottle and Behr touched it with his pint glass. They drained their beers. A highlight played on the flat screens above the bar—a Mavs power forward dunked hard over his counterpart on the Pacers. The partisan crowd roared.
“I’m getting out of here before I start shooting people,” Breslau said, standing and gathering his envelope.
“I’m walking out right next to you,” Behr said, getting up. “I got this.” He put money on the bar and they left.
As they split off in different directions, Behr called after Breslau.
“What was missing?”
“Huh?” Breslau paused.
“In Northwestway. You said most of her was there. What was missing?”
“Some parts that made her a woman,” Breslau said, and continued on into the night.