Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  Streeter nodded. “I’ve talked to him once.” He paused briefly. “I think he might of had something to do with Jacky’s situation.”

  “Then he can’t be all bad,” Ronnie said quickly. “I just wanted to warn you about him. Another hunch of mine is that this cop’s looking for Doug’s money, too. Doug said he was a real macho pig. Of course, so’s everyone involved in this mess. Except for Tom Cooper. He isn’t quite that evolved. He’s what I’d call a macho pig wannabe. It’s what he strives for.”

  “Yeah? Is that how he got hooked up with Soyko and Romp?”

  “You got that right. Tom has this incredibly screwed-up notion of what’s manly and cool. He’s pretty insecure, and when he saw Soyko he saw a lot of the things he wanted to be. Lean, tough, decisive, always able to back up the talk with action. Tom could talk the talk but he could never walk the walk. Anyhow, between the cop on Doug’s case and Soyko, this ain’t going to be fun from now on.”

  “Like it’s been a regular party up to now?”

  True.

  “Look, Ronnie, I appreciate all this, but if you really want to stop these guys, why don’t you go to the police?”

  She rolled her eyes wildly and sat back in the booth. “I tried that once and it almost got me killed.”

  “How?”

  “I blew the whistle on Soyko and Romp for beating up the lawyer. McLean. They damned near killed me for it.”

  “Are you sure they were the ones who went after Bill?”

  Ronnie nodded. “For sure. You had some doubts?”

  “Not really.” He pulled out one of Frank’s business cards and a pen and began writing on the blank backside. “Listen, Ronnie, here’s the name of a cop. A friend of mine. Carey. A detective. Give him a call before you leave town and tell him what you know. Tell him about this conversation and that you know me. You can trust Carey.” He finished writing and handed it to her. “At least think about it, okay?”

  She took the card and studied both sides. “All right.”

  “Someone’s been giving me and Story problems lately,” he continued. “A few shots were fired at my house, and her car got vandalized. Could that have been Soyko and Romp?”

  Ronnie frowned and thought for a few seconds. “Not that I know of. Moffatt mentioned something like that at the meeting with Tom and I asked him about it later. He didn’t know what the hell she was talking about.”

  He nodded. That meant Kovacs did it.

  Then her voice softened and she smiled. “So. Are you and this Moffatt an item, Streeter?”

  “An item? No. I work for her. Why?”

  “Just curious. Dougy used to talk about her a little. She sounds like a real live wire. Doug said she was so cold he thought maybe she had Freon sprayed all over her libido. You ever get that feeling about her?”

  “I never gave it much thought,” he said, hoping he sounded convincing. “Story can come across as somewhat shy of blood, and there’s times I’d like to wring her neck. But Freon sprayed in that area sounds a little overstated.” Ronnie was as catty about Story as the ad woman had sounded about her. “What difference is it to you whether she and I are an item or what’s sprayed where on her?”

  “I’m just curious, Streeter. I think you’re an interesting man.” She studied him with a scant smile on her face. “You’re probably better than she deserves. That’s all I was thinking.”

  There was a genuine sincerity to the remark that touched him. “Thanks. Listen, Ronnie, if I find whatever Doug left behind, maybe I can cut you in on a slice of it. For your help. In the meantime, you be careful, and think about calling Carey. He’ll level with you, and we both know Soyko and Cooper belong in prison. Plus, that way maybe you could clear yourself from any trouble with the police.”

  “I might just do that. I’m curious. How are you going to find me to give me my ‘slice’?”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “I haven’t given it much thought. Maybe I’ll find you someday and you can tell me how it all turned out.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  “You look a little peaked there, kid.” detective Bob Carey was pouring cream into his coffee at the Newsstand Cafe, a coffee/magazine shop on 6th Avenue, near the governor’s mansion. He stared hard into Streeter’s eyes while stirring his coffee. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this peckerhead Jacky Romp, would you?”

