Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  “He’ll never make that mistake again.” Streeter looked up at her on the porch step. “Neither will we.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  “He seems more sad than anything.” story finally defined Kovacs’ gaze to no one in particular. “The top of his head’s nearly blown off. You’d think he’d be more surprised or pained or something, wouldn’t you? You’d think he’d look different than just sad.”

  Tears flowing down her checks, she turned to Streeter with the question. He grabbed her gently by her shoulder with one hand and pulled her toward him. Then he looked down at Gail Shelton, who had sat on the stoop immediately after dropping the skillet.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “What happened to your head?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me. Just take care of that delicate little thing. After all, she’s crying. I’m only bleeding.” Gail turned away, obviously disgusted.

  “I’ll call for help in a minute,” Streeter answered.

  “That would be a good idea,” Gail said. “I’ve got the headache of the century.”

  “What was he doing here?” Streeter nodded down to Kovacs. Story wiped at her cheeks with the back of one hand and looked over to Gail as well. Her tears had stopped.

  “Prince Charming? He was my knight in shining armor.” She looked down at the detective and said no more.

  “What do you mean?” Story asked.

  Gail looked up at her like she’d just asked for a handout. She still said nothing. Finally, Streeter repeated the question. “What do you mean by Prince Charming?”

  Gail shrugged. “He got to me right after the funeral and told me how he and Doug had become good friends. He told me so many things about Doug, personal things, that I believed him. He knew Doug left stuff with me that was valuable and that there could be people coming after it. He said they would want to take the things away from me. He said he would see to it that that didn’t happen. I bought it all. Hook, line, and the whole enchilada.”

  “You mean people like me?” Story insisted. “The people who own the clocks? People who Doug left everything to in his will? People like that?”

  Gail looked back at her and actually spoke to her this time. “I didn’t know he had a will. I just assumed he didn’t have anything much but the clocks. If they were yours, why didn’t you come up for them sooner?”

  Story blushed, and it was Streeter who answered. “We had no idea where they were until recently. Or even what they were. Listen, can we go inside and call the police? I wouldn’t mind a drink of water, either.”

  Gail got up and took one last look at the dead cop. Then she nodded for them to follow her into the kitchen. When they got inside, Streeter went to the sink for a drink of water and the two women sat down at the kitchen table without looking at each other. Tension was as thick in the air as the cooked-onion smell.

  “That fella out on the porch isn’t going anywhere, and my little headache can keep,” Gail said when Streeter sat down. “We should really have us a talk before any police get out here.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Story said. “Kovacs said that you already sold my clocks. Is that true?”

  “Yes. They’re all gone, and there’s no way to get them back. Sold to collectors here and all the way to England, I’m told.”

  “Then it would appear you owe me money.” Story was looking directly into Gail’s eyes, but the older woman didn’t flinch. “A great deal of money. I’ve got receipts for thirty-seven of those precious clocks of his, and they showed Doug Shelton is the owner. And I have a will that gives me everything that belonged to him. That means those clocks. According to my calculations, you had better come up with several hundred thousand dollars or prepare to spend your twilight years in court.”

  Gail considered that for a moment and then leaned across the table toward Story. “Sweetie, you can take me to court or you can grab that gun of his out there and put it to my head. But I don’t have anywhere near the kind of money you’re looking for. It’s come and gone and that’s all there is to it.”

  Story practically jumped out of her chair. “How dare you? Those didn’t belong to you. You know how Doug felt about you. He couldn’t stand you. He never said a kind word about you.”

  “I sure as hell didn’t know any of them belonged to you. I was his mother. His family needed that money and that’s where it went. To take care of Philip. That poor child’s treatment is more important than you getting new clothes and a few new toys. Besides, judging from those last few letters I got from him, he wasn’t too fond of you, either.”

  Story’s mouth was just opening in response when Streeter stood up himself, holding out his open hand.

  “Enough. This guy didn’t seem too nuts about either of you, and I can’t say as I really blame him. Standing around here screaming at each other like a couple of spoiled kids isn’t going to get us anywhere. And we’ve got to call somebody about Prince Charming out there pretty soon.” He shook his head. “Maybe we can settle this fast and first.” He turned to Gail. “Exactly where is the money now? Have you spent all of it?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I set up a blind trust for Doug’s brother, Philip, over in Laramie. He’ll be in a home for the rest of his life. He can’t take care of himself. The rest of it, just under thirty-five grand, well, I’ve ordered some remodeling for this old barn. I put most of it in a down payment to the contractor. I plan on fixing this place up and then selling. That takes care of all of it except for his share.” She nodded toward the back sun porch.

  Both of her guests looked in that direction in unison.

  “His share?” Story asked.

