Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  “That sounds sick. What do you mean, some sort of deal going?”

  “I’m not talking about sex. More like they had this connection that seemed important to him. It’s hard to explain and I think it’s a long shot. But you wanted to know what I know.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Why didn’t you do any of those things? Why didn’t you try to check on all that?”

  “I just got started. Plus, I’ve never done any of this before.”

  “Why’d you meet him out at that bar? You liked this guy?”

  “He was kind of cute, but when we talked for a while he bored the hell out of me. About the only topic seemed to interest him was him. Boring with a capital B-O-R-E.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “Nothing really. But I can be some good to you. You could use eyes and ears inside Cooper’s office. My eyes and ears. You’d know what’s going on everywhere.”

  “It could work, at that.” Soyko sounded almost pleasant. “I just might like to know what’s really up with that guy. Here’s the deal, Goldilocks. You keep those eyes and ears open, let me know anything important. I get the money, I’ll see you’re taken care of. But if I find out you’re holding back on me or you tell Cooper, then I come back here. And I bring Jacky. You know him, he’s more than a little off the fucking wall. Like me. We come back out here, you wish you’d never heard of us.”

  She already wished that. “You won’t ever have to come back here. You got my word on that.”

  THIRTEEN

  Pokey Shorts stared at the woman across the table from him and thought, What a waste. What a horrible waste. Here she is, still relatively young, body by Hooters, and a face as sweet as sin. Susanne Skiles was built to party, and for most of her first three decades she did just that. Then, one week shy of her thirty-third birthday, everything changed. She woke up yet another morning when even her eyelashes ached from the previous night’s indulgences. She looked in the mirror and her pretty face was puffy and contorted from toxins her liver could no longer process adequately and she could see how she would look at fifty. Sick and tired of being sick and tired, she made her way to a noon AA meeting. From then on it was twelve steps to happiness. She even quit smoking after a few months. Caffeine was her new drug of choice, celibacy the order of the day, and if she stayed out past ten she was living on the edge.

  Susanne looked back at Carl Shorts and thought, What a waste. What a horrible waste. Look at him, she thought. We’ve been here all of a half-hour and he’s slamming down his second beer and sizing up a shot of Jack Daniel’s. And can’t he give his lungs a rest? He must smoke at least three hundred cigarettes a day. He wouldn’t be a bad-looking man if he’d quit trying to kill himself and act the fifty or however many years old he is.

  “Yeah, Carl, those were the days,” she said with little conviction. “Hot tubs, hash pipes, and dry red wine. I loved it. But times change and you start thinking about the future and what you might want to do with yourself. Hangovers can eat up a lot of precious time. Like we say in AA, ‘Life is what happens to other people while you’re waiting on a barstool.’ ”

  “Tell me about it.” Pokey’s voice sounded sincere, but recovery talk bored him senseless, and her hot-tub comment set off a fantasy sequence that distracted him. He looked fondly at his beer. “I suppose I should taper off a little, but to be honest I’ve been at it so long I’m starting to enjoy the stuff.”

  Susanne pressed on. “Well, ‘your ass was built for a barstool,’ like we say in AA. That seems to be the case with you, all right. But if you ever give any serious thought to quitting, Carl, just let me know. Honestly. I can take you to a meeting. It’s not that hard to quit. It totally changed my life, and I cherish my sobriety above everything else.”

  Pokey’s eyes glazed over when she said “sobriety.” The concept was unfathomable, but he appreciated her sincerity. “I’ll keep that in mind. Yes, I will.”

  The sight of Streeter walking toward them gave Pokey a good reason to change the subject. They were sitting just off Boulder’s Pearl Street Mall at a garden-level bar and restaurant called the Walrus. Pokey chose the place because it would have a mid-sized happy-hour crowd, perfect for secluded conversation. It was also one of the last places in town where he could have a cigarette without hearing a load of crap about the dubious hazards of secondary smoke.

