Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  Max looked down at the lawyer and slowly realized what he’d done. That realization sobered him up plenty. Immediately. He looked down the hall in both directions but he was unable to move. He could hear footsteps pounding up the open stairwell. Even that couldn’t prompt him to move. As the sounds came to the top of the stairs, he finally started to backpedal away from Cooper. By the time Kovacs and Padilla came off the stairs and got a full view of what happened, Max had turned and was running away.

  “Freeze,” Kovacs screamed.

  Both he and Padilla had their guns aimed at the fleeing figure. Automatically, Max turned back toward them and squeezed off a quick round. The bullet landed harmlessly in the ceiling, almost immediately over his own head, but it caused both detectives to drop to their knees. They opened fire from about fifty feet away. Miraculously, Max was able to run a few more steps, to where the hallway took a sharp right. He was gone before the officers got back on their feet.

  “Follow him,” Kovacs commanded Padilla. “I’ll go back to the lobby and cut him off when he gets there.”

  “Right,” his partner yelled as he ran down the hall. When he got to the corner where Max had just disappeared, he stopped and leaned his back against the wall, his gun clutched immediately in front of him with both hands. He inched his head around the corner. When he didn’t see anyone, he ran down that hall.

  Kovacs leaned over and glanced at Cooper for a second. He bent down to verify what he already knew—that the lawyer was dead. Next, he picked up the metal briefcase and opened it. When he saw the cash, he whistled lightly to himself and smiled. He closed it and glanced around the hall. Then he spotted a utility closet and went to it. He opened it and put the case inside, under a small bench. He’d be back for it later. As he shut off the closet light and closed the door, he heard three shots being fired from the downstairs lobby. He ran down the stairwell to verify something else he already knew—namely, that Padilla had killed the drunk.

  Kovacs couldn’t believe his good fortune. First the wino takes care of Cooper, and now Padilla takes care of the wino. For the first time in weeks, his stomach didn’t feel like it was about to explode.

  When Streeter walked into his apartment that night, it was almost twelve-thirty. Too late to call Story, and he was too tired to care about what was in the envelopes he’d pulled from the Porsche. He had given his oral statement to three different detectives at police headquarters and then went through a long written statement. All the while he kept picturing Soyko’s body slumped over the shed and hearing the grunt from the man’s death kick. The bounty hunter thought he’d feel deeply guilty and make all sorts of connections between this death and the one at Western Michigan all those years ago. But, strangely, he didn’t. Soyko was one useless piece of garbage who had hurt a lot of people. A little bit of death didn’t look half bad on the guy.

  Streeter almost was too tired to check his voice mail, but he grabbed the phone in Frank’s office right before he headed upstairs. There was one message. It was from Ronnie Taggert.

  “I was watching the news and it looks like you’ve had a busy day.” Her voice sounded soft, and Streeter could picture her in her hotel bed getting ready to fall asleep. “My hero. You did a good job on Soyko.

  “But you weren’t the lead story tonight,” she continued, sounding more tired. “I don’t know if you saw it, but Tom Cooper’s dead. They said on the television that it was a pissed-off client who shot him to death. Then a Mexican cop killed the client. There’s been so much going on the last few days. Unbelievable. It happened late this afternoon, about the same time I gather you were taking care of Leo Soyko. I was supposed to meet your friend Carey tomorrow but I don’t think that’s necessary now. Everyone he wanted to talk about is dead. So I’m going to bed, and then I’m leaving Colorado first thing in the morning. I’ve got serious thinking to do. This is goodbye. Thanks for the help and—who knows?—maybe we’ll run into each other somewhere down the road. I might end up coming back here eventually.”

  Streeter sat there and stared at the phone for a long time. Then he stood up and walked upstairs to his loft. So much to think about, and he was so damned tired. As far as Cooper was concerned, it didn’t shock him. The only surprise was that it wasn’t Kovacs who pulled the trigger. He’d sort it all out after he got some sleep.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “What in the hell were you doing this morning?” Frank asked Streeter as the two stood out on the front stoop of the church that Thursday afternoon. “It sounded like you were throwing them damn weights against the garage door.”

