Otis took a slip of paper and pen from his shirt pocket, wrote the phone number on it, and handed it to his guest. “Mind if I get yours?”
Streeter stared at him. Weeks’ eyes seemed more focused now. Those eyes were state-trained. They could stare at a wall for days without blinking. And there was more going on behind them than Streeter first thought. Otis had spent all those years dealing with the worst criminal waste the state of Colorado could produce. Even though it broke the man down, he still had a brain behind those eyes. A scared, wet brain, but it still functioned. “I’ll give you a holler by Sunday if I’m interested,” Streeter finally answered. “Let’s leave it at that.”
He got up and left. Walking down the driveway, the bounty hunter thought how he’d want to do a background check on both of the Weekses. Also, he wondered how he could get in to search the house.
Otis stood on the porch, casually scratching at a spot next to his fly. Then he stepped back into the living room, grabbed the rifle scope from a shelf near the door, walked out onto the porch again, and focused on the Buick just as it started up. He’d memorized the license plate before it was gone. One thing was dead solid certain, Weeks reasoned. Bill Swallow was totally full of shit.
THIRTY
“You wouldn’t believe those two coconuts down there, Frank,” Streeter said on Saturday afternoon. They were at a table in Pint’s Pub, a British-style saloon on 13th Avenue, near Bail Bonds Row and the downtown police station. “Mr. Weeks has put together one hell of a life for himself. Both he and his mother. They bounce around that house like a pair of sick water buffaloes. Weeks was half demolished on booze, and the old lady looked like the queen of a trailer park on Mars. When I said my last name was Swallow, he almost lost his lunch. It really hit home. He’s the man I’m after. Has to be.”
Frank put down his Guinness and thought. “I talked to Mitch about him last night, and he said Weeks is pure trouble. He worked for DOC for thirty years plus and not one promotion. Sadistic, too. But you don’t have any proof hooking him up to Carol.”
Streeter nodded. “Carey told me Thursday that they didn’t find any fresh prints at Carol’s apartment. I assume Weeks’d be sharp enough to wear gloves, but it would have been nice to connect him that way. The cops are even more sure it’s the same guy that pulled the other Capitol Hill burglaries.”
“Not good for your theory. You better go get a little hard evidence. All you have now is speculation and a schmuck with a piano for sale who used to know Swallow. You’re not gonna impress the DA with that.”
“I have to get into that house and look around. If Weeks did Carol’s burglary, what he took could be in there. But he won’t keep it forever, and getting in is going to be next to impossible. I bet that old lady hasn’t left in years, and Otis doesn’t look like he gets out much, either.”
“You sure you’re right about Weeks?” Frank asked.
“Not a hundred percent, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone else. Otis had some strong connection to Kevin in prison. Based on how Swallow skated through, I think Weeks protected him. My hunch is he was promised money for his troubles. What probably happened is that they short-changed Weeks once Swallow got out.”
“Maybe. But it shouldn’t have been too hard for this guard to drive to Denver, pick up a phone book, and get Irwin’s address. Why didn’t he go after her right from the start? I can see Swallow being hard to find, but Carol shoulda been a snap.”
“I wish I had a good answer for you. That’s why I’ve got to get into his place and see what I can turn. Either that or tail him, which could take forever. But I know I’m on the right track here. There just isn’t any other track to be on.”
They sat drinking in silence for a moment. Then Frank spoke. “There might be another way to shake something loose. Two places you haven’t looked yet that I would definitely be interested in.”
“Where?”
“Carol’s apartment and her office.”
Streeter sat up. “Of course. Well, not the office. It’s too late for that. I already tried. I went by there early on Friday and talked to the guy who owns the building. He had her files and personal stuff moved to her apartment the day after she died. The furniture stayed, because he owned it, and he’s already re-renting the office. But her apartment’s another matter. Carey told me that Carol’s sister came out, but she only spent a couple of minutes in there. She was more concerned with shipping the body back to Chicago. The sister left right away for the funeral. She’ll be coming back in a couple of weeks to clean the apartment, Carey said. Who knows what’s tucked away in there? I’d sure like a shot at it.”
“Any chance you can get inside?” Frank asked.
