Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  “Quite a chariot you got there.” Her voice was soft, but she wasn’t smiling. “I can’t imagine a guy with a car like that ever having to sleep alone.” She paused, then added, frowning, “Brown?”

  He came around to her side, glancing back at his car. “It’s good to see you appreciate vintage automobiles. Aren’t you going to give me a tour of your house?”

  “Maybe later. We’ll see how much you spend on dinner.” She was wearing a short white pleated skirt that accentuated her legs, and a ruffled black silk blouse. Open low. More makeup than usual, too.

  “Well, I’ve got a pocket full of coupons and I’m in the mood for dead cow. Maybe the Sizzler,” he said, opening the door. “If that doesn’t get me inside, nothing will.” As she moved past him, she smelled freshly washed, no perfume. He thought she’d never looked better. “Being with you has a definite high-school quality to it, Linda. Necking in the car, and now this shyness. I almost expect your mother to yell out for me to have you home early.”

  “Is that right?” She stopped and looked closely at him. Then she reached up and kissed his cheek lightly. “I’ll try to behave like an adult tonight.”

  He drove them to Chives, on 6th Avenue in central Denver—a stylish, Deco restaurant featuring subdued lighting, soft jazz tapes, and a vaguely Southwestern menu. It had a good wine list, and Streeter ordered a bottle of Cabernet shortly after they sat down. When it came, he filled their glasses.

  “You were going to tell me about Carol,” Linda said after they’d settled in.

  Streeter studied his wine. “Can’t say I found anything too spectacular. Gagliano and Cullen were useless.” He looked up at her. “I read the trial transcript. The whole court file, for that matter. Nothing. But there’s a couple little items that caught my attention. First, I talked to Gina Gallo today and she said that someone broke into her house last week and tossed the place. Just like with Carol. Plus, the day before, she got some hang-up calls. Apparently, Swallow tried to downplay it, but he was upset. So much so he wanted to get out of Colorado fast.

  “The second thing I noticed was in the newspaper clips. When he was arrested, there was a lot of speculation about what Kevin did with the money he got from Mallory’s wife. But no one ever found any. He was even ruled indigent, which is how he got a court-appointed attorney.”

  “So?”

  “So, if whoever broke into Gina’s is the same person who did Carol, they were looking for something. Probably money. Could have been the money from the contract killing.”

  Linda sat back. “I suppose it’s possible, if, if, if…That’s pretty thin, Street.”

  “Tell me about it.” He shook his head. “It’s the only thing that makes any sense so far. Money’s always a good motive.”

  “That may be true, but why would the burglar go to Carol’s? Breaking into Gina’s makes sense, but why go after Irwin once Swallow’s dead?”

  “Because whoever did it knew the two of them were so tight that the money or whatever it is would be joint property. Look, I know I’m reaching here, but there has to be a common motive for both burglaries.”

  He took a long pull from his wine. “One more thing. Swallow was shaken up by the break-in, and the papers said that at his sentencing he fell apart. He was Joe Cool right up until he heard his sentence. Kevin had this rep for being a total hard-on, but he was capable of fear. Carol told me he’d never done prison time, so maybe the prospect of going to Cañon City got to him. My hunch is that whoever I’m looking for was someone he met after his trial. Down in prison. I bet he hooked up with some maniac and then he got in over his head. Maybe a prison gang. The Dirty White Boys or those Aryan Nation assholes. Whoever it was had some reason to come after him when they got out. And they were getting close. That’s why Swallow was suddenly so antsy to leave town.”

  Linda shook her head. “It still sounds like a stretch. But let’s say you’re right. How can you possibly find them?”

  “I’ll talk to Frank tomorrow. He’s got friends who work in the system. Maybe he can turn up something for me.”

  “You’re really going after this. Seeing her dead must have gotten to you.”

  “Maybe.” He looked down at his wineglass again. “But it’s more than that. This seems like one huge loose end just hanging out there. It’s driving me nuts. Besides, I haven’t gone through half the money Carol gave me. What I’m doing now is just finishing up the job.” He leaned back and studied her. “Old Carol was a wacko right up to the end. I almost feel sorry for her.”

