Time for the bullshit to end …
Behr had been sitting outside Prilo’s place for the better part of this nightmare of a day, and as of yet there was no sign of the man. As he shifted in his seat he felt the reassuring hunk of metal heavy on his ankle, where he was wearing his backup piece, as he should have the first time he encountered this killer.
Time for the bullshit to end. Time to apply the necessary pressure to get answers. And time to collect his reward.
After Mistretta left, and he’d finished beating himself up over the mess he’d made with her and with Susan and with Quinn, Behr had gone to his gun cabinet and taken out his .357 Mag Pug, a squat, stainless-steel revolver with a two-inch barrel and rubberized grips. He’d picked it up for two hundred seventy-five bucks at a gun show over the state line in Missouri five years back, and he’d meant to register it but never had. The guy running the booth had thrown in the ankle holster, which to Behr’s mind was a bit of a silly way to carry a gun, but it was the only holster he had for it. Despite the low price, the Pug was built solidly enough and it bucked like a bronco when he put magnum rounds through it a few times at the range, but it was reliable in its groupings and he wasn’t taking any more chances. He had opened a box of Winchester Silvertips and loaded it up, and then grabbed a few sandwiches and drinks and headed for Prilo’s.
The exchange with Susan had left him with the distinct impression that the friend she’d be turning to for shelter and support would be her coworker Chad. She’d stopped short of letting him know it, but not by much, and it didn’t seem as if she minded either way. There was nothing he could do about it, sitting as he currently was, except add it to his already boiling blood.
Fat clouds trekked across the sky, and they darkened as the sun dropped and the day ended. An older man in a flannel coat came out the front door from inside carrying a small metal toolbox and climbed up on a stepladder to change the bulb on the porch light. Behr got out of the car and approached him. The man was large boned and mostly bald, and Behr wondered if he was possibly Prilo’s father.
“Excuse me,” Behr said, and the man looked down. “I’m trying to catch up with someone who lives here. Jerry Prilo.”
“I’m the super,” the man said. “He’s at the hospital getting some surgery. Said something about staying overnight.”
“What kind of surgery? When did he go in?” Behr asked. If it was the day before it might put a hole in his theory that Prilo did Quinn.
“Went in early this morning. For his arm.”
“What hospital?”
“St. Vincent’s,” the super said. “Say, are you a friend of his?”
“No, I’m not,” Behr said, walking to his car.