City of the Sun Read Online Free PDF

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