“That’ll be tough. It’s still a sealed crime scene. Haney won’t let me near the place, and Carey always goes by the book. No way he’s going to lose his job for me.” Streeter thought for a moment. “Look, I have to go meet Linda down at her place. She was at some psychologists’ conference in L.A. all week, and I haven’t seen her since our little tryst last Saturday. We’ve barely talked since then.” He stood up. “You get any brilliant ideas on how to get into that apartment, let me know.”
Driving to Linda’s, Streeter wondered what kind of reception he’d get. She’d sounded distracted when she’d called him the night before. Especially when he told her about how his investigation was going. But he was excited to see her. That feeling melted when she met him at the door.
“Hello,” she said. “It’s been a while.” Linda opened her arms for him to hug her, but there was no passion in either her words or her embrace.
Streeter pulled back and studied her. “Not even a little kiss? I guess absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder.”
Linda threw him a quick smile, and gave him an empty kiss. “I missed you a lot, Street. It’s just that I don’t know why.” She walked him into the living room. “That’s what bothers me. I don’t know what to make of us. I sure don’t know what to make of you.”
“Uh-oh. Sounds like we’re going to have one of those ‘our-night-together-was-great-but’ conversations,” he said.
“Something like that. Let’s have a beer and talk about it.”
Linda went to the kitchen and brought back two Heinekens. She gave one of the green bottles to Streeter and they sat on the couch. Her dark-gray business clothes suited the mood.
“What’s going on, Linda? Maybe you didn’t fall in love last Saturday, but something happened. You sure seemed to enjoy yourself.”
“Enjoyment has nothing to do with it, Street. That night was wonderful. But I’ve had a lot of time to think about it and I’m not sure it was such a good idea. I’m not sure that we’re a good idea. Listen, I could really go off the deep end for a man like you. But where would I land? In Fort God? Look at you, Street. Your life. Chasing degenerates all day. You live in a bunker with…I don’t know. How would you describe Frank? And people have a nasty habit of dropping dead when you’re around. You told me yourself that you don’t even like it anymore. Then along comes a Carol Irwin case and you get caught up like a child playing cops and robbers.” She paused and shook her head. “There just doesn’t seem to be much a future in any of it. And that’s not to mention your history with women. All those disastrous relationships. The women you select, for God’s sake. I can’t see how I’d fit in, and I’m getting too old for dead-end streets. Pardon the pun.”
He took a sip of beer. “That’s not a very flattering summary of my life. Accurate, but not flattering. Look, I don’t think either of us has to go off the high dive right away. We might have rushed things a little, but we’re consenting adults and we can slow down. As for my career, I’ve been wrestling with that one myself. The more I get into it, the more I do things that don’t leave me feeling good. Everything’s about lying lately. About pretense. There’s a great euphemism for you. Seems I can’t just knock on the front door anymore and be square with people. That bothers me. And Irwin’s case brings out the worst in what
I do, with the worst kind of people. Like this jerk I talked to yesterday in Monument. You think my life’s going nowhere.”
“I didn’t say that, Street. I just said I’m not sure where you’re headed.”
“Whatever. Carol’s death has made me look long and hard at me. Particularly the decisions I’ve made with women and work. I’m not apologizing to anyone, but maybe what I do is a young man’s game.” He looked closely at her. “Still, I can’t just walk away. Not from Frank and not from the business. To be honest, I have no idea where I’d go. Punch a clock for some corporation? Back to school? I’m too old to take instructions and pass tests. I’ll keep examining it, but so far this is what I am.” He set his beer down. “Linda, I like you a lot, but if how I live makes you that uncomfortable, maybe we ought to call it quits.”
“I don’t know what to do, Street. Right now, I’m just tired of thinking about it.”
“Then don’t. Let’s go get dinner. Better yet, let’s stay in and I’ll cook. Now, there’s a side of me you haven’t seen yet. And I’ll try not to talk shop, even though I’m wrestling with an incredible problem at the moment.”
She took a sip of beer. “Against my better judgment, I’ll ask. What problem?”
