Story went behind her desk, fished out a phone book from her credenza, and handed it to him. He looked up the number for the police-impound lot and called. The clerk told him that all the cars shipped out last year would have gone to one of two lots. She gave the names and telephone numbers of both. Streeter hit paydirt at the second one, All-American Auto Salvage, just north of I-70 and northwest of the old Stapleton International Airport. That part of town is a run-down patchwork of tool shops, rusty salvage yards, ratty open fields, and an occasional convenience store or saloon.
“How late are you open?” he asked the man at All-American, who verified they had the Porsche. “Seven? We’ll be out there before then. As a matter of fact, we’re heading up now. What’s that? Row thirty, slot twelve? Thanks. No, we’re just going to take some pictures for the insurance claim. That’s right.”
When he hung up, Story asked, “What was all that about insurance-claim pictures?”
“This guy owns the car now. If I told them what we’re after, he’d have it pulled apart by the time we got downstairs. This way, he’ll leave us alone. Junkyard owners are used to people like me taking pictures of cars. He won’t even watch us.”
They had to fight rush-hour traffic, so they didn’t make it to All-American until just before six. The sun was still high in the early-summer sky, and the view of Denver to the south and the Rockies to the west was spectacular, even if their immediate surroundings were not. The lot owner, an obese man with an apparent bathing dysfunction, steered them toward the Porsche.
“See that shed by those trucks there?” he asked without getting up from a filthy couch next to the office. “Car you want’ll be right up next to it. How long you think you’ll be?”
“Half hour, tops,” Streeter answered.
The owner just nodded. Streeter kept his eye on the shabby wooden shed as he drove toward it. When they got into the main aisle, along the back row, Story suddenly got excited and jabbed an index finger toward the windshield.
“There it is. That black thing over there. You can see the red toward the back, where it wasn’t burned.”
Streeter pulled off to one side, so his Buick would sit between the Porsche and the office. The Porsche’s burned front tires were curled up under the body like a begging dog’s paws. All its windows were broken and he could see that the door on the passenger’s side was badly buckled. There was a layer of hard black soot over everything but several feet in the rear. The car looked like it had been dipped in licorice. Streeter got out of his Buick and went to the trunk. He pulled out his camera and handed it to Story, who was beside him.
“Keep an eye on the office. If that tub of lard comes out here, pretend you’re taking pictures.”
He put on some work gloves and grabbed the crowbar. Then he walked to the driver’s side. The Porsche was nestled between an old Celica on that side and the wooden shed on the other. Streeter had to step carefully over broken glass that was scattered in the aisle.
“I’ll start here. It looks easier to get into, and he might have been more likely to put the box right behind him.”
The driver’s door was buckled almost as badly as the passenger’s, but it was cracked open a few inches near the top. Streeter grabbed the edge firmly and gave it a hard pull. It groaned open. Inside, it still smelled freshly burned in the warm air. When he bent in, he could see why no one would bother looking too closely. The seats were charred stretches of soot, and it was hard to tell where anything started or stopped. He came back out and looked at Story.
“Nothing destroys like fire,” he said. “I’m going to just start pulling everything apart and see what I find.”
She walked over next to him and looked inside the car. “Can you imagine dying in there?”
Streeter frowned and then bent back inside. He knew that his chinos would be ruined by the soot. He pushed the front seat forward and kneeled in, his knee resting on the transmission hump in the back. The car was a liftback, and he had to push the seat back upright. Then he took the straight end of the crowbar and poked around the front edge of the back seat. Horizontally, at about the point it touched the passengers’ calves, there was a slight lip where the top of the seat came over. He slipped the crowbar under that and lifted. The seat came up, and he could see that there was nothing but springs under it. He lifted it higher, so that the crack ran partially to the seat on the other side of the transmission hump. He poked around under that side, and the crowbar clanked into something solid. No springs under there. He got out and walked around the car to where Story was waiting.
“I think it’s on the other side,” he said.
“Just hurry.”
“Why? This isn’t going anywhere.”
He walked out onto the main aisle, behind the Porsche, and then around to the passenger’s side, next to the shed. This time he had to use the crowbar to coax the door open. He bent inside. Then he put the claw of the crowbar under the seat opening he had created and gave a hard pull back. That forced the opening to smile all the way to the door and let him see the dusty, but highly functional, Movable Bank under the seat.
“Yes sir,” he said quietly to himself. Now he could feel the beads of sweat rolling freely down his forehead. With the crowbar he reached under the seat and tapped the box. Then he leaned back and looked at Story. “I knew it was here.”
She bent into the car like she was going to confession. “Bring it out.”
Streeter bent down again and jiggled the strongbox. It was in tight, maybe even welded down. Then he looked more closely and he couldn’t believe what he saw. There was a single eyehole-and-flap arrangement for a padlock, but no lock. Doug must have thought just having the box hidden like that was security enough.
“No need to. It’s not locked.”
“You’re kidding. Open it.”