  “Almost?”

  “Well, she did want to kill me.” He paused and shifted toward her. “Plus you should have seen how she acted last week. The night Cullen got his armpit blown up. We were in the loft and all of a sudden she came on to me. Made a real heavy pass. I told her to forget it and she turned real mean, real fast. She even sort of threatened me, although I didn’t think much of it at the time. Then she informed me that there’s no statute of limitations on my infidelity. Carol could be so vicious, and she never forgot. But it’s the way she could shift gears so fast that was really scary. One minute hot as a grill and the next minute ready to pounce.”

  Linda leaned toward him, too. “So you told her no. Why was that?”

  “Probably because I didn’t want to spend half the night digging her hand out of the disposal and feeling responsible for it.”

  She smiled. “Why not just admit you didn’t want her because you’re crazy about me?” Her eyes got that dreamy look he remembered from their first time together.

  “Speaking of shifting gears, what prompted that?”

  Linda lowered her voice. “I don’t know, cowboy. Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s that herringbone sports jacket.” She shrugged. “Probably not the jacket. But maybe it’s those double-wide shoulders of yours. Whatever it is, all of a sudden I’m not very hungry. For food, anyhow.”

  “I thought you said I was trouble.”

  “I did and you are.” She sipped her wine. “But it’s Saturday night and I’m in the mood for a little trouble. I’ve been such a good girl all week.”

  Streeter thought he’d pass out. Instead, he reached for her hand. “So let’s finish this Cabernet and then you can give me that tour of your place.”

  He didn’t remember much about Linda’s house other than that it was done heavily in antiques and that she was out of orange juice for breakfast. Most of the night they just stayed in her bedroom and made intense trouble for each other.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Driving home the day after sleeping with a woman for the first time always made Streeter feel kind of sad. Sure, there was a giddiness to it, particularly with someone as exciting as Linda. But there also was a sense of loss he couldn’t shake. Anxiety, too. He figured that came from expectations they each might have over what would come next. The feeling of loss was more perplexing. As he headed north on Downing that Sunday, his best theory was that a slice of mystery was gone forever. There’s only one first time. The excitement he felt as Linda undressed the night before. Initially touching her in all those warm little places. Enjoying her pleasure. He hoped they’d be together again, but it would never be quite the same. Did they do it too soon? Did she get as much pleasure? He wondered if Linda was going through the same emotional drill back at her place.

  The other thing he felt was tired, and there was no mystery to that. They’d slept a total of maybe five of the twelve-plus hours they’d spent in bed. When he got back to the church, he practiced his piano for a long time. The routine of methodically tapping the keys comforted him. Then he had dinner, read some, and went to bed. He wanted to pump iron but he was too beat for that. Frank was playing cards and wouldn’t get home until late. It wasn’t until almost noon Monday that Streeter saw him again.

  “Well, well,” the bondsman said. He was sitting behind his desk when his partner walked in. “I take it you and your shrink hit it off pretty good the other night. You still weren’t home when I left yesterday afternoon.
Didja get lucky?”

  “We both did, but let’s not make a locker-room joke out of it, okay?”

  He nodded. “I didn’t mean anything by that crack. You must really like this lady.”

  “Yeah, I do.” He sat down and put his feet on the desk. “She and I have real possibilities together. We’ll see what happens.” He was silent for a moment. “I just got off the phone with Carey. Seems that Carol swallowed her tongue and suffocated. They placed the time of death at about two o’clock Wednesday afternoon. They’re looking at first-degree murder, first-degree burglary, and kidnapping. He said they’re convinced it’s the same prowler who did the other break-ins.” He paused. “Swallowed her own damned tongue,” he repeated, shaking his head.

  Frank shrugged. “I’ve heard of that happening. Look, Irwin always was a talker. You know what they say. Live by the tongue, die by the tongue.”

  “Jesus, that’s pretty cynical. No one says that.”