Streeter flashed a quick grin and his eyebrows shot up. “I’m at a dead end with Carol’s investigation. The police are off on a whole different tangent, and it looks like the guy I’m after’s going to get away. That Otis I told you about last night. I’m sure he’s the perp, but I can’t prove anything. If I could get into Carol’s apartment for a couple of hours, I might be able to find something to link her and Swallow to Otis.”
“Won’t the police let you in?”
He shook his head. “Even my best source wouldn’t bend the rules that far. And I can’t think of any other cops who would. There doesn’t seem to be anyone.” Suddenly, he jerked his head back. “Wait a minute! There is one guy who owes me big-time. My newest, bestest buddy with the DPD.” He turned to face her squarely. “Officer Jeff Barrows. He was out at my driveway the day of the explosion. Remember? I saved his ass, and he gave me his card when he got out of the hospital. Said if I ever needed anything to just page him.”
“What can he do?”
“I’m not sure, but I can’t imagine a landlord not letting a man in uniform into Carol’s apartment. There must be some end run he and I can cook up together.”
Linda stood up and shook her head. “Streeter, you’re hopeless! Positively fucking hopeless! You just get done whining about pretense work and how you want to go to the front door and be honest with people. Then you come up with this? From pretense to breaking and entering is not a step in the right direction. And all on some hunch that’s probably nothing but crap anyway. I don’t even want to hear what you’ve got in mind. For God’s sake, I have to work with the police.”
“It’s not breaking and entering.” His voice rose as he spoke. “We’re not going to break anything. We’re just going to enter.”
“And exactly what is that? Go on, put a name to it.”
“It’s…I’m not sure. It’s creative investigating.” His eyes widened a bit. “It’s networking! People do it all the time. You probably do, too.”
“Hopeless!” Linda started to move toward the front door. “Look, I don’t want any dinner. I just want to take a hot bath and then catch up on some reading and my sleep. You go and play Mission Impossible or whatever your little fantasy world’s called. I just don’t want to hear about it anymore.” She opened the door. “Goodbye, Street.”
He could see that she meant it, but he was too preoccupied to respond. “I’ll try to call you in a few days,” was the best he could manage as he left. By the time he got to his car, all he could think about was getting back to the church and paging Barrows.
THIRTY-ONE
It was in the mid-forties and overcast as they sat down on the front stoop a few minutes before noon. When he’d answered Streeter’s page the night before, Jeff Barrows had readily agreed to the meeting. But now, after hearing what the bounty hunter wanted, he wished he hadn’t.
“Come on, Streeter! You have any idea what Haney’d do to me if he ever finds out about this? He’d fire me, for starters. Then he’d personally kill me.” The two men were drinking coffee at the cop’s tiny house in West Denver, near Sloan’s Lake. “And I can’t imagine what they’d do to you. You’re looking at obstructing and criminal trespass, at the very least.”
“Will you relax?” Streeter countered. “There’s no way he’ll find out. Even if the building manager tells him that a cop stopped by to get into the apartment, the guy probably won’t remember your name. And you don’t actually have to go in. Just open the door, unlock it, and then split. I won’t leave any prints or disturb anything. No one’ll ever know what you did, Jeff.”
Barrows stared straight ahead, the cup in his hand dipping slightly. Even his huge shoulders sagged. He looked sad in his black turtleneck sweater. Finally, he shook his head. “I can’t, man. This would end my career. There’s no way we can be sure it won’t get back to the department. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”
Streeter glared at him. “This from the guy who said he’d do anything for me. I hesitate to remind you, but you owe me, Jeff. Actually, I don’t hesitate. You really owe me. Who saved your sorry, by-the-book life?” Then his voice softened. “But let’s put that aside for a minute. Think of Carol. She was a sick lady, but you cared about her, and her killer’s going to get away. Do it for her. For the justice of it.”
“Why don’t you just tell Carey or Haney to go look for whatever you think’s in there? Why all this spy business?”
“I talked to Carey on Friday and laid out my theory and why I’m after Weeks.” Streeter paused and blew on his coffee before taking a sip. “Robert, who actually likes and respects me, thinks I’m out to lunch on this one. Just imagine how Haney’d react. He thinks I’m full of shit under any circumstances. My gut instinct is that in some weird way Carey feels protective of Weeks. Otis was a peace officer for a lot of years, and Robert thinks of him as a kindred spirit. You know, the fraternal brotherhood of officers. At any rate, he’s not buying Weeks as the perp.”