  About thirty freeway miles northwest of Denver and snuggled in the rolling foothills of the Rocky Mountains, Boulder was a place Streeter liked to visit. But not too often and not for long. The town itself was beautiful, but there were too many holistic fanatics who considered pyramid power to be perfectly reasonable and tie-dye to be hip and high art. It’s a place where the local Birkenstockers dabbled in colonic irrigation and yet were mortified at the thought of eating red meat. He quickly tired of all the pious, new-age self-absorption and the naïve, Woodstock-driven politics.

  “Street man, over here,” Pokey yelled. Then, quietly to Susanne, “Here’s the guy I told you about. He’s a good man. You can trust him. I use him to track down people in Denver for me and he always comes through.”

  Susanne nodded serenely. In her sobriety, she relied so heavily on spirituality that human deception became almost irrelevant.

  “When you trust your higher power, Carl, everything else falls into place. Like we say at the meetings, ‘Let go and let God.’ ”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Susanne.” Why, he wondered, does she always have to talk like she’s going for her black belt in recovery?

  Pokey introduced her to Streeter. He thought she was attractive, but she seemed to work a little too hard at being relaxed. And he didn’t like the look she gave him when he ordered a beer and bummed a cigarette off Pokey. Although Streeter stayed fit, he liked to kick back with a few beers and have a smoke from time to time. And there was something about doing it in Boulder, where he could tick off the sanctimonious locals, that made it even more inviting.

  “How’s my old friend William McLean?” Pokey asked.

  “Great. He says hello,” Streeter said. “You know he’s helping me with this.”

  “So you said,” Pokey responded. Then he turned to Susanne. “Bill’s a lawyer down in Denver. Used to be a DA. Great guy. Intelligent. Excellent attorney. Harvard Law School and all that. But he’s sort of crazy at the same time. He’s always up to something provocative. Always slightly perverse. He’s the type of guy who farts in a crowded elevator just to stir things up.”

  “He sounds charming,” she said flatly.

  Pokey stared off for a minute, smiling, as he contemplated Bill. “Well, let’s get down to business. I know you have to leave soon, so why don’t you tell Streeter what you told me.”

  She turned to the bounty hunter. “Carl tells me that you work for Doug’s widow? Is that right?”

  “Something like that.”

  “She’s probably heavily codependent, what with Doug’s substance-abuse problems. Tell her to call me if she’s looking for a Codependents Anonymous group. I go to an excellent CODA session on Thursdays.” Then, after some thought, “Carl tells me she’s trying to find out if he salted some money away?”

  “That’s right.” Streeter was put off slightly by the twelve-step talk. A few years ago, when he was concerned about his own increasing drinking, he went to a few AA meetings. He found that the concept of group support and confronting your problems was solid, but the relentless guilt, drama, and depression of the meetings, along with the religious overlay, put him off. He quit drinking for a few months. Then he decided he was tired of not having any fun, so he started nailing back a couple of beers from time to time and an occasional glass of wine with dinner.

  “I didn’t even know he was married. Actually, I haven’t seen Doug for quite a while. Probably about four years or more. It was before I got sober, I know that. That poor man could have used some intervention and a spiritual program himself. He was wrestling with so many demons all the time. I understand he was very drunk wh
en he died.”

  “I don’t know about that. I hear different things about his partying.”

  “That’s because he usually went through different phases,” she said. “Sometimes he would hit the coke pretty hard, and then other times he would just drink. Sometimes both, sometimes neither. He would go through dry-drunk spells where he wouldn’t do anything except sit around and be grouchy. Then he’d go off and become Captain Party for a while.”

  “When exactly were you with him?” Pokey asked. “I mean, how long?”

  “Let’s see. I met him in about ’86. We lived together for a couple of years. Maybe more, maybe less.”

  “Was he dealing?” Streeter asked.