Streeter slipped his gloves off and flipped the box top up. He looked inside and was mildly disappointed that it wasn’t even full. On top was an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven manila envelope. He picked it up, squeezed it, and handed it to Story. It felt like money inside, but unless the bills all were thousands, there couldn’t have been too much. Under the envelope were two other items. One was a plastic baggie with what appeared to be a chunk of white powder. Streeter quickly estimated it to be something just over ten ounces of cocaine. He left it there.
“There’s a few ounces of coke in here, too,” he said without looking up.
“Anything else?” Her voice was still expectant.
“There’s another envelope. A smaller one.” He picked it up as he spoke. It was white and unsealed. Before he could look inside, Story jabbed her hand back into the car, her palm up.
“That would be mine.” Her voice left little doubt that she meant it.
Streeter looked up at her and then back down at the envelope. He handed it to her without a word. As he sifted through the strongbox one more time, he lifted out the cocaine. He got out of the car, stood up, tossed the baggie into the air a few inches, caught it, and studied it.
“You can keep that if you want,” Story said as she stuffed the smaller envelope into her purse, with the larger, money envelope jammed in her armpit. She was looking at her purse as she spoke. “We’ll call it a tip.”
Streeter tossed the baggie in the air one more time and then bent back into the car. He replaced it in the box, shut it, and looked around. He pulled the seat over the box again. When he was done, he got out and brushed himself off.
“Let’s go before the owner comes out.”
A strange sadness fell over both of them. Here they were, standing in the middle of a wretched junkyard with these packets of drugs and paper. Bill McLean was in the hospital, Ronnie Taggert almost killed. Doug Shelton and Shannon Mays had died, probably trashed out on the cocaine from the back seat. The sun moved closer to the mountains and the air was still. Nothing seemed very important.
“Hardly appears to be worth it, does it?” he asked.
“It’ll be more worthwhile wh
en we find out what’s inside. Don’t you want to know how much money there is?” she asked as she pulled the big envelope out of her armpit. “A third of it’s yours.”
Streeter kicked the car door shut. “You can tell me on the way back to town. All I really want now is a shower.”
Story turned and moved first. She walked with her head down. When she got to the back end of the car, she turned right, toward the Buick, and looked up. Streeter had the nagging feeling he was forgetting something, so he took one more look inside the car, through the window. Then he walked out to where Story had gone. He had just turned into the main aisle when he heard her scream. He looked first at her and then toward his car, the direction of whatever scared her.
There, leaning with his butt up on the trunk of the Buick and his legs crossed casually in front of him, was Leo Soyko. His face shivered in brutality but his voice was under control.
“Old Ronnie Taggert was right, after all,” he said. “She told me to check out the car.” Then he straightened up and gracefully shook the lethal belt buckle loose from his pants. The blade looked almost black in his shadow. He looked at Story as he moved toward her. “I believe you got something of mine there, darlin’. I’d strongly suggest you hand it over.”
She was frozen, not sure who the man with the knife was but vaguely recalling his face from somewhere. The knife and his bloodshot eyes let her know she could easily lose everything.
“Let’s have it, little lady.” Soyko took another step.
“Streeter,” Story yelled as she looked back for him over her shoulder.
The bounty hunter had been slowly coming forward as Soyko spoke. He was now at the back edge of the Porsche, just behind her, in the main aisle. “Back up, Story. Just back up.” Then he directed his voice sharply at Soyko. “And you, hold it right there.”
His words caused Soyko to stop and look at the man who spoke them. With that hesitation, Streeter repeated his instructions. “Back up, Story.”
She started moving automatically heading in the direction of his voice. When she got to him, he reached out and grabbed her shoulder, gently but firmly. He pulled her back a few steps so she was behind him and he was between Soyko and her. All the while he kept steady eye contact with the man holding the knife.
“Just keep on going, Story. Get out of here.” His voice stayed even; then suddenly he yelled to Soyko, “And you stay put!”
“I been waiting for this all day, shithead,” Soyko responded. “I owe you big-time for Jacky. Getting whatever you found is gonna be a nice bonus. That and cutting up you and the lady.” He was advancing as he spoke and there were only a few feet between them by now.
The blade looked short but thick. Soyko’s hands looked equally thick around the base of the knife, and his shoulders quivered in anticipation. A sick feeling came over Streeter as he remembered what he’d forgotten inside of the Porsche—the crowbar. He wished he had either it or the gun he kept under his car seat.
“I had nothing to do with Jacky. I was at your place for a minute last night but he was dead when I got there. I’m pretty sure it was a cop named Kovacs who did it.”
“Oh, a cop. Definitely. They run around killing people all the time. The lady below us made you for the guy.”
“She’s full of crap. She made you for the guy when she called the cops. They’re looking for you right now.”
“The cops, huh? The same ones that killed Jacky, I suppose. Shut up.”
Soyko lashed out with the knife, shooting his right hand out at the bigger man like he was throwing a punch. Streeter quickly backpedaled and avoided the blade. Soyko lunged again and Streeter backpedaled again, the blade hitting only air. Trouble was, Streeter was stepping back into the space between the Porsche and the shed. It was a narrow space with no exit. Soyko could keep coming until there was no more room to back up. Streeter took a quick half-step forward to see if his attacker would give any ground. He didn’t budge.
“Nowhere to run?”
