Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  Even his lunch habits were consistent. Monday was Chinese food. Tuesdays and Thursdays, he brown-bagged it. Every Wednesday, he’d meet his brother for Italian. But Fridays were his favorite. That’s when he’d order ribs delivered from a place on South Colorado Boulevard near his office. His wife and his doctor had both told him to change his fatty Friday habit. Nearly old enough for retirement, Cleveland was seventy pounds overweight. “I’m not fat, I’m just eight inches short for my weight,” he’d tell his wife. Funny guy, that Cleveland. He was subject to heart palpitations that squirmed like baby rats in his chest. But he dearly loved his ribs and he’d rather take a beating than give them up. He figured he earned that greasy slab of beef and sauce. If they wanted to take it away from him they’d have to pry it from his cold, dead hands.

  Kevin Swallow couldn’t believe it. Cleveland’s routines made Kevin’s job so easy he almost felt embarrassed. “For chrissakes,” he told Gina Gallo on Thursday night. “This makes washing the car look like work for the space program. I’ve never seen anything like him. Bet the man even pisses on schedule.”

  “You shouldn’t complain,” Gina responded, looking up from the toenail she was coating heavily with plum polish. “It’s not like you lose credit if it ain’t a big hassle. You just want this guy to go down. Who cares how easy it is to do him?”

  Kevin nodded. “But this is going to be such a snap it doesn’t hardly seem fair.”

  She scrunched her face into a pained half-smile, half-frown. It was her way of indicating astonishment. “Well, come on, Kev. This one really ain’t hardly fair when you think about it. We didn’t even send the poor guy no poems warning him.”

  The “this one” she referred to would take place the next day. Gina would enter the Bayou Rib Shack at eleven-thirty. She’d tell the counterman that, rather than them delivering, Cleveland had asked her to pick up the ribs, seeing as how she was headed over to his office. then she’d give him a big tip so he wouldn’t call Watts to verify. Once she got back at the car, Kevin would put several grams of belladonna powder in the extra sauce Watts so loved. He chose the toxic dust in deference to his own drug days, when he’d take the psychedelic to hallucinate. Even in much smaller amounts and with his stomach pumped, Kevin had almost died of an overdose.

  “Good old belladonna,” he told Gina that Thursday night. “Might as well give the old fart a little thrill before he checks out. This could finally loosen him up some. Course, belladonna won’t fool anyone—it’s easy to trace. But I want people to know it’s murder. That way, the rest of those jerks we’re after’ll have something to think about.”

  Gina just smacked a huge gum bubble, gave him her normal, barren stare, and shrugged. “Whatever you think’s best, you bad boy. I just want to get these people taken care of.” With that she turned her attention back to her toenails. Fake gold bracelets clanked like bar dice on her wrists as she worked. “Just make sure you don’t wear anything too stupid. Know what I mean, honey? Wear that blue workshirt and some jeans. Promise me.”

  Kevin glared at her. “I promise,” he said, rolling his eyes with the forced drama of a child. He hated it when she talked down to him about clothes. It wasn’t as if she was walking the fashion runways of Europe. He’d met Gina shortly before Christmas, half a year after he got out of prison. It wasn’t her clothes that attracted him. They’d met in the bar she worked at just outside of Evergreen, about thirty miles west of Denver. Gina lived nearby in a house her mother had left her and she only dated dysfunctional misfits, ex-cons, and other pissed-off losers. Those were the only men who, as she put it to a girlfriend, “make me twitch, if you follow my thoughts.”

  No, it wasn’t her clothes that had attracted Kevin. Gina had three strong selling points.

  First, her attitude. Although noticeably flighty in the old brain department, she had a burning anger that made up for it. She let him know their first night that there was little in life she considered morally repugnant or too vicious. And she jumped at the chance to help him get revenge.

  “Count me in, Big Balls,” she moaned, breathing gin fumes savagely into his ear as they lay in her bed. “You got yourself one flat-out, rebel-woman ass-kicker here. No one’s safe from us. You just count me in, sir.”