Jeff winced like he had severe heartburn. “Then why not ask Carol’s family for permission? That’d probably get you in.”
“I thought of that last night, after we talked, so I called her sister Cathy in Chicago. It seems Carol bashed me pretty good to the family over the years. Cathy barely let me finish. She said I ruined Carol’s life and there’s no way she’d ever help me. You can just imagine how she reacted to my story about Carol being hooked up with Swallow. She called me a few incredibly disgusting names and hung up.” He shook his head. “Either you help or there’s no entry. No entry, no case against that peckerhead Weeks. The choice is yours.”
“Aw, hell, Streeter.” Barrows stood up as he spoke. “All right! All right! I’ll do it. But I’m not setting foot in there.” His face tightened. “I don’t think I could stand to see where she died. When did you want to go?”
“Today would be good. The manager lives right there, on the first floor. Go put on your uniform. When you talk to the guy, just get the key and say you have to check the place real quick. Then unlock it, leave it open a crack, and return the key. The whole thing’ll take you about two minutes. I’ll be waiting upstairs, and when you’re gone, I’ll go inside and see what’s what. When I leave, I’ll close the door behind me and make sure it’s locked. In and out, and no one’ll ever know.”
“Three things.” Barrows stared hard at Streeter. “First, this squares us. Forever! Second, you get caught in there, you don’t even know my name. Third, I don’t want to hear about what you find. I don’t want to know nothing.” He paused. “And good luck. I mean that.”
They went to Carol’s apartment during the first half of the Broncos–Raiders game. If you want to deal with anyone in this town while he’s totally distracted, that’s the best time. Sure enough, the elderly bu
ilding manager gave Barrows the key with hardly more than a glance. Jeff unlocked the door, signaled Streeter, and left. When he got inside, the bounty hunter quietly closed the door and got down to business.
Concerns about disrupting the place were unnecessary. Between the cops, the burglar, and Carol’s own horrendous housekeeping, it looked like a training room for WrestleMania. Streeter took a deep breath, pulled at the surgical gloves he wore, and began searching. After starting in the living room, he worked his way back through the dining area, the bathroom, the tiny kitchen, the spare bedroom, and finally Carol’s room. He checked under all the furniture, all the shelves, through all the books and knickknacks, in every drawer, every corner, every closet, all her files. It took him nearly two hours. Nothing. Not one indication that Carol knew Otis Weeks, or even that she kept in touch with Swallow after the trial. Streeter was depressed and anxious when he’d finished. Had he been wrong about Otis Weeks? Hell, had he been wrong about Kevin and Carol working together? For ten minutes he sat with those thoughts on her bare mattress and stared at the wall in front of him. Then he decided to go through the whole place again. Being that wrong was not an option.
Standing up and heading back toward the living room, he rubbed sweat from his forehead. He was soaked. As he moved down the hall, he thought of how the burglar must have gotten Carol’s expensive jewelry. She’d had a pearl necklace and two sets of diamond earrings that she’d cherished. They weren’t anywhere in the apartment, and he couldn’t imagine her selling them. Suddenly he stopped, recalling what she’d told him years ago: that she kept her most valuable jewelry wrapped in plastic and stuffed inside cereal boxes. No one who broke in would ever look there. Streeter was about to test that theory.
He went to the kitchen and grabbed the four boxes of cereal that were lying on their sides in the cupboard. On the first search, he’d paid little attention to them. Large boxes of Raisin Bran, Rice Chex, Froot Loops, and Cap’n Crunch. The Raisin Bran was still unopened, so he turned to the other three. In the Rice Chex, nothing. Then he hit pay dirt with the Froot Loops. Stuffed in the bottom of the half-full box was the plastic-wrapped jewelry. All three items, along with a petite gold watch. But the real treasure was inside Cap’n Crunch. Wrapped in clear plastic was a business card for StorageWorld with the number 341 scrawled on it in pencil. That and a key, presumably for locker 341. Streeter put both in his pocket, replaced the jewelry, and left the apartment.
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