  “Hell yes. He was dealing everything. The real-estate market was picking up, and he was moving a fair amount of coke, too. He bought a big house on Mapleton Hill. I think that’s where a lot of his money went. He sold it a couple of years later and I think he lost some on that, if you can imagine losing money in the eighties.”

  “Tell him about the nickname,” Pokey interrupted.

  “I gave it to him back when we lived together. I called him Squirrel. Some of his friends used it, too. We came up with that because he had this habit of squirreling things away, all around town. Coke and cash, mostly.”

  “Did you ever see any of these places?” Streeter leaned in to her.

  “No. Nobody else did, either.”

  “Did he ever talk about them?”

  “No. But this happened a bunch of times. We would go out and someone who knew him would come up and ask to buy coke. It would just be kind of spontaneous, but Doug always managed to go score. He’d leave me at a party at midnight and go out for twenty minutes, maybe half an hour, and come back with flake. And usually it was a good-sized amount.

  “I remember once he sold these bartenders at the old Pelican Pete’s an ounce at closing time. The deal came up at the last minute and he had no way to know in advance that he would need it. No matter where we were in town, he could get cocaine or cash real quick. The only thing I could figure out was that he stashed it all over town. The guy was a genius that way.”

  Streeter thought about what she was telling him and tried to reconcile that with what Story had told him. It all fit. “Did you ever go with him?”

  “He always went alone.” She shook her head seriously. “I think he got a kick out of the squirrel thing. It was sort of his little specialty.”

  “Do you think he went to his supplier’s place?” Pokey asked. “Maybe his source was close enough to handle all the last-minute orders.”

  “No. His supplier lived in the mountains somewhere. About an hour away. There wouldn’t have been enough time. Plus, he couldn’t count on his supplier being there all the time, and Doug never came back empty-handed. Listen, I have to take off in a second. I don’t know if that helps you much. But I’d be real surprised if Doug left money or anything valuable with anyone. He didn’t trust people. And if he was still hiding things, you’ll have one tough job finding them. He was a very clever man who protected what he owned.”

  “Thanks.” Streeter smiled. “Here’s my card. If you remember anything else, give me a call at that number. A guy named Frank will probably answer, but he’ll get a message to me. Anything. Patterns or similarities or information about how he did it. Will you do that?”

  “Sure. By the way, I heard he got busted just a few months before he died. Is that true?”

  “Something like that. He was arrested, and he was separating from my client. He got beat up around that time, too. Then the car wreck. He was on a real losing streak.”

  Susanne considered that for a moment. “Like we say in AA, ‘Life doesn’t come with any instructions and there’s no guarantees. Shit happens.’ ”

  FOURTEEN

  Tom Cooper figured that day in his office with story easily ranked as one of the five worst in his legal career. But what happened to him before District Court Judge Manuel Herrera eight days later went off the high end of the shit meter altogether. In addition to ruling against him, His Honor insulted him repeatedly from the bench. All Cooper could do was stand there and take it. That and watch Moffatt and McLean gloat, which royally tore his ass.

  As usual, Cooper had no one to blame but himself. When he sued Story as administrator of the estate, he had the nerve to file an attachment on her and Doug’s townhouse for the amount he sought. That enabled McLean to request a hearing and get a fast court date. That, in turn, meant both sides would go before a judge and be allowed to offer testimony on the merits of Cooper’s claim. And that, finally, resulted in Judge Herrera’s pitching his specious claim out the window. If only, Cooper chided himself later, he hadn’t gone after the real estate. At least that way the case would have dragged on and given Story something to think about for a few months. Who knows, maybe she would have folded by then.

  McLean and Story were delighted. They called Streeter from her office, not far from the courthouse, shortly after the hearing ended.

  “I don’t think Mr. Cooper will be much of a problem from now on,” McLean told him. “Herrera spanked him and sent him home. You should have seen it. We couldn’t have written a better script if we’d been on the bench with him. Cooper has his bookkeeper or whatever she was up there giving this convoluted BS about how they arrived at the numbers. And then Story takes the stand and relays everything Doug told her about the fees. The judge tied into Cooper like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Then, to top it all off, Herrera rather cordially invited us to request attorney’s fees and court costs. He damned near came out and said if we file he’ll sign the order. And that’s not to mention we still have a claim in county court for a refund on Doug’s retainer. All and all, it was not a bad day’s work.”