  Streeter only nodded. He woke up early and he felt so jazzed that he went to the weight room and pumped serious iron for almost two hours. Later, he called Story and they agreed to meet at the church at four o’clock. She told him that there was just over thirty-one thousand in the envelope but said not to worry. “Then we’ll be taking a little drive this afternoon and get the real payoff,” was how she put it.

  “I didn’t sleep all that terrifically well last night,” Streeter explained to Frank as they waited for her.

  “I don’t doubt that.” Frank shook his head. “I’m surprised you slept at all, for crying out loud, after that business yesterday at the junkyard. It was me, I’d still be smashed. You feeling any better?”

  “It was no picnic. But maybe now it’s all finally over. I talked to Carey a little while ago and he filled me in on that shootout at Cooper’s apartment. This town’s turning into another Tombstone. And I don’t mean the pizza. It sounded like the damned O.K. Corral over at Cooper’s yesterday. Enough’s enough.”

  “You got that right. I see by the paper your friend Kovacs was involved. Another coincidence?”

  “I can’t figure that one out. Carey told me that Art Kovacs didn’t fire a shot. And there’s no way he could have set it up like that, to have the other guy, the client, do it. I don’t know what to think. Carey said that the second cop, Padilla, killed the guy that shot Cooper. He said Kovacs is clear on the whole thing. But I still can’t believe I’ve been barking up the wrong tree with him. Coincidence, my ass. I have a feeling we haven’t seen the last of Artie boy.”

  “For your sake, I hope you’re wrong. What’s next between you and the little lady with the money?”

  “That’s what I’ll find out when she gets here. She said we have one more stop and we’re home free, whatever that means. We found a little bit of money in the car but she said there’s a lot more waiting for us.”

  “This is her now.” Frank nodded toward the street.

  Story’s Audi pulled up in front of the church. She parked and got out, wearing a flower-print dress and sunglasses. Streeter had never seen her look better. Or happier. She smiled at both of them as she approached. “Gentlemen. Out getting a little sun, are we? How’re you feeling, Streeter?”

  “Better than our old friend Tom Cooper.”

  “Isn’t that something? It looks like yesterday took care of a lot of things. I hate to see anyone get hurt, but Cooper died like he lived. So did his two associates.”

  “That they did,” Streeter said.

  “I hope to hell you kids are finally out of the line of fire,” Frank said.

  “It looks that way,” Story said. “Can we go inside and talk?”

  Streeter nodded toward the door. “Mind if Frank sits in?”

  “That’s fine with me,” she said.

  “This place is turning into a damned war room,” Frank said as they settled into his office. He took his usual spot in the big chair behind the desk.

  Story sat in front of the desk, next to Streeter, and pulled an envelope from her purse. It was the smaller package they took from the Porsche. She also pulled out a thick wad of cash and handed it to the bounty hunter.

  “There’s about ten thousand there. Your third of what we found.”

  “Not a bad day’s work,” Frank said.

  Streeter set it on the table, barely looking at it. “What else do you have?” He nodded to
the package in Story’s hand.

  “This is what we’ve been after all along. Maybe I should have guessed it, but that’s hindsight. We’ve been looking for clocks.”

  “Great,” Streeter said. “Another couple of clocks. Now, that definitely makes everything worthwhile. You’re telling me Doug left a few more clocks?”

  “A lot more. These are receipts for thirty-seven of the stupid things. They’re all worth about the same as the one he left in the townhouse. Or more. If they’re in good shape, I place the total value at close to half a million dollars.”

  Frank let out a loud whistle. “Holy moly. That much for some clocks? What are they made out of? Gold?”

  She turned to face him across the desk. “You’d think so. When I sold that other one, I got a short course on how valuable these things are. I had a hunch Doug may have bought more, but I had no idea he bought this many or that some of them would be so valuable. A couple of them go for almost thirty thousand each.