  “We had an agreement,” Gail said. “He wasn’t too thrilled with the payment. That’s how I got this.” She nodded the side of her head with the blood. “He wasn’t much for negotiating and, like so many men, he hated changes.”

  “You had money for him? How much are we talking about?” Story sat down again.

  Gail considered the questions for a long time. “If I give you a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars cash money, will you go away and never come back? I was willing to pay that for him to disappear. It’d be worth that much—easy—never to see you again. And that would sure beat wrestling each other in court for the next few years with no one getting rich but the lawyers.”

  “How long would it take you to get it for me?”

  “You could have it today.”

  Streeter and Story looked at each other.

  “Sounds like that might be the way to go,” he said.

  Story looked back at Gail, while brushing some hair from her face. Then, slowly, “If I can have it today and you can prove that the money’s in a trust, I’m willing to forget the rest. I don’t want to take money from Doug’s brother. But if I thought you were keeping it for yourself, I’d fight you in court forever.”

  “We’ll call it Philip’s reward,” Gail said. She reached on top of the metal briefcase, off to the side of the table, and grabbed the ratty paper bag. “Here you go. Now, after the police are done here, our business is finished.”

  Story took the bag and looked inside. “Fair enough. After I count it.”

  “You can have this, too, if you want.” Gail pulled the briefcase toward her and opened it. She turned it around so they could see the cash inside.

  “What the hell is that?” Streeter bent forward.

  “Mr. Kovacs brought that to show me, for some reason. He said he took it from Doug’s attorney. He said he earned it, but I imagine that means he stole it. Or maybe worse.”

  “He probably took it off Cooper yesterday,” Streeter speculated. “I knew he was dirty on that deal, too.” He picked up a stack of fifties and fanned through it. “There must be—what?—forty, fifty thousand in here.”

  Story looked at the money and then took the stack out of Streeter’s hands and threw it back in the case.

  “This isn’t ours.” Then she turned to Gail. “And it’s not yours, either. This goes to the police. Let
them decide what to do with it. You better call.”

  Gail took one more quick look at the money and then closed the case. “You’re right. Let them deal with it. I’ve seen enough money for one day.”

  Gail called the sheriffs office. As the three of them waited, Story actually went to the bathroom with the older woman and helped clean out her head injury. Streeter sat on the back-porch step and watched Kovacs. Detroit cop, he thought. Those FBI agents had it right.

  When the paramedics and deputies finally arrived, they spent little time questioning everyone and gathering evidence. This may have been the first shooting death they’d seen in over a year, but they all knew Gail Shelton so well that they pretty much took her word for everything.

  It was nearly ten-thirty when Story’s Audi finally pulled out of the farm driveway and headed back south toward Cheyenne.

  “I have to ask you something,” Streeter said after a couple of miles. “When you said the money in the briefcase isn’t ours and that the police should have it, isn’t that a little out of character for you? I mean, we could have taken it and no one would have known.”

  “Don’t think that hasn’t crossed my mind. But I keep remembering when you asked me how much class it takes to try and screw an insurance company with a bogus neck injury. I feel bad about that little stunt. This is one way I can help make up for it.”

  They drove on in silence until they got to the outskirts of Cheyenne.

  “I’ll buy you a drink once we get to Denver,” Streeter told her. “We deserve it after the last couple of days. Unless you want to hurry home and put that bag in a trunk under your bed for the night.”

  “I’m so drained, I’m not sure I can make it all the way back to Denver. And I know I can’t get that far without a drink.”

  “You want me to drive?”

  “I’m okay for now. They’ve got a decent little bar at the Marriott in Cheyenne. How does that sound?”

  “A hotel bar.” He looked at her face in the dashboard light. Her features seemed tired, which relaxed them nicely. He was glad their business arrangement was over, and he noticed that he still had the urge to kiss her. To hold her. Maybe more. “I’m game if you are. Look, if you just want to crash for the night, we can each get a room and then head back to Denver in the morning.”

  Story didn’t say anything for a long time. Then she glanced at him. “Why don’t we get that drink and you can tell me about those fires you’re so good at starting. Who knows, maybe all we’ll need is one room.”

  Now it was Streeter’s turn to be quiet. Finally, he said, “It sure can’t hurt to talk about it.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Michael Stone started his career as a newspaper reporter, working as a correspondent for the Dallas Morning News and winning awards for his investigative journalism, before becoming a private detective in Denver. He used that experience to powerful effect when he became a crime fiction novelist.

  Stone’s blockbuster series of thrillers began with The Low End of Nowhere, which introduced bounty hunter Streeter, the tough-guy-with-a-tender-heart tracking down terrifying criminals on the streets of Denver. The smashing debut earned Stone praise from Robert B. Parker and other crime fiction legends…and snagged him a coveted Shamus Award nomination for best novel from the Private Eye Writers of America. The book was quickly followed by A Long Reach, Token of Remorse, and Totally Dead, each a uniquely authentic and explosive mystery packed with the author’s real-life experience. Stone’s series of crime noir fiction is both darkly funny and deeply gritty…and rates as some of the most original and cutting-edge work in the mystery genre.

