Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  “Some days I’d say I’ve just been lucky, other days I’d say I’ve been unlucky. Being married always seemed like more work than it’s worth. Besides, if you don’t want kids, and that would be me, I can’t see any reason to get all tied up like that. You ever been hitched?”

  “Let’s just say that I’ve had my share of blood tests. You don’t want children?”

  Terry looked at the driver. “No thanks. Come from a childhood like mine, you’re not all that interested in repeating the whole family thing. Once in a lifetime’s enough.”

  Streeter nodded. “Amen to that.” He thought of his own childhood, growing up with an alcoholic father, but he said nothing further.

  Evergreen loomed ahead. It’s a fast-growing but funky unincorporated mountain village of a few thousand people surrounded by ever-encroaching custom-built homes. From the northeast, it was nondescript: generic strip malls surrounded by rolling hills freckled with houses. Like any suburb, only bumpy. But from the way they approached, the old part of town looked like something straight out of a TV Western. There was one street winding through town, with shops, restaurants, and taverns on both sides. Rustic, old Colorado. Mountain attitude from the locals, too. Willie Nelson used to have a spread near there, and people left him alone.

  They drove past the legendary Little Bear Saloon on the right and then took a left at the old town’s major intersection. The directions from the clerk at the assessor’s office put the Stewart place about three miles to the west.

  “You sure you did the right thing, not telling the police about this place?” Terry asked as they left town, heading into a narrow canyon. “Might be nice to arrest Swallow right this morning.”

  “True, but, based on the guy who told me about this, the chances of Kevin being here are slim. I want to chase down every lead, though.”

  “What’s the plan once we get there?”

  “I thought, if we can’t see anyone outside from the road, one of us’ll go in and do a pretense visit. You know, pretend to be looking for someone else or just asking directions. We have to make an ID on who’s in there. But if we’re real lucky, whoever’s home might be outside. I brought a camera with a long-range lens either way.”

  Terry shifted in his seat. “So just exactly which one of us you plan on sending in with the pretense? That might get more than a little risky.”

  “I know.” Streeter shot him a glance. “Which one of us do you think he’d be less likely to recognize?”

  “I never saw the guy myself, and I don’t think he ever saw me.”

  “Me either, but if Carol’s right about that bounty garbage in the poem, Swallow knows who I am and he might know what I look like.”

  “So you’re saying it’s me most likely to go in?” Terry asked.

  “We’ll decide when we get there. We can always flip a coin.”

  “Yes, sir, you got yourself a plan, all right.” Terry rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his fingers and stared straight ahead. “Must have been half the night putting it together, too.”

  They turned right off the paved highway onto a dirt road, as the clerk had told him to do. Then they weaved slowly on the clay and sparse gravel for a half-mile before angling to the left again, onto another dirt road, which was no more smooth.

  “Where the hell does this woman live, anyhow?” Terry asked, his hand gripping the dashboard. “We dealing with Grizzly Adams here?”

  “It should be just up here, two or three more houses on the left. Set back a ways. What the hell were you expecting? Mountain people like their privacy. Not everyone can be Brooks Towers material. I guarantee you one thing, if we have to get out in the woods, my white-trash clothes won’t look half bad.”

  Terry mumbled something and turned to look out his window. Then he said out loud, “How are we supposed to know which one is his? None of them seem to be numbered.”

  The houses sat on two- and three-acre lots. They were mostly A-frames or disoriented-looking triplexes built in the seventies. None were very well maintained, although they seemed to be holding up pretty well. The yards were wooded and otherwise overgrown with tall natural grasses and weeds.

  “The clerk told me it should be the fourth house on the left, once we turned onto Peak View Road,” Streeter explained. “Some of the mailboxes have names on them. Check those over there.” He nodded to three metal boxes on a wobbly, wooden T-frame on Terry’s side of the road. They were about fifty feet before the next driveway. Streeter slowed the Buick down. “Can you read any names?”