  “That’s great, Bill. I suppose your client’s ecstatic.”

  “She sure is. I’m in her office right now. She wants you to come by here at—what? When did you want him here?” He put his hand over the receiver and looked at Story.

  “One-thirty would be fine.”

  “She said one-thirty today. Can you make it?”

  “Sure.” Streeter wanted to talk to her about the unmarked police car, and the gunshots into the church the week before. He’d hoped to meet with Carey beforehand, but the detective was out of town for a few days’ vacation. She needed to know about the new danger, and he couldn’t wait to huddle up with her. “Tell her I’ll be there. And good going, Bill.”

  “Thanks. I’d really like to be done with this Cooper jerk, but then something else came up yesterday.”

  “Yeah, what was that?”

  “Out of the blue, I received a call from Max something-or-other. Max Herman. He’s facing serious trouble on a cocaine charge, among other things. It seems his lawyer—or former lawyer—is none other than Mr. Thomas Hardy Cooper. Max did a little snooping around with people he knows in the DA’s office and he finds out that he’s been offered a pretty good deal. However, our man Cooper hasn’t even told him about it yet, just so he can run up the legal fees. Well, now, Max is about ready to clobber his former legal team. He wants me to take his case and also wants to sue Cooper for malpractice.”

  “You going to do it?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. I’m meeting with him first thing Monday morning. In a way, it might be fun to keep after Cooper for a while.”

  “Sounds like you can make a decent living just beating up on him. Anyhow, I really appreciate what you did for Story.”

  “That’s what I’m hired to do.”

  Story’s offices suited her, Streeter remembered when he walked in that afternoon. Tasteful and impressive. She was on the second floor of an impeccably restored mansion that she shared with an architectural firm and two attorneys. The place was on the Denver tour of historic homes. Her suite had turn-of-the-century elegance with hardwood floors yet all the modern touches, including a built-in microwave.

  “Sounds like you had a little fun this morning,” he said as she showed him in
.

  “William was just phenomenal.” She pointed for him to sit down across the desk from her. “He had that dope so confused and scared, I almost felt embarrassed for him. Almost. You should have seen Cooper. He stammered and stuttered and in the end he just took his beating from the judge. He looked like his diapers needed changing and he hoped no one noticed the smell. When we were leaving court, he just glared at me. I thought he’d explode.”

  “Are you going after a refund?”

  “I considered it, but then I decided it would be such a hassle and I really don’t know how much would be a fair amount to pursue. Doug never mentioned figures. I’ll let it go, so we can concentrate on our work. We’ll ask the judge to order him to pay legal fees, though. I’m just glad we’ve seen the last of this dork. I think it’s best to leave Mr. Cooper to his little criminal practice so he can go back to short-changing his clients and chasing that tramp secretary of his around. Did you believe her? She looked about a notch above an East Colfax streetwalker.”

  Streeter thought about all that. On the one hand, he was glad she was going to drop the claim against Cooper. It showed she wasn’t still looking for the easy score she didn’t deserve. On the other hand, he felt a strange sense of protectiveness toward Ronnie.

  “My, aren’t we catty,” he said. “She wasn’t that bad. Scrape off a little of her eye makeup and she’d be kind of attractive.”

  “Oh, pull-ease, Streeter.” Story rolled her eyes but was surprised that she felt a faint twinge of jealousy. “Attractive? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  He changed the subject. “At least we’ve seen the last of Cooper and his friends. I hope. He may not take this beating too well, you know. When Bill McLean goes for the jugular, he can really piss people off. There’s something else we have to talk about. I gather you want to keep going with this treasure hunt.”