Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  Story just nodded. Since their discussion the day before, neither of them wanted to think much about possible danger. Streeter was concerned for Frank and Story. Their food came, and they set it out on the dining-room table and dug in. Streeter was famished and Story wasn’t far behind, so they ate in near silence. When they were done eating, he started nosing into her past.

  “Were you always interested in advertising, Story?”

  “Always. Even in high school back in Omaha, I knew I wanted to run an ad agency somewhere. In a good-sized city. Then my family came out here for a vacation when I was a junior and I knew I wanted my agency to be here. I’ve never doubted my decision and I’ve never looked back.”

  “You’re pretty headstrong.”

  “I believe if there’s something you want you should go for it with all you’ve got. And if there’s something in your life that doesn’t contribute to that goal or holds you back, you get rid of it. No questions asked. Doug was the one sad exception to that rule. There’s only one thing I want out of life. Everything. That may sound spoiled, but that’s how I feel.”

  “You’re right. It sounds spoiled. But at least you know what you want.”

  “And what do you want, Streeter?”

  “I want to be left alone to do my own life my own way and never have to kiss anyone’s ass. I want to know where I stand with people. I want the Broncos back in the Super Bowl, but I want them to win it this time. I want to know who’s going to cover the spread for every college football game this fall. I want good food and I want good friends. And when I think about you in your little squash outfit that day, sometimes I even think I want you.”

  “You think you want me, but you’re not sure.”

  “Not at all sure, is right. You make me nervous. For one thing, you’re incredibly materialistic. Money-hungry, one might say.” He was enjoying himself. Plain to see Story wasn’t used to being spoken to like this. “Also, your whole relationship with Doug was pretty bizarre. You two never really connected. Physically or emotionally. Plus, you don’t level with me. You’re ‘somewhat less than totally candid’ way too often. If I can’t trust you in our little working agreement, how could I trust you as a lover?”

  “Oh yeah? And what fun is it if you trust your lover?”

  “That seems terribly sophisticated, but I’m not sure I know what it means. I know I don’t like the sound of it.”

  “About that second thing, I told you how little Doug and I had going for each other. He wasn’t much for any kind of contact with me. Emotionally he was quite immature, and physically, let’s just say he was self-conscious. Doug was about as well hung as a field mouse, if you get my drift.”

  Streeter grinned and raised his eyebrows, nodding slightly. “I thought organ size wasn’t supposed to matter to you women.”

  “Right. And we women don’t care about a man’s income, either. Is that what you guys tell each other in the locker room to feel more adequate?”

  “I don’t usually have to tell myself anything to feel a hell of a lot more than just adequate.” He leaned back in his chair. The conversation definitely was drifting into a dangerous area, but he was feeling warm and getting excited. He flashed on how it would be nice to kiss Story right then. “Our discussion’s taken an interesting turn here. You want to keep going with it?”

  The topic was making her nervous and moderately aroused, two feelings she didn’t often experience. She was afraid of blushing, so she shifted back to his earlier comments. “You think I’m money-hungry, superficial, and dishonest. You make me sound terrific.” Story stood up and started fussing with the empty food containers.

  “Actually, you make yourself seem terrific. I just make you sound real.”

  “I certainly doubt if I come across as pompous as you do.”

  “Believe me, you have that ability. Look, I don’t want to start a fight, but you asked. I’m just trying to be honest.”

  She put down the food containers and smiled. “You’re a real character, you know that? Mr. ‘I Gotta Be Me.’ That kind of crap’s usually just a cover-up for being a loser. Not that Streeter—so much more than adequate as he may be—is a loser. Besides, regarding your crack about maybe wanting me, it’s not really your call, is it?”

  “Usually it’s best if those decisions are mutual.”

  “I suppose. But for now, I have to get some sleep. I think we’re through with our business for tonight, anyway. I’ve got a staff meeting scheduled for first thing in the morning and I’ll need some sleep.”