  As he stood there, Streeter felt his own coffee spilling on his hand, so he set it down. Then he pulled up a tall stool next to Carey at the long counter and sat down. It was sunny outside, and the post-lunch-hour traffic was heavy heading east on the one-way 6th Avenue.

  “Not really. That’s why I called you.”

  The detective nodded and said, “That’s very good, because, like I told you, a person can get into a lot of trouble dancing around with people like attorney Thomas Cooper and his friends.”

  “It would seem so. Look, I’m just curious because of Bill and all. I met Cooper once. I don’t really know any of the rest of them.”

  Streeter liked and trusted Carey, but he was a cop. No way he wanted any cop knowing he had been at Soyko’s apartment the night before. Not yet, anyway. He also wondered if Ronnie Taggert would call Carey. That question was answered before he could settle into his seat.

  “It’s starting to look as though the whole situation is taking care of itself,” Carey said. “These guys are like a bunch of inbred rats turning on each other. The rumble downtown is that Soyko must have flipped out yesterday, judging by the way they found Romp. Some woman who lived below them called in and said she saw Soyko leave about eleven last night and he was really steamed up. Everybody’s out looking for Soyko today. I’m sure they’ll get him pretty soon.

  “It seems for sure these characters were in on the McLean thing and some other pretty heavy garbage. Over the weekend, one of the guys investigating McLean got a call from a lady saying Soyko and Romp did everything but shoot JFK. We sent someone out to talk to those two and, before you know it, Cooper’s secretary nearly gets attacked by two guys exactly matching the descriptions of his two investigators. A woman named Ronnie Taggert. We figure she must have been the one who made the call.

  “Then, just before lunch today, none other than Ms. Taggert herself—who’s disappeared since her assault—calls me and asks if we can sit down and have a talk in the not-too-distant future. Seems there’s this absolutely splendid bounty hunter exactly matching your description who gave her my name and number. She’s got all sorts of information for me about this entire mess. I’m meeting her tomorrow morning—that is, assuming she’s not dead or out of the state by then. I tried to get it sooner, but she wants to wait another day for some reason of her own. So now Romp’s dead and his partner and Cooper should be in custody before long. With Ms. Taggert’s help, we should be able to nail these two pricks to the wall and wrap up a whole lotta stuff.”

  Streeter smiled when he thought about Ronnie. “Listen to that lady, Robert. I had a good feeling about her from the time I met her at Cooper’s. She’s all right. One tough ball breaker, but my read is that she’s honest. Do you really think Soyko turned on Romp? And why would Cooper want to hurt Ronnie? Those two were dating. Or whatever it is that people like Cooper do.”

  “We got to sort all that out. The first thing we want to do is bring everybody in for questioning, especially Cooper. He had to be in the middle of all of it, but we’re not sure how he fits. I heard he took that Ronnie thing pretty hard, so maybe that was just the two other guys playing around on their own.

  “Anyhow, when we sent some people out to their apartment last night, we find old Jacky Romp laying on the carpet looking like he went bungee jumping off a fifty-foot bridge with a sixty-foot cord. Half his head was blown away. The woman who lives below them said she heard the two men fighting shortly before eleven and then Soyko went charging out like the place was on fire. We went through the El Camino that belonged to Romp and found a bat that they traced to McLean’s beating. They
got an arrest warrant for Soyko for assault on McLean and homicide for his friend. Or should I say ex-friend. Trouble is, no one knows what he’s driving, and he could be halfway to Mexico or Canada or someplace like that by now. Do you think this fits in with what you’re doing with Shelton’s widow?”

  “Hard to tell.” Streeter didn’t want to share much with Carey. “Who knows about that?”

  Carey just looked at him for a few seconds. “I’d suggest that you lay low for a while. Just go back to chasing your bail jumpers until we sort out all the crap on this shooting and until we get Soyko and Cooper.” Carey drained his coffee. “Will you do that simple thing for me?”

  “I’ll certainly give it some thought. Will you keep me posted on everything from your end of it?”

  Carey grinned. “I’ll certainly give it some thought.”