  “Carol was bad news all the way, so pardon me if I’m not too broken up. Get down with characters like Kevin and you gotta take whatever comes your way. She was a grown-up and she should have known that.”

  “I suppose, but she must have been scared shitless that day.”

  “No doubt. You having any luck finding the perp?”

  Streeter filled Frank in on what he’d discovered. “Right now I’m looking toward Cañon City,” he said when he’d finished. “That’s where you come in.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Didn’t you have an old pal who worked for the Department of Corrections? Someone you knew from your days at the Sheriff’s Department?”

  “Mitch. From Korea. Seems like he was at DOC for most of this century, but he’s retired now. You know him, too. He’s the one you served the papers for a couple weeks ago. Remember? Aunt Clara and her problem with that butt-head contractor.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Sure, I remember. Then he owes us one. Can you hook me up with him? I’ll pay for his troubles.”

  “Won’t hurt to call. Hell, you buy Mitch a case of bourbon and he’ll find the perp himself. I have to go downtown now, but I’ll get to him later. He’ll probably want to talk to you directly.”

  Shortly after seven that night, Frank yelled up to the loft for Streeter to come down and take a call. “It’s Mitch,” he explained as he handed the receiver to him in the office. “I told him what you need and it sounds like he’ll give you a hand.”

  Streeter dropped into Frank’s chair. “Hey, Mitch. How you doing?”

  “Still able to sit up and take in solid food, thank you. Dazzler tells me you want a little information from the department.”

  “If you can do it. I need to know all about an ex-con named Kevin Swallow. He was down at Cañon from late ’91 to sometime in ’95. Who visited him, who he bunked with, and especially anyone he might have gotten tight with. He probably got in with one of those scumbag gangs like the Aryans or the White Boys. And I need it pretty fast.”

  “Swallow was the guy you shot last week, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I read about it.” Mitch paused. “It’ll take some doing, but I know a lot of the guys down there. Guards and everyone else. There should be a record of his visitors, but it’ll be tough finding out who he hung with. It’d help if I could buy some of the boys a beer or two.”

  “Whatever it takes. And buy a few for yourself while you’re at it.”

  “Give me a couple of days and I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  It was about the same time Wednesday night that Mitch called back.

  “I got most of what you want and I think I can save you a trip down there,” he told Streeter. “Talked to half the people I ever worked with and I found this one ex-guard who was there all the while Swallow was. He’s moved up to Denver. I talked to him this afternoon and told him what you’re after. He said he might sit down with you but I gather it’ll take a little grease to get him going. His name’s Cal Bosco. All of maybe twenty-five and he looks like he’s just out of high school. Lives over on South Broadway, sort of above one of those dump bars down there just south of First. His number’s 555-3781. He was fired a few months ago for fighting with another guard. Again. Guy’s a real pain in the ass at times. Thinks he’s Chuck Norris. Worked at the Colorado State Penitentiary—that’s where your boy was held—the whole time, and, believe it or not, you can generally take what he says to the bank.

  “Regarding visitors, Swallow didn’t have any except for a lady named Kelly Spears. But not too often. Other than her, no one. No family, no friends. Now, as to who he hung out with, the way I hear it, the man was a total loner. No gang involvement. Hell, he barely even talked to his cellmate. And the funny thing is, people left him alone. Usually a first-timer like that has to make a lot of serious friends or he’s getting the shit kicked out of him every couple of days. But Swallow just skated through like he was on a weekend retreat.”

  “The cellmate still down there?” Streeter asked, frowning.

  “Only for about the next couple of lifetimes. The state pen is maximum-security, and Swallow’s bunk partner did the Hat Trick. Triple homicide. Anyhow, talk to Cal. He’ll steer you right if you’re willing to pay.”

  “Thanks, Mitch. How many drinks do I owe you for?”

  “The boys were pretty thirsty. Send me four hundred bucks and it should about cover everything. That sound all right?”

  “No problem. Frank’ll get it to you.”