  “Not so fast,” Terry responded. They slowed even more and Nathan stuck his head outside the car. “Nothing, nothing, and S-T-E-something.” He pulled back inside and faced the driver. “That last one had to be Stewart.”

  Streeter nodded to his left. “Check it out when we go by.”

  The Stewart place was set off from the road about thirty yards. Its drive wound down to where the house was, a few feet below the actual road level. The lot was only dotted with aspens and scrawny pine trees, so they could see the front door from certain angles. Streeter crawled the Buick past the property. As he did, both men strained to see what they could. It took about half a minute to drive by the lot, and when they got a few hundred yards farther up the road, Streeter pulled over.

  “Didn’t see anyone outside,” Terry said while looking straight ahead. “Guess that means we go to the pretense part of your master plan.”

  “Not necessarily. Did you notice anything right out in front of the deck?”

  Terry turned to face him. “No car, if that’s what you mean. Any idea what he might be driving?”

  “Nothing in his name. I checked Motor Vehicles yesterday. Gina Gallo has a Ford van registered to her. No van out there, but I did see a motorcycle, and it looked like the gas tank was pulled off. My hunch is someone’s working on it. I thought I spotted some tools lying on the ground next to it.”

  “How the hell did you see all that so fast?”

  “It’s easy when you’re not wearing celebrity blackout shades. Damned Stevie Wonder had a better shot at seeing something than you did. I’ll park here and we’ll walk back to get a closer look. There’s plenty of trees over to the north for cover.”

  The two got out of the car and Streeter grabbed his camera from the back seat. He gave it to Terry. Then he took a pair of high-powered binoculars out as well and carried them himself. They walked about fifty yards on the dirt road and then turned off to their right, onto what appeared to be open land just to the north of the Stewart place. Tall prairie grass and pine needles stabbed Terry’s sandaled feet, but he didn’t complain. They made it to a stand of about forty tall aspens, which were close to the peak of their fall color. The leaves were such a bright orange it almost looked like the trees were on fire.

  “Gotta love those aspens,” Terry said as they squatted in the middle of the stand. The Stewart house was about forty yards to the south. “You were right about the bike. Looks like whoever it is plans to be working on it for a while.”

  They could hear the harsh sounds of rock music coming from a speaker set out on the front deck. An open bottle sat next to the speaker.

  Streeter looked through the glasses. “They like Dr Pepper and Stevie Ray Vaughan. I bet it’s Swallow. Stevie Ray was into all that hard-on blues they go for in prison. This could be your lucky day, Terry. You might not have to go in there after all.”

  They’d waited for about fifteen minutes when suddenly the front screen door swung open. A man who looked like the centerfold for Iron Horse magazine walked out. Bending down, he picked up his Dr Pepper, and he took a long swig. He was wearing oil-smeared blue jeans and one of those strapped white undershirts like Stallone wore in Rocky. It showcased his bloated muscles. He wore a full beard and a ratty baseball cap—backwards, of course. His dishwater-blond hair was pulled into a ponytail that was unraveling. Strands fell over both shoulders and he kept brushing them back. Unfortunately, he was wearing round, dark shades, like welder’s glasses,
that allowed no hint as to what his eyes looked like.

  “So that’s the guy who can kill you from the next state?” Terry whispered. “Man looks like he should be running a porno shop.”

  “You don’t have to be a GQ coverboy to throw poison on barbecued ribs,” the bounty hunter said quietly, adjusting his binoculars. “Those damned shades aren’t going to make this any easier. I’ll tell you one thing, from here he doesn’t look like the mug shot. Give me the camera.”

  Streeter set his binoculars on the ground and took the Canon. He held it to his face and focused, his mouth opening a bit. Then he began to click off pictures. He shot an entire roll of film. When he was finished, the two sat there for another half-hour to see if they could spot a woman who might be Gina. The biker spent most of that time kneeling next to his machine with his back to them. Finally, Streeter signaled that they should leave. As they walked back to the car they could see clouds rolling in from the west. It was just after twelve when they got to the Buick. They put the equipment in the back seat. As they did, a green 1989 Ford van drove past them, heading toward where they’d just been.