  When he left the Newsstand, Streeter got into his Buick and grabbed his cellular phone to call Story. He had resisted buying one for a long time, but finally he decided that since he spent so much time in his car he should have one. To someone in his line of work a car is like a portable office. Maps, phone, handcuffs, gun, camera, spare film, a change of clothes, and assorted surveillance and work tools, even a cup to urinate in, Streeter’s Buick had them all.

  He planned to spend the rest of the afternoon interviewing people on the list Story had given him. It would take his mind off Soyko. Let the cops deal with him from now on. When he got her on the phone, Story wanted to hear all about the unraveling of Cooper’s empire. He told her most of what was happening, but not about his being at Romp’s apartment or his meeting with Ronnie.

  “It looks like things are coming together pretty well for us,” she told him. “Your friend Bill’s out of trouble, and Cooper and his crew should be way out of the picture before long. If that cop you think shot at your church leaves us alone for a while, that will free us up to work on Doug.”

  She had a way of saying “us” that always let him know she meant him.

  “I’ll let you know if we find anything,” he said evenly. Then he hung up without saying goodbye.

  He went to the church to talk to Frank and see if he had any messages. The bondsman was out, and there was nothing on the voice mail. Streeter glanced at the mail on Frank’s desk. There always seemed to be a stack of junk solicitations and catalogues. One eight-and-a-half-by-eleven, two-color brochure caught his eye. It looked familiar. It was from the Executive Protectors Inc., the same company whose flyer was in Doug’s files. Streeter leafed through it, wondering what Shelton wanted from the company. In the middle of page eight he found the answer. Not only did he find what Doug had bought from the Protectors, but if he was right, Streeter was one big step closer to finding whatever was hidden.

  What he saw on page eight was called “The Movable Bank,” a fireproof, bulletproof, solid-steel strongbox. “Ideal for keeping the things you value close to you at all times,” the ad copy gloated. A photograph at the bottom of the page showed the twelve-by-twelve-inch-square box being inserted under the back seat of a nondescript car.

  “Fits easily under car seats, in car trunks, engine compartments, or a thousand other places. Also good for home and office security. Regularly $179.95, now only $159.95. Locks extra.”

  Streeter reread the ad copy several times. He studied the picture, the box designed for small spaces in a car or truck. Story was adamant on how fussy Doug was about his Porsche: he wouldn’t even let people in the back seat. That was probably where he’d kept the strongbox. Ronnie’s mechanic friend said the car was customized, and this must have been what he meant.

  And what was the common denominator in all his trips to get money and drugs, both in Boulder and Denver? The Porsche. A 1988 red 928. A nice car, but not valuable enough to deserve all the attention he gave it. Doug never was without cash or cocaine, because he never went anywhere without his car and the strongbox. Streeter had just been thinking about what a portable office his own car was. Doug’s car was a portable safe and merchandise showroom: a drug dealer’s portable office. Story said they’d looked through the car but then had given up because so much of it was burned or demolished. This “Movable Bank” could survive that. For the past few days, Streeter had been thinking that Doug had left valuable artwork hidden. Obviously, you can’t store much of that in the back of a Porsche. So it must be money or something like money that he’d left behind when he headed off to the great unknown.

  He picked up the phone and dialed Story’s office number. “I’m coming over,” he said. “I know where Doug left his money.”

  There was a long silence on her end of the phone. Finally, “Are you sure?” He couldn’t decide if she sounded frightened or threatening.

  “I’m not positive, but it’ll be easy enough to find out. I want to move on this—now. I mean right now. I’m coming over.”

  “Please do.”

  With that, he hung up, grabbed the brochure, and went to his car. When he got there he looked inside his trunk to make sure he had all his tools, especially his crowbar. He slammed the trunk shut and got in the driver’s seat. As he pulled away from the curb, he was driving much faster than usual. At Broadway, he turned south and zipped toward Capitol Hill.