  Streeter nodded, a vague trace of a smile on his face. “A Saturday staff meeting. You never let up, do you?”

  On the way home, he felt wired and strangely anxious. He had hoped there would be more useful information in Doug’s things. Also, he wondered if Story had shown him everything or if she was still holding back. Despite his attraction to her, he couldn’t shake his doubts about her. Her bullheadedness troubled him. And what was that I-want-it-all crap? She sounded like a bad Volvo commercial.

  When he got home he picked up his phone to check his voice mail. He had one call, a call that would change his mood for a long time. Actually, it would change his life.

  “Streeter, it’s me.” It was Darcy McLean. She was sobbing. “Bill’s in the hospital. He’s hurt awfully bad. Someone beat him. Please call whenever you get in. I mean, I’m at Swedish Hospital. Please come.”

  He played it over several times, hoping it would change. When the message finally sank in, he froze for a minute, nauseous. He went to the bathroom, but nothing would come up. Then he got in his car and drove to the hospital.

  SIXTEEN

  William Mclean was still unconscious when Streeter got to the hospital. He had suffered a severe concussion along with several broken ribs and numerous broken facial bones. His left arm, particularly at the elbow, was badly mangled. The doctors didn’t know the full extent of his internal bleeding. He was in serious but stable condition, and word was that he would live. No one could tell if there would be any permanent brain damage, but, because of his age, the sooner he regained consciousness, the better.

  Darcy was waiting in a television room down the hall from intensive care when Streeter arrived, shortly before three o’clock. She was so pale and tired that he barely recognized her. Stacy, her sister, was with her, and there were two cups of cold coffee sitting on the table coagulating silently in front of them. The television was off, and it seemed so quiet, like the entire hospital was empty. Streeter noticed that the two women didn’t look like sisters. Darcy had dark features, ink-black hair streaked modestly with handsome gray, and lively hazel eyes. Her sister had washed-out, brown features and light hair that approached being blonde. The only common threads in their appearance were their height—both about five feet six inches—and their clothes: khaki shorts, sandals, and white polo shirts.

  Stacy left to get fresh coffee.

  “What happened, Darce?” Streeter asked. “Is he going to be all right?”

  She looked up and smiled, but it barely creased the pain and fatigue in her face. “He’s going to live, but they’re not sure how he’s going to come out of it.”

  Streeter stood there for a minute with his mouth open, vaguely aware of how foolish he must look. That was the best he was able to do: he couldn’t focus his thoughts clearly. Finally, he mustered up a weak, “How’re you doing?”

  Darcy shook her head cautiously, as if it was fragile. “I’m sick to my stomach. My God, I was so scared. When they first called me it sounded like he was dying. I can’t even imagine that. I got here about ten last night, while he was still in surgery. This is nothing but pure torture.”

  “What the hell happened?” Streeter sounded hoarse, as if he had just woken up.

  “Somebody beat him. The police don’t know who it is yet. They used bats or sticks or something. Can you believe that? It was still light outside. It must have happened last night, about six or so. It’s all such a big mess that nobody knows for sure. To be
honest, I didn’t understand half of what the police told me. I was too upset. I felt like one of those hysterical bimbos from daytime TV. I just kept picturing Bill getting beaten. Maybe dying.”

  “It’s going to be okay, Darce.” He sat next to her and put his arm around her shoulder. Despite her fear, she felt solid and wasn’t trembling. “Tell me what you can.”

  Stacy got back just then with the fresh coffee and gave a cup to each of them. “I ran into the floor nurse out there and she told me they don’t expect any change for tonight,” she said as she stood next to the couch looking down at them. “Are you going to stay here, Darcy? I’ll stay with you.”

  Darcy stared at her for a long time, as though she had difficulty understanding what her sister said. Finally, she nodded. Then she looked back at Streeter. She took a sip of her coffee, and that gave her a boost.

  “The officers said they found him down on South Santa Fe, behind one of those little sleazy hotels.”

  “What was he doing down there?”