  In more sober moments since then, Gina had waffled a bit. But Kevin kept her in line by convincing her that their targets deserved what they were getting and by hinting at marriage. That and an occasional threat of violence.

  The second thing he liked was Gina’s setup. Money in the bank and a secluded house made her perfect. The place was one of the few pure ranch styles in that part of Evergreen. If it were any more sparse and rectangular, it’d be on wheels. Gina wasn’t big on interior decorating, either. The entire inside was done in blocky, yard-sale Mediterranean furniture, swag lamps, and Formica. It had all the sad, tired charm of an AA clubhouse. But Gina kept it neat and she was one hell of a cook.

  Finally, there was her looks. She had jet-black hair and a dark, dangerous face. Too round and flat to be called pretty, but, with enough makeup and her oversized lips, Gina had a raw appeal. Although only thirty, she was aged from partying and her body was soft from inactivity. But Kevin enjoyed her sizzle, and he knew he’d never fall for her. Another love affair was not in his plans.

  “Good,” she now said of his promise. Gina knew that if he was left on his own, Kevin might dress loud enough to draw attention. Not that he wasn’t an incredibly attractive man. That he was. Women always noticed Kevin. True, his face had a square, Midwestern vacuousness, but there was a tenacity and ruggedness about him. He always looked like he was on the verge of uttering an insult, an expression Gina found irresistible. Steel-blue eyes, dirty-blond hair and beard, and a thick neck added to his ominous appeal. “We don’t need any busybodies from this old guy’s office building identifying you because of some weird stuff you pulled out of your closet,” Gina concluded, again looking up from her toes, and smiling patiently.

  Kevin was melted into the couch across from her. A TV remote control dangled from one hand, a bottle of Dr Pepper was clutched in the other. Because of a spectacularly nervous stomach, he’d vomit like a deranged pig if he had so much as one beer. “No, we don’t,” was all he said as he turned his attention back to Friends.

  When they got to the Rib Shack the next morning, Kevin waited out back while Gina went in. She handed the counterman a twenty to cover an $11.84 tab. Once back in the car, she gave the food to Kevin. He sprinkled the dark-purple powder over the sauce and on the ribs. It blended in with the deep, brownish-red goo of the sauce. He’d decided to take the order to Watts himself. Kevin had added forty pounds of prison muscle and a ZZ Top mustache and beard since his trial. His hair was much longer, and after corrective eye surgery in Cañon City, he’d shed his glasses. Looking so drastically different, he was sure that no one he’d met before prison would recognize him. Making this delivery would prove that theory.

  Watts paid little attention to Kevin. Instead, the old man focused on the invoice and frowned, as he did every Friday. Then he pulled out a ten-dollar bill and three ones, also as he did every Friday. Cleveland Watts never tipped more than 10 percent in his entire life. “Keep it,” he told the new deliveryman. Then, pulling food from the steaming bag, “Is there plenty of extra sauce, like I asked for?”

  “Plenty,” Kevin said without enthusiasm as he inspected the tip. He looked down at the blubbery detective and snarled, “Enjoy.”

  When he was alone, Cleveland poured the sauce over his huge slab and dived in. He ate furiously, without interruption, and was done by twelve-twenty. As he went down the hall to the bathroom, he noticed a bitter aftertaste that he couldn’t recall from previous weeks. He assumed his system was just reacting angrily to his eating so fast. But later that afternoon, as he drove to Washington Park, Cleveland kept blinking. His eyesight was blurred, his mouth and skin felt dry. By the time he parked and started walking around the pond at the north end, he could feel his heart pounding
and he was becoming disoriented. He stopped at a wooden bench and sat down. His heart was racing by now and he could barely see. Several ducks on the ground near him fluttered their wings, but he didn’t notice. Everything seemed distant and dreamy. Soon his heart was pounding audibly and he thought his chest would explode. Then he slumped forward and fell off the bench. He hit the ground, stone dead, before anything blew up.

  FOUR

  “Kevin’s not screwing around, Street.” Carol’s voice rose into the phone. “He killed that ex-cop I told you about. Not that Watts’ dying did any major damage to humanity as a whole—the guy was a jerk. But he didn’t deserve this.”