  “Judging from the receipts, he bought all but a couple of them when he lived in Boulder. Before I met him. Some of these purchases are ten years old. Clocks.” She shook her head. “That would explain his interest in the art museum. They’ve had clock exhibits there. It also fits in with his interest in mechanical things. He may even have tried to repair or restore some of them. God, I hope not. Not with his mechanical abilities. But at least he would be able to tell what kind of shape they were in when he bought them.”

  She pulled out some of the receipts. “They’re all named after clockmakers and such. Look, Streeter. Here’s one that’s a William Webb Wellington. That must have been that reference to Webb in his checkbook. We thought it was the mayor. This is where all Doug’s extra cash must have gone. Judging from what he paid for them and what they’re worth now, that man knew his clocks. I talked to my dealer friend this morning and ran some of these by him. He told me what they’re worth now, and I’ll tell you, Doug made out all right. The good part is that we can sell them through my friend, and even with his commission, we’ll still end up with over four hundred thousand. Maybe more.”

  Streeter looked at the receipts in silence. Then he said, “I thought it was artwork. Collectibles like paintings and antiques are the perfect investment for a drug dealer. A great way to hide assets. Everything is cash and there’s practically no way to trace it for taxes or by the police. That is, if you buy at the right price, tuck them safely away, and then know when to sell them. Clocks make sense.”

  “We’ve got it made,” Story said.

  “Yeah, right,” Streeter interrupted. “I take it you have them in your trunk?”

  “Of course I don’t have them.” Then her voice softened. “Not yet, anyhow.”

  “My next question is fairly obvious.”

  “Yes, it is. And the answer is, Wyoming. They’re up in Wyoming.”

  “What the hell they doing up there?” Frank shot in.

  Streeter sat up. “They’re with his mother. I wanted to talk to her all along and you kept saying no.”

  “I didn’t say no.” Story narrowed her eyes. “I just said I didn’t think she would have anything. But now that I know what we’re after, it makes sense. Assuming Doug trusted her, which he must have, her farm would be the perfect place to keep them. She probably had them under her homeowner’s insurance. No one would think of looking up there.”

  “You know for sure she has them?” Streeter asked.

  “There were a couple of letters from her in with the receipts. She talked about the whole situation. She’s been keeping them in her basement and in the barn. The last one was bought about four years ago, and the clocks were all safe and sound at that time.”

  “So now what?” Streeter asked. “We call her and let her know we’re coming and then rent a U-Haul and go get them? You think she’ll just hand them over like that?”

  “Hardly. Gail Shelton is one tough, self-centered old broad. Like I told you, Doug was kind of afraid of her. When you meet her, you’ll see why. Plus, she can’t stand me. But I talked to my attorney this morning and she said that I have every legal right to them. Doug’s will says I get everything he had. My guess is, it’s his way of telling the old lady what he really thought of her—otherwise she would be a beneficiary. I’ve got the will in my car, and I figure with a big guy like you along she’ll have no choice but to turn them over.”

  “Right.” Streeter frowned at Frank. “She gives me any grief, I kick the hell out of her. I hate to be negative, but what if she’s already sold them? That could leave us basically fornicated, if you pardon my language. She’s had months to do it, and that would be the smart move.”

  “Then we’ve got problems. If they’re gone, we’ll have to take her to court for the money. That could drag on forever. Let’s just keep our fingers crossed.”

  “And you want to go now?”

  “No point in waiting.”

  “You two think it’s safe?” Frank asked. “I mean, the way this thing is going, who knows what’s waiting for you up there. Kovacs may not be the one, but someone spray-painted your little puppy and shot at this place.”

  Story stood up impatiently. “I can’t worry about that now. That’s my inheritance and I intend to go get it. I have every right to it and I’m not going to let anyone stop me. I’m going now. With or without you, Streeter.”