At that Soyko made two more quick swipes with the blade. Both times Streeter had to give ground, forcing him closer to the back wall. He could hear Story yell something, but he couldn’t make out the words.
He yelled back, “Get out of here. Get to the office.”
Soyko straightened up, a smile crossing his face. “Saving the lady, huh? Now, that’s sweet.”
He then went back into his attack crouch, lifted the blade to shoulder level, growled, and moved forward. He intended this to be his last charge. It was.
Streeter saw it coming and, in the time it took Soyko to travel the last three feet, he turned slightly to his left, so he was facing the shed. As Soyko came, he deflected the blade hand by striking Soyko’s wrist with his left forearm while, at the same time, grabbing him behind the head. He squeezed hard at a patch of hair and held Soyko upright for an instant. Then he turned the smaller man’s head so that he was facing the shed from about two feet away.
He tried to ram Soyko’s head into the shed to knock him unconscious. Instead, he rammed the head into the vacant cavity where a window used to be. All that was left was the jagged row of broken glass along the bottom of the ledge, which now smiled up like a row of uneven teeth. As Streeter shoved Soyko’s head toward the building, his exposed neck was forced into the glass. The jagged edge cut through Soyko’s throat like it was paper, and he died instantly. He died on his feet, leaning into the shed. Streeter held the head in place as Soyko gave one monumental kick back with both legs. When his feet again hit the ground, his whole body slumped.
Panting furiously, Streeter let go and took a step back. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Story walking toward him. She was pale and her mouth formed a gaping circle. Still, her voice was calm.
“Is he dead?”
Streeter kept staring at Soyko, breathing hard, his pulse racing. “No. I think he’s just resting.” Then he backed up and looked squarely at her. “Of course he’s dead.”
“Who the hell is that?” She was bent forward, and her breath seemed labored. “I’ve seen him before.”
“His name is Leo Soyko. Cooper’s muscle.”
“His what?”
“His enforcer. He’s one of the guys who beat up McLean for Cooper. He’s also one of the guys who tried to attack Ronnie Taggert, Cooper’s girl. He’s killed people, too. The cops are looking for him right now.”
Story stared at him, still breathing through her mouth. “I didn’t know about this Ronnie thing. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Streeter walked out from between the car and the shed. He was still shaking but starting to calm down. He looked at his pants and saw a trace of Soyko’s blood painted on the side like a design. “I didn’t have all the details until this morning.”
“How did he find us?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
They were standing close now. Streeter could hear someone yell from the front of the lot. He looked toward the sound and saw the enormous lot-owner walking toward them. Actually, the guy looked like he was trying to run, but it came off absurdly slow and he appeared to be quivering as he moved.
“Who is Jacky and what did Kovacs do to him?” Story pressed on, much of her composure regained.
Streeter looked at her again. “It seems that Kovacs is getting more violent. Look, we better go call the police. I’ll fill you in later.”
“I’ve got my cellular in my purse.”
As she called 911, Streeter went back for another look at Soyko. He appeared almost comical now, bent over the shed window, his body draped limply down the side. It was like he had been kneeling, looking inside, and he fell asleep. But there was nothing comical about the blood drooling down the side of the shed.
“They’ll be here in a few minutes.” Her voice brought him back. “What do we tell them about what we were doing?”
He thought for a minute. “Tell them we were going to take pictures and I started looking around inside and found the box.”
“We’re not giv
ing them the money.” She hugged her purse closer to her body.
“No need to. Hand them the coke and they’ll be plenty happy.”
That satisfied her. They could see the yard owner coming closer down the aisle, but they still couldn’t make out what he was saying.
“Streeter, are you all right?”
“I’m not sure.” His breath was getting back to normal, his thoughts were clearing. “I guess this had to be done. Like taking out the garbage.”
The thick sadness they’d felt when they first found the money returned to both of them now, but much more pronounced this time.
TWENTY-FOUR
“Jesus Christ, big guy. You must be eating your wheaties.” Sergeant Haney shook his head as the paramedics pulled the wilting body of Leo Soyko off the shed and placed it carefully on the gurney. “You just saved the taxpayers a ton of money. A trial, and then keeping that bug at Cañon City for the next hundred years or so, woulda cost a fortune.”
Streeter said nothing as he watched them zip Soyko up in the body bag. He had had to defend himself, but he still felt a little sick watching the body being wheeled away. This should end the killings. Story was standing about twenty feet away talking to a young black uniformed officer. Streeter had difficulty making them out in the growing darkness. Haney crushed a cigarette with his shoe and squinted at the cocaine baggie in his hand. With a nod, he signaled to another uniformed officer. The officer walked over, took the baggie, and listened to the sergeant for a minute. He smiled at Haney like they were sharing a private joke and then he walked away with the cocaine.
Haney turned to Streeter again. “You sure that’s all the flake you found in there?” His tone was more resigned than accusatory.
Streeter nodded. “I can tell you in all honesty that that’s all the drugs I found in the car.”
“The guy that runs this place is pretty pissed off at you for lying about what you were doing out here. He wants us to check out your car, to see if you found anything else. Says that whatever you found in the Porsche belongs to him and you should turn it over.”
Streeter Box Set Page 18