  Soyko wondered what all the hurry was about as he pulled out into traffic, about a block behind Streeter. The bounty hunter had been driving so slow and cautious all day. And what was so interesting in the trunk?

  TWENTY-THREE

  Story was pacing—marching, actually—in the downstairs foyer of her office building when Streeter arrived. She was wearing shorts, a plain white blouse, and flats. More casual than he had ever seen, but there was nothing casual about her demeanor. Her shoulders were rigid, her frown deep, like her squash pose that day at the gym. She’d had time to work up a good head of skepticism while he drove over. Story Moffatt was not the kind of woman who suffered false hopes or fools easily. Her pinched-up attitude instantly put him off.

  “You know, Story, this is supposed to be good news,” he said as he walked slowly toward her.

  “Let’s go upstairs and talk.” Her voice was low and she didn’t smile.

  “Hello to you, too.” He followed her up the stairs, the Executive Protectors brochure rolled up in his hand like a club.

  When they got to her office, she nodded for him to go in and then told her secretary they were not to be disturbed. That finished, she came inside and closed the door. Streeter was standing in the middle of the room, watching her closely.

  “Do you know for sure, Streeter?” There was a whiff of pleading in her voice. “I don’t mean to act like a bitch, but I don’t think I could stand it if you’re wrong. Not after all that we’ve been through with this thing.”

  He nodded, his eyes nailed to hers. “It’s the car. Doug left whatever we’re looking for in his car.” He held up his hand, palm toward her, as she grimaced. “I know you said you looked through part of it and that it was destroyed and all. But it’s in there. Look at this.”

  He opened the brochure and held it out for her. She stared at it but wouldn’t touch it.

  “Does this look familiar?” he asked.

  “I…Should it?” The bitchy edge returned.

  “Read the name.”

  Story looked back to the catalogue and studied it. Her frown deepened.

  “It’s that booklet from Doug’s stuff. I didn’t know you took it with you.”

  “I didn’t. Frank got this in the mail. He gets this kind of flyer all the time. We never read them very closely. I’ve never had much need for all these James Bond gadgets. But when I saw this today, and read the name of the company, the same one as Doug’s flyer, I looked through every page to find out what he wanted from these guys.”

  He turned the booklet back to face him and stared at it for a moment. Then he flipped it open and went to page eight.

  “I thought he was after the phone-sweeping equipment,” he told her. “You know, home-security garbage, something like that. But this is w
hat Doug wanted. I’ll bet my life on it.”

  He turned the book around and gave it to her. This time she took it and read the open pages closely. Suddenly her head shot up and she looked at him.

  “Fireproof. That’s it, Streeter. We didn’t look inside the Porsche because everything was burned. I figured that anything inside had to have been destroyed. But this”—she looked back at page eight—“this would take care of a fire. If he got one of these boxes it’s in that precious back seat. No wonder he was so touchy about letting people back there. We have to get to that car.”

  “No kidding. Plus, I got some information this morning that Doug customized the damned thing. Almost from the start, I was thinking that if he left anything it was probably not cash. I assumed he invested in something like artwork or cars. Things that you can buy and they’ll appreciate with time and then you can sell them without Uncle Sam finding out. But if this box is our answer, we’re probably looking at cash. Do you know where the Porsche is kept?”

  “When I saw it, they were keeping it at the police impound. They told me it would be there for a few days and then they’d ship it off to a junkyard. Oh, God, Streeter. You don’t suppose they would have crushed it? We’ll never get anything out of it.”

  “Relax, Story. Was there anything left intact? Any parts to salvage?”

  “The back end was okay, I guess.”

  “Then they probably kept it for parts. Give me the phone book and I’ll call the police yard to find out where they took it.”

  Streeter had dealt with the Denver police-impound people dozens of times in the past. Working for various lawyers suing insurance companies, he’d had to take photos of cars after they’d been in accidents. Luckily, the police had an excellent system of storing and disposing of vehicles, so if Doug’s Porsche hadn’t been crushed, the bounty hunter didn’t anticipate any trouble finding it.