  Terry saw it first. “Turn away from the road.” Both men quickly faced the woods to their right, so that by the time the van got to them the driver couldn’t see their faces.

  “Think that was Gina?” Terry asked when the van had moved on.

  “Could be. Not much we can do about it now.”

  They got into the Buick. “Let’s get these to a one-hour Moto-Foto,” Streeter said as he turned the car around and headed south. “I want Carol to see them today.”

  Gina Gallo got out of the Ford and walked to Kevin, who stood up as she approached. She was wearing tight jeans and a sweatshirt, and she carried a six-pack of beer. “Kev, did you notice anyone snooping around here just a short while ago?” Her face was twisted in deep concern.

  Swallow frowned. “No. What do you mean?”

  “Well, sir, back on the road over there I just saw two guys putting stuff into a car. It was a big old American thing. And one of them was a colored dude dressed like a businessman. You don’t think someone knows about you being here and all.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t see how. Was either of them real fat and wearing thick glasses?”

  “No.” Gina put her right index finger into her mouth and started chewing the nail. “I wish this was all over. That’s what I wish. This hurting people is getting me down, Kev. I’m not so sure I want to be involved with it anymore.”

  “Oh, man, let’s not go over that again. I told you we’ll have this other guy out of the way soon. I planted that thing at his house last night and I gotta believe he’ll use it by today. Then we get to Irwin on Monday and it’s all over. Don’t worry, babe.” He frowned and his voice got a mean edge. “And what’s this ‘don’t want to be involved’ shit? Like it or not, Gina, you’re in up to your eyeballs.”

  “I just hope you’re right about everything. That deal you rigged last night to get the other PI, that’s neat and all, but what if it doesn’t work?”

  “It’ll work just fine. We’ll be done with everything by Monday.”

  “Good, ’cause all those hang-up calls we got yesterday make me nervous.”

  “Be cool.” He glared at her. Kevin had his own theory on who was calling them, but he wouldn’t share it with her. “Come Monday, all your worries’ll be over.”

  SIXTEEN

  The minute Laurie Cullen walked into her condo that Friday night, she knew someone had broken in. Instinctively, she reached into her purse, where she kept a tiny pearl-handled nine-millimeter. She looked around the living room. There was a trace of a musty odor in the air that she couldn’t quite place. When she got to the kitchen, she solved that riddle. A pile of plump ashes littered the white tile floor. That explained the fat cigar butt near her stoop. It also meant that whoever’d been there was gone, throwing it down on their way out. She let go of the nine. As she walked into the dining room, she saw the reason for the visit. In a shiny pool of water on the table sat a tall glass with a dozen roses in it. There was a note propped up on the container, although it was wilted where it had been splashed. Laurie easily recognized Brian’s handwriting. The man wrote like a ten-year-old riding in a cattle car.

  “How could I ever have accused you?” the note asked. That question was then answered with unintended clarity. “I must be nuts. Please forgive me.” As if to add an absurd hint of mystery, it wasn’t signed.

  “How’d that slob get in here?” Laurie asked out loud.

  She went and dialed Cullen’s home number, and left a message for him to call her. “Do it fast or I’ll have you picked up for breaking and entering,” she informed his machine. She also dialed her number into his pager. Then she made a quick survey of the rest of the condo. Nothing else was disturbed. There was no sign of a forced entry. Brian must have made a copy of her key last Christmas, when he kept an eye on the place while she went to Mexico.

  Within a few minutes, the phone rang. It was her ex, nearly gasping at the other end. “Laurie. I called as soon as I got the page.” He tried to put sincerity in his voice, but he sounded moderately drunk. “Did you get my little peace offering?”

  “I did.” She paused. “What the hell gives you the right to come in here when I’m not at home? I’ve got half a mind to call the cops.” Laurie could hear laughter and music over the line. “What bar are you at?”

  Brian now went for an authoritative tone. “I’m out on a field surveillance.”

  “What bar?” she repeated flatly.

  “Caldonias.”