  He stood up, too. He took the cash she gave him and slid it across the desk at Frank. “Put that in a safe place for me.” Then he turned to Story. “We’ll take your car, but I’m going to bring my thirty-eight along, just in case. I don’t know if we’re out of danger yet or not, but I don’t want to get caught without a gun ever again.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Detective Arthur Ernest Kovacs certainly had done more than his share of twisted and degrading things for money over the years. But he figured sleeping with Gail Shelton easily had to have been the worst. Just the thought of it made him blink as he drove. Gail might be only nine years older than him, but she always seemed more like a maiden aunt. Too much of that Lutheran Bible guilt, he reasoned, made her look ancient in the morning. Like a stack of dry firewood next to him in bed.

  Every trip up Wyoming State Highway 211, just north of Cheyenne, felt more like a forced death march to Kovacs. Thank God, this is the last one. Payday, and then no more dealing with the farm hag. Since he first met her, at Doug’s funeral, Kovacs had been sucking up to Gail and turning on what he passed off as charm. Between that and laying on plenty of the old baloney about how he’d see to it that no one grabbed her precious clocks, he was able to talk her into a nice chunk of the revenue from them.

  Now Gail finally had received her last check for the clock sales from a broker in Salt Lake City. Kovacs figured his half to be about a quarter of a million. Throw in the fifty or sixty thousand from Cooper’s metal briefcase, next to him on the car seat, and his pension, and the officer figured to hit retirement in the approximate vicinity of solid comfort. God knows, he had never saved more than a couple hundred bucks on his own.

  After tonight, no more worrying about Moffatt, either. Once he got the cash in hand no one could touch it. The sun was sitting low in the west as he pulled up the driveway to Gail Shelton’s ancient house. The dump always reminded him of Ma and Pa Kettle’s farm. No more of her endless ramblings about how she grew up in this pile of bricks and boards, he thought. No more bullshit flattery. And maybe, finally, no more eruptions and fiery spasms from his tortured insides. With the money in hand, Kovacs figured, it was young broads and solid food from here on out.

  “Gracious, Arthur, you look like you’ve been sleeping in a Dumpster for the past few weeks,” Gail greeted him when he walked into the kitchen. “I suppose you’ll want a drink. You always do. Well, you know where it’s located.” She nodded toward the cabinet over the sink. “You better make it a strong one. You and I have to talk about a few things.”

  Gail had been pacing the decrepit kitchen when Kovacs entered. The room hadn’t been remodel
ed in over thirty years, and it always smelled stale, with a hint of cooked onions. Heavy black metal pots hung ominously on the wall like medieval bondage equipment.

  Gail was grim this evening. She knew that the upcoming confrontation was going to take all of her resolve. But it had to be done. She desperately wanted this mulish, sadistic cop out of her life, and she had no intention of parting with the kind of money she knew he expected.

  “Who shit in your oatmeal?” Kovacs saw no need to hide his thoughts. “Can’t you try and be pleasant? Just once? We should be celebrating.”

  “Please, just get your drink. I think it’s time we both cut all the malarkey and leveled with each other. What’s in the briefcase?” she asked, pointing to Cooper’s metal case, which he’d lugged in with him.

  “This is something I picked up from Doug’s attorney. It’s a long story, but the bottom line is, I got a little something extra for my efforts down there in Denver. There’s cash in here, but there’s still enough room for what you owe me.”

  “That’s what we have to talk about.”

  With that, she turned and headed into the adjoining living room to sit on the old couch. That room wasn’t much more pleasant than the kitchen, but at least the onion smell was less pronounced.

  Kovacs reached over the sink and grabbed the lone bottle of discount bourbon stored there. As he poured a double, neat, into a glass advertising a local gas station in loud colors, he wondered why Gail was in such an angry mood. She was never what you’d call cheerful, but this was the first time she’d actually insulted him. He took a long pull on his drink and then headed to the living room, where he sat down in a stuffed chair facing the couch.