  Streeter frowned. “When did it happen?”

  There was a pause. Carol took a deep breath. “Yesterday, Friday afternoon at about six. It’s been on the news. They found the body in Washington Park. I talked to someone I know in the coroner’s office this morning and he said that at first it looked like a heart attack. But now they’re pretty sure it was a toxin. They don’t know what kind. Not that it really concerns me. Or Watts, for that matter.”

  “Poison. I wonder how Swallow got to him?”

  “They’re not sure. It had to be something he ate. It’ll take a while to sort it all out.”

  “How you holding up?”

  Another pause, then, “I’ll manage.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “The police sent a uniformed officer to my apartment at about ten. We’re at my office now. Until they figure this thing out, they’ll have someone stay with me day and night. Let’s hope it doesn’t take too long.” She was quiet for a few seconds. “I don’t mean to hound you, but have you had any luck in your search yet?”

  “I’ve got feelers out there, but so far nothing. Look, I know this is very upsetting, Carol, but try to be patient. You’ve got police protection now.”

  “Big deal.”

  The bounty hunter rolled his eyes and sat back. He could picture Carol: half terrified, half snarly. “It’s not perfect, but the police are better than nothing. At least it’ll slow Kevin down and make him think. Maybe he’ll get cold feet.”

  Streeter was in his partner’s office in the church he and Frank jointly owned and had converted into two living units and a couple of businesses. He’d been home all morning and was about to go grocery shopping. From down the hall, he could hear the front door opening and shutting. Must be the noon karate class letting out. Streeter lived in the huge upstairs loft, and Frank’s office and apartment shared the first floor with a feminist self-defense school called the Womyn’s Workout Space.

  “From what you told me the other day, I thought we had time,” he continued. “I also wondered if this clown was serious. Looks like he answered that last one for me. From now on, Carol, finding Swallow gets my full attention. Work’s a little slow anyhow, and I’ve got a few ideas on where to look.”

  “Good.” She sounded calmer. “We shouldn’t take anything for granted. He may have me planned for last, but I don’t want to take chances.”

  “Me either. Listen, I’ll call around and see what I can find out.” Streeter stood up and arched his back as he spoke. “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay. I’ll be in the office until about five and tonight I’ll just be at home.”

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  Yet another pause. It sounded like she had her hand over the receiver and was talking to someone. Finally, “Yes, I’ll manage. The cop they sent seems to know what he’s doing, which is more than I can say for most of them.”

  Streeter tried to imagine what it would be like to guard Carol hour after hour. “Be kind to the man. He’s just trying to help.”

  After he hung up, he was too preoccupied to go shopping. He walked outside. Autumn would begin the next day but it felt hot as midsummer. To the southwest about a dozen blocks, the baseball stadium, Coors Field, sat empty. The Rockies, in the last week of the regular season, were out of town. Streeter flashed on Watts. His death meant that Carol’s interpretation of the poem was fairly accurate. It also meant he had to act. He walked back to the office, picked up the phone, and punched in Linda Parnell’s number. He’d first met her two weeks earlier, when he was working a traffic-accident case. The bounty hunter had gone to a station house in North Denver to interview the investigating officer. But he was soon distracted by the woman in a gray skirt talking to a female cop and drinking coffee at the front counter. Linda looked to be in her early thirties, five feet eight inches tall, and slim. Her hair, long but in a work bun, was the color of black silk, and she wore black-rimmed glasses. On her they looked terrific, fronting eyes a shade lighter than her hair. Her smile could melt a Dove Bar.

  When he finished his interview he approached her. Watching the female cop walk away, he made an inane crack about being “a sucker for a woman in a uniform.” Linda looked him up and down and said, “The lady who lives next door to me works at the Wendy’s in Glendale. Dynamite uniform, Wendy’s. I’ll get her phone number for you.”

  Streeter grinned. “That was a pretty lame opening line. You must hear things like that about ten times a day.”