  A LONG REACH

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1997 Michael Stone

  ISBN: 1941298079

  ISBN-13: 9781941298077

  Published by Brash Books, LLC

  12120 State Line, #253

  Leawood, Kansas 66209

  www.brash-books.com

  ALSO BY MICHAEL STONE

  Low End of Nowhere

  Token of Remorse

  Totally Dead

  To Dominick Abel

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The author would like to thank and acknowledge Carolyn Carlson, Pat McCullough, Clifford Irving (belatedly), Nancy and Dan Dupler, all of my fellow mystery writers who gave me a hand, Ann Mygatt for pretending to like my writing, all the terrific mystery store owners who have helped and supported me (especially Tom and Enid Schantz, Ed and Pat Thomas, Shelly MacArthur, Shirley Beaird, and Richard Katz), and last but not least, the hardest-working man in show business: Matthew Bradley.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ONE

  Merton “Buddy” Hinckley wouldn’t tell you the truth if you set his hair on fire. As a small-time contractor, he treated his customers like lice, and he had more process servers after him than both Clintons combined. Streeter was so mad at him that he was doing this one for free. His partner, Frank Dazzler, had talked him into serving the garnishment papers. Streeter usually avoided serving process. At twenty-five bucks a pop, you could easily make less than minimum wage. Fortunately, as a bounty hunter for Dazzler’s Bail Bonds, he seldom had to do it. But then an Army pal of Frank’s from Korea had mentioned a scammer who’d conned his aunt out of nearly four grand.

  “It breaks my heart to see her,” the friend had said. “Old Clara always dreamed about adding a little sewing room on the back of her house. So this cowboy contractor named Hinckley comes along while I’m outta town and waltzes her into forking over thirty-eight hundred and change. In advance, no less. Was he peddling a line of manure? Does Michael Jackson love little kids? Anyhow, Hinckley comes out to her house for half a day, knocking holes in a wall like he’s getting down to business. Then he disappears, and we can’t find him for months.”

  They sued Buddy and won a judgment plus punitive damages. But he didn’t pay a penny and they all knew he almost certainly was still out there running the same hustle on other people. Clara’s attorney got a garnishment order, meaning that a chunk of whatever the builder was earning should go to her. But the order would be worthless until it was hand-delivered to Hinckley.

  Frank played on Streeter’s compassion and sense of fairness. They’d been partners for ten years and Streeter was the best skip tracer in Denver. Still, the bounty hunter was reluctant until he dropped in on Clara to pick up the papers. That’s when he got mad. It was so endearingly pathetic, the way she walked him to the back of her house and showed him the boarded-up holes. She described in slow detail how she’d envisioned the sewing room that would never be. When she finished, a solitary tear worked its way down an anc
ient cheek as creased as a used lunch bag. Then, in a voice suddenly hard, she added, “When you serve this shit heel, Mr. Streeter, please kick him one in the grapes for me.”

  Patiently, he explained that the service was as far as he’d go. Clara nodded and let out a resigned wheeze. “Whatever you think is best.”

  Now, turning north off 14th Avenue onto Colorado Boulevard, Streeter thought of how he’d all but given up. Hinckley, a paranoid boozer in his late forties, lived in a secured building. His wife and son screened all calls, as well as any visitors who got past the locked lobby. Buddy didn’t have a regular work schedule and he kept his truck in the closed, underground garage. It could take weeks of surveillance to catch him coming or going.

  On a hunch, Streeter had read the court file. In the financial-disclosure portion, Buddy had listed a 1953 Ford sedan valued at six hundred dollars that he intended to sell. He gave its location as a Conoco station on the East Side. When the bounty hunter went there, the antique Ford was parked in the rear. Still for sale. Streeter asked if he could talk to its owner. The manager said that that wasn’t possible, but that he himself was authorized to handle the deal. Buddy was cautious to a fault. Acting indignant, Streeter wrote his phone number on a slip of paper. He said he’d pay nine hundred cash money for the Ford, but only if he could talk directly to the guy holding title.

  Three weeks went by and no response. Then, early one morning, a strapped Buddy finally called him. Streeter said his offer was still good, provided Buddy’d meet him at the station for a test ride. Reluctantly, the contractor agreed to be there at ten. At precisely three minutes to the hour, Streeter pulled his brown Buick into the driveway. As he moved toward the office, a man in sagging blue jeans and a filthy green windbreaker walked out. Streeter stopped his car but left the engine running, then grabbed the papers from the seat next to him and stuffed them inside his suede jacket.