  “Aren’t you a little old for that? Look, it should take you about ten minutes to get here. If you can’t drive, call a cab. We’ve got to talk.”

  “Right.” Brian was back to shooting for sincerity, this time laced with a shade more concern. “I want you to know I’m there for you, baby.”

  He hadn’t called her that in years. “Spare me, Brian. Just get over here.”

  Cullen arrived half an hour later. He’d stopped off at a convenience store for a coffee and was, if not sober, at least coherent and marginally focused. Laurie was waiting outside, pacing, and smoking a cigarette.

  “I got here as fast as I could,” he said as he walked up to her.

  “My lucky day.” She dropped her cigarette next to the cigar butt. “Look at this.” She nodded to the cigar. “It’s like what you’d find at the bottom of a gorilla cage.”

  “Here I make a good-faith attempt to say I’m sorry and you talk like this.”

  “Stuff it, Brian. This is my home and I want that key you made. You’re never to come here again unless I invite you. Is that understood?”

  As he looked at her—desirable in the thin, tan summer dress—an all-too-rare pulse of honesty swept through him. “Okay, I shouldn’t have done it, but I just wanted to connect with you somehow. It wasn’t breaking and entering, baby. It was a cry for help.”

  “Pull-eze, Brian. It’s not a cry, it’s a whine, for sympathy. I stomped your brittle Irish ego and now you want me back to show that you won.” Her voice softened as she spoke. Despite herself, his ’fessing up got to her. So much of their marriage had been spent with him either ignoring or bullying her. His being even remotely vulnerable was a nice change.

  Brian’s head was tipped down slightly and there was a trace of moisture in his eyes. Laurie had seen him cry only twice during their entire marriage: once each when the Broncos lost their second and third Super Bowls in the late 1980s. She was stunned but quickly regained her composure. “If you were so miserable, why didn’t you say something before? Maybe, if I ever once got a genuine response, we could have talked. I had nothing to work with. You’d just give orders and retreat.”

  “If I took a real whack at this opening-up stuff, could we have another shot?”

  “Hold on there, sailor. What makes you think I even want another chance? You weren’t the most passionate man around.”

  “And you weren’t exactly putt
ing off smoke yourself. Hell, the only reason you took up knitting was so you’d have something to do while we made love.”

  “Maybe if you would have even tried to take care of yourself. You must have put on three hundred pounds that last couple of years. Your idea of exercise equipment is the refrigerator and the remote.”

  “Arguing about this ain’t getting us anywhere, Laurie.” He seemed deeply sad. “I’ve got plenty on my mind with that crazy bastard Swallow running around killing people. By my calculations, he’ll be coming after me soon.”

  She shook her head. “Why’d you tell Terry you thought I might use that as an excuse to hurt you? What a crock. Where do you get these ideas?”

  “I know it was horseshit, but it made me feel better thinking you were still paying attention to me. Look, I’m really sorry I said those things. I won’t bother you anymore.”

  She gave him a long look and then, in a softer voice, “You want some coffee?”

  Brian nodded. They sat and talked for almost four hours. He spent much of the time copping to how badly he’d behaved or, more surprisingly, really listening. Laurie told of her meeting with Terry. They speculated on how Swallow might make his move. And they talked about how they had treated each other over the years. In the end, she was exhausted but touched by his newfound tenderness and amused at hints of his old sense of humor. She agreed to meet with him, Terry, and Streeter the next day.

  Terry arrived at his office that Saturday afternoon a couple of hours after he and Streeter got back from Evergreen. Laurie and Brian were already there, talking over coffee. The two men shared a suite in an old building in LoDo. They rented out most of it and still had three thousand feet left over for themselves. Brian had talked Nathan into going halves on the run-down structure back in 1985. Good move. They renovated it, and with the dramatic resurgence of the area, they could now practically retire if they sold the place. Terry was amazed at how gentle the Cullens were with each other. Laurie’s attitude didn’t fit in with how she had talked just a few days earlier, and Brian surprised him because he generally never acted that way toward anyone.