  “About that.” Linda’s face softened with a hint of a smile. Not actually friendly, but encouraging. They talked for fifteen minutes. It turned out she was a psychologist on retainer with the DPD to counsel officers. Streeter asked if she’d meet him for a drink. Four days later, they got together at a restaurant in central Denver. After a few glasses of wine and much casual flirting, he walked her to her car. Then they sat inside of it and necked like college kids. Streeter loved the way she kissed. Before he left, she gave him her home phone number and they decided that seeing each other again was one solid idea.

  “Hello,” her voice now came over the receiver. She sounded formal.

  “Linda? It’s Streeter.”

  “Hi there.” Her tone brightened. “What’s up?”

  “Well, I wanted to say hello and I also wanted to ask you a couple of questions. Sort of job-related. You mind?”

  “That depends on the questions.” Formality crawled back into her voice.

  “I need to find out about a guy who fell over dead in Washington Park yesterday. Cleveland Watts. He’s a retired cop. You know anything about that?”

  “Watts. I met him once. He was on the job when I started here, five years ago. A good cop, when he wanted to be. Which wasn’t nearly often enough to justify a full-time salary, from what I heard. Strictly old-school. A regular ass-kicker, particularly with people of the nonwhite variety. About as evolved as a lump of pizza dough. I had an appointment this morning with a detective and he mentioned Watts’ dying. I gather he was poisoned. Why are you so interested?”

  “It’s a long story. Meet me for coffee later and I’ll fill you in. How about The Market, down on Larimer, at three?”

  The brighter tone came back. “Sure.”

  Larimer Square is a block-long section of ornate Denver architecture with pricy boutiques, restaurants, brew pubs, and The Market: a coffee shop and designer deli with tables spilling out onto the sidewalk. With the nice weather, Larimer was mobbed. All the tables were full when they arrived, so Streeter suggested they go next door to Josephina’s restaurant for a drink. Linda had on a short denim skirt and a white T-shirt.

  “So tell me, cowboy,” she said as they sat at the L-shaped saloon bar nursing their beers. “Why all the interest in poor old Cleveland? Was he a friend of yours?”

  “No. I never met him.” Streeter took a sip from his glass and studied Linda. “It’s a bizarre deal that has to do with a woman I know who was involved in a murder case that Watts worked on years ago. There’s good reason to believe that the same guy who did Watts is coming after other people, including her.”

  “Who is she?” Linda tried not to sound too interested.

  “An old girlfriend of mine. She hired me to track down the guy who may have killed Watts and threatened her.”

  “In case you hadn’t heard, that’
s why we have cops. They go get the bad guys.”

  “I read that somewhere. She’s getting police protection, but she still wants me to nose around.” Linda nodded and took a sip of her beer, but said nothing. Streeter continued. “He’s a killer she represented who got out of Cañon City a while back and now he’s looking to nail her for screwing up his case. Kevin Swallow. Your detective friend know any details on Watts?”

  She stared at him for a moment. “The way I heard it, the poison was probably in the food he got from a rib joint. Apparently, a woman came in yesterday at lunchtime and said Watts asked her to pick up the order. The cops are very interested in finding this lady. They’re getting the word out about her in case anyone saw her leave the rib place. It should be on the TV news tonight.”

  “A woman? They have any idea who she is?”

  “The rib-joint guy said she looked like either a high-end hooker or a low-end aerobics instructor.” Linda paused. “You didn’t know about a female accomplice?”

  He shook his head. “We assumed Swallow was alone.”

  “This woman who hired you was an old girlfriend, huh?”

  Streeter nodded with a quick grin. “Now, that’s really a bizarre deal.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  “Her name’s Carol Irwin. She’s a lawyer who used to do criminal-defense work until she burned out. Trial pressures got to her, so now she does mostly low-key stuff like contracts and taxes. She’s doing okay, I guess. We were sort of engaged.”

  “Oh? Where does one buy a ‘sort of’ engagement ring?”

  “Okay, officially engaged. It didn’t last long. We had one of those highly charged relationships. Neither of us behaved too well. I don’t want to blame it all on her, but Carol’s wound pretty tight. She’s hard to deal with on a daily basis.”