  “Figure something like that for Bosco, too, but it should be worth it. And, Streeter, thanks for nailing Hinckley. Clara sends her best, too.”

  Streeter went up to the loft and changed into his workout clothes. When he got to his basement gym, he started doing push-ups to warm up. He wondered about Kelly Spears. If there was such a person or if that was Irwin under a different name. It seemed strange that Swallow had a girlfriend other than Carol. When Streeter finished lifting, about an hour later, he went to Frank’s office and grabbed the phone book. There was no Kelly Spears listed in Denver. He decided to hit the Department of Motor Vehicles first thing in the morning. If Kelly existed and she lived in Colorado, she’d have a driver’s license and DMV would give her address.

  The next day started out badly. There was no record of a Kelly Spears with the Colorado DMV. That didn’t help Streeter’s mood as he drove to South Broadway. He decided to visit Cal rather than call. Experience had taught him that people find it harder to refuse to talk in person. Hanging up the phone is easy.

  South Broadway is a major north–south artery, and in the area where he parked, near First, many of the old storefronts were being refurbished. But the neighborhood was still funky, and there were plenty of down-and-outers living there. Streeter started checking mail slots in all the first-floor doorways on the east side of the street. On the second block toward the south, he found one for A. H. Bosco. Number 211. Cal lived directly above a used-furniture store, which was next to the dive bar Mitch had mentioned.

  The place smelled like an old attic as Streeter walked up the stairs. He found 211 and stood listening for a moment. No noise came from inside, so he pounded twice. Almost immediately the door swung open, and there stood Mr. Bosco. In green Army-surplus fatigues, he had the soft, cherubic features of a teenager. That effect was not what Cal intended. Clearly, he was going for bad. Wearing a scowl and sporting a weak goatee, he was a young man who wanted to be taken seriously and seldom was. Streeter could picture this guy fighting his co-workers. Bosco said nothing, but just studied the visitor. His face was framed with longish black hair and fuzzy sideburns. Pushing at his bangs, he clenched his jaw.

  “My name’s Streeter. Mitch called you about me. He said you’d be willing to talk about Kevin Swallow.”

  Bosco stepped out of his apartment and glanced up and down the hall. Then he looked back at Streeter. “Might be.” His tone was stern and clipped, but too high to have any bite. “But time is money. I’m not running a fucking charity here.” Coming from th
at voice and face, cursing sounded hopelessly out of place.

  “Let’s go get us some coffee and work it out,” Streeter said. “I’ll make good.”

  Cal nodded. “Caffeine’s for pussies. We’ll just go talk.”

  “Lead the way.”

  Bosco closed the door behind him without looking back. When they got outside, the October sun was warm. Indian-summer sun. They walked in silence. After a few blocks, Cal nodded to a bus-stop bench. When they sat down, he pulled a crumpled pack of Pall Malls from his pants and lit one.

  “Look, Mr. One-Name, Mitch told me why you’re here. So let’s cut to it and get down to business.” He sounded like he was reading from a bad script. “I think I can help you, but my life’s been all fucked up lately, so this ain’t gonna be a one-way street. I figure that three hundred bucks makes it two-way.”

  Streeter almost laughed, but he didn’t want to offend Cal. “How do I know you can help me that much?”

  Bosco rolled his eyes and took a drag from his Pall Mall. “No outsmarting you, huh, Einstein? Tell you what, give me half, I’ll lay it out for you, and then you decide if it’s worth the other half. Mitch said you’re not a complete asshole.”

  Streeter reached into his pants pocket and pulled out three fifties from a roll. He handed them to Bosco. “Fire away, and I’ll add a little extra if it’s real interesting.” He’d learned long ago that it’s more important to make an informant feel good than to save a few bucks.

  “That’ll work,” Cal said, stuffing the cash into his shirt pocket. “I’ll make it fast. Swallow was in my cellblock for almost two years. He was one crazy motherfucker, but in that loony bin, he didn’t scare anyone. And it always surprised me that he could stay out of trouble without warming up to the other cons.”