  “He was supposed to meet a client. Bill got a call about four, maybe four-thirty. It was from a brother of this man he represented last summer in a really bitter custody fight. The brother called and said the man got picked up for stealing—shoplifting, actually—and he’s supposed to get bailed out of jail pretty soon. He asked if Billy would meet the both of them at his motel in a couple of hours, because the guy needed legal help. He pleaded, so Bill went. It turned out that the motel was closed and it was all a trap. Obviously.”

  She took another sip of her coffee and was quiet. Streeter felt a growing sense of guilt, and he couldn’t understand why. Darcy’s voice brought him back.

  “What kind of animal would do this? Tell me, Streeter. You know all of these low-lifes.”

  “Thanks a lot.” He thought of the most logical answer, but when he said it he didn’t sound too convincing. “It could have been someone he put away back when he was the DA. Bill nailed a lot of sickos and made more than his share of enemies. Most likely this is a revenge deal. Some jailhouse brainstorm.”

  Darcy nodded solemnly, as if that made a great deal of sense, and then looked straight ahead. “I hope they catch the bastard and fry him.” Suddenly she looked back up at him. “There’s not much you can do here. Stacy’ll stay with me. But I’d like you to do something for me over the weekend.”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  “Talk to the cops. I want to know everything they know, and I want to know it right away. Ride them hard, Streeter. I want to keep the pressure on to find this guy. Will you do that?”

  “Sure. But I’ll hang around here tonight. I can’t sleep anyway.”

  Streeter didn’t eat again until late Saturday afternoon. By mid-morning, he started smoking cigarettes. He hadn’t smoked more than a couple of packs in the past ten years, but now it was steady Camels, no filters. Pure, high-octane self-punishment. He couldn’t shake that guilty feeling. The only thing that made him feel better was hounding the police. McLean regained a shaky consciousness shortly before noon. For the rest of the day he didn’t know where he was or much of what happened, but the worst was over. When he heard that, Streeter called Story and filled her in on the beating.

  “Thank God he’s not going to die,” she said, obviously shaken. “This is terrible. You don’t think it had anything to do with my suit against Cooper?”

  “Could be. Like I told you, I don’t believe in coincidences. I’m going to check around, and I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “When you talk to Bill, give him my love. I’d like to come to the hospital and visit him. Do you think that would be all right?”

  “There’s a lot of family there today and he’s not really thinking too clearly yet,” he told her. “Maybe you better wait a day or two, until things settle down.”

  In the early afternoon, Streeter drove to police headquarters, across the street from the Denver Mint. He went to the assaults division and talked to the sergeant heading the investigation. Because of McLean’s high-profile DA career, his beating drew media coverage as well as a high priority with the police. Sergeant Stan Haney, a rubber-faced veteran with an obvious fashion impairment, told the bounty hunter that the beating looked like the work of at least two people.

  “The doctors took wood splinters from Bill’s skin,” Haney said, his voice raspy from years of cigarette smoking. Although he was fifty, he still had the squat, stocky build of an old-time football player. A leather-helmet kind of guy. He was wearing a loud sport coat and a wide tie that indicated he hadn’t been to a clothes store in well over a decade. “They found two different types of wood. One came from a baseball bat. The other was from a piece of raw oak. There was a deep cut on his right side, too. Looked like some sort of weird knife. They worked him over pretty hard, but I don’t think they wanted to kill him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, for one thing, he was obviously still alive when they stopped. If they meant to kill him, they were pretty sloppy. He crawled about a hundred yards from where he was beaten. And it wasn’t no robbery, either. They left his wallet and they didn’t even bother to go through the car. We figure probably some assholes he sent down to Cañon City who wanted a little payback. Prison-style bullshit.”

  “Who found him?”

  “Some guy that lives next to the motel. Checked out okay. He was working at the time it happened. When we found him, he was scared shitless, too.”

  “Did they leave anything at the scene that’ll help you out?”

  “Not much. We found tracks back there that look like they’re from a big car. We’re checking that out now. The weapons weren’t there and, believe me, we scoured the whole place looking for them.” Then Haney glanced off, smiling. “I think maybe Bill got in a lick or two himself.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The doc told us the knuckles on Bill’s right hand were badly bruised. One of them was broken. My guess is, he got a couple a punches in.”

  Streeter smiled. McLean boxed at Northwestern as an undergraduate. “I’m sure that whoever did this didn’t expect the job to be quite as tough as it ended up. Anything else?”

  “Nothing really.” Haney paused. “We’re doing all we can. Bill McLean has a lot of friends on the department. Give me a holler if you need anything else, and tell his missus we’re all pulling for him.”

  When he got back to the church at about eight that night, Streeter went to Frank’s apartment to kick around some ideas. The bondsman, who had known McLean longer than Streeter had, was badly shaken by the news. He looked terribly old and almost lost in his thick terry-cloth bathrobe. Frank had seen enough violence in his life to fill a Clint Eastwood film festival and he was sick to death of it.

  “Jesus, big guy. I don’t know what it’s all coming to anymore.” Frank grabbed a half-full bottle of Johnny Walker Red from the counter in the kitchen and then nodded for his partner to follow him to his office. That’s where the two did most of their drinking together. When they sat down at his desk, Frank poured two tall ones—neat—and proposed a toast.

  “To Wild Bill McLean.” The bondsman held out his glass for a second and then took a long pull on the Scotch.

  “To William.” Streeter nodded and took a small sip. He noticed that he still was wearing the same jeans and T-shirt from the night before at Story’s. Suddenly he felt grimy and wanted to take a shower. “This has got me thinking, Frank. That gunfire last week, and now this. Between Cooper and whatever cop is running around out there, I can’t believe this attack was a con that McLean put away in the old days. I’ve got to believe it was tied in with Doug Shelton and that whole crew.”

  “You’re probably right. But, hell, Bill won’t be blaming you. That’s not his style and he knew what he was getting into when he took on Cooper.”

  “That may be true, but I’ve got to put an end to all this junk. It’s getting way out of hand. Shootings, beatings, vandalism.” He lit another Camel and then crus
hed it out almost immediately. “I just met Carey for a few hoists down at Nalen’s. He did some checking today and found out that Kovacs, the cop I think’s behind this, was at a seminar Friday afternoon until way after six. Then he went to dinner with some of the boys. He couldn’t have done Bill.”

  “He could have gotten some other cop to do it for him.”

  “Yeah, but then you have a conspiracy. A police conspiracy, no less. That’s not likely. Plus, that court hearing was just the day before, and Bill kicked the shit out of Cooper. He might want some quick revenge while he’s still hurting.”

  “That makes sense. You find out where Cooper was last night?” Frank held up the bottle to see if Streeter wanted more.

  Streeter shook his head. “Cooper didn’t do this himself. Carey told me about a guy that works for Cooper. The guy’s name is Psycho or something nutty like that. There was talk that Cooper sent him to slit the throat of a witness not long ago. Bill was cut by a knife, too. This nut has a sidekick, and I was told there were two people who beat Bill. Then there were all those hang-up calls last night. That sounds too chicken-shit for a cop but, who knows, a couple of these jerks that Cooper would hire might think it’s pretty clever.”

  “Sounds very possible. Did you discuss all this with Carey?”

  “Yeah, we ran over all the options together. For all we know, Cooper and half the police department are in on it together. I’m not sure why a cop would hassle Story or why someone shot at us. And I’m not sure why Bill’s in the hospital. Neither is Carey. I tell you, Frank, this makes my little bail jumpers look halfway decent. Very sane and simple. All I know is, I have to do something. I have to talk to all these jerks and see what I can shake out of them. This Psycho and his playmate for starters. Carey said this was a message to Bill. There’s been more messages flying around here than at a damned Western Union convention. Maybe it’s time I start sending some messages of my own.”