Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  “Why?” Terry asked.

  “She always blamed me for ruining her criminal-defense career. Plus we had that bloody breakup and my affair. Keep in mind, this is a woman who tried to run over her law partner when he said he was moving out. I told you guys about what Jack Nevers said. This is also a woman who put her own hand in a disposal and turned it on. My friend Linda mentioned a borderline disorder thing that seems to fit Carol pretty closely. Vindictive, mood swings, uncontrolled rage at themselves and others. Look, I’m not saying she’s totally like that, but I’m in the right ballpark with this. Carol and Kevin had to be working together.”

  “You better tell Haney and let him handle it.” Frank said.

  “What I’ve got isn’t solid enough yet, even with the phone number. Besides, Haney’s no fan of mine. He’d probably believe Carol before he’d believe me. For now, I’m going to talk to a detective friend of mine at the department. Bob Carey. I’ll run it by him and see what he thinks. He gets back from vacation tomorrow. I know that he’ll give me a good listen and he might have some thoughts on it. And, Terry, I want to visit Carol soon. I’d like you to come with me as a witness. Maybe we can shake her loose a little.”

  “What if she comes after you on her own?” Terry asked.

  “I’ll be careful. She’ll probably need some time to reorganize herself anyhow.”

  “What if she drops by to get the rest of her stuff?” Frank asked.

  “I’ll bring everything down for you. Give it to her, and if she feels chatty, act like you don’t know anything.” He smiled. “That shouldn’t be much of a stretch.”

  Frank shook his head. “There’s a certain way about you, Street. Makes a guy want to run through a brick wall for you.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Carol thought constantly about the two men for almost twenty-four hours. Streeter and Kevin. Kevin and Streeter. Rage and pain. Chain-smoking and gulping coffee, she paced her apartment almost nonstop from when the police brought her home Monday afternoon until the middle of the next day. She managed only a couple of jumpy bursts of sleep just before sunup Tuesday. Later, she cried until she got sick in long, dry convulsions. Then she beat her sofa pillows in a white fury. The wrong man won. Streeter lived, and Carol wasn’t sure she wanted to do the same herself. Thoughts of suicide flared. Her arms and chest ached in grief.

  In her mind, she rehashed all the plans she’d made with Kevin. Everything had gone the way it was supposed to right up to the minute Streeter played hero at the church. Years of careful work and catching the right breaks were destroyed when he pulled Barrows and Gina to safety. If he’d stayed in the car, he would have died the way they’d planned. If he’d died, that black guy with the cocky attitude—Terry Nathan—wouldn’t have noticed Kevin leaving the neighborhood. If he hadn’t noticed, no one would have followed Kevin and he wouldn’t have been killed. But Streeter did get out of the car, and the warped chain of events started. Now there was still work left for Carol. Hands-on, dirty work.

  She thought of when she first met Kevin. A court-appointed homicide case. High profile, lots of press. Her first murderer. Two counts. Her client was perfect for what she had in mind. Kevin, with his great looks, his street-honed patter, and his kiss-my-ass sneer. Like he could chew through concrete. Bravado and desperation, combined with an utter lack of conscience. Perfect qualities for what she needed. Plus he adored her. Within a few days, Carol was reciprocating that feeling. In love with the bad man who would kill for her. Practically from their first interview, the maniac and the attorney went for each other like a pair of sun-crazed lizards.

  But beyond lust, each of them had something to gain from the other. Kevin needed a lawyer who’d cross the line and do anything to spring him. No way he’d cop a plea for twenty-five years plus, and a jury trial would put him away for longer than that. Maybe put him to death. He had to get back on the street, back in the game. Also, he had to get himself some big-league revenge on the flabby detective who brought him down. Cleveland Watts. What the hell kind of name was that? The old man was almost retired, for chrissakes. Why was he after Kevin so long and hard? Watts had to go down, and Kevin definitely couldn’t do a long stretch in Cañon City.

  Carol, too, ached for revenge. Her criminal practice was terminal, and that son of a bitch Streeter not only watched without helping, but he’d cheated on her while they were engaged. Cheated openly, like a low-life pimp. With a close friend of hers, no less. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before. He was far worse than that pompous Jack Nevers, in her mind. Streeter had to pay. Carol could think of little else, back then or since.

  So the lawyer and her client jumped off the deep end within days of their initial meeting. First came the primal hit: muffled sex in holding cells with their clothes mostly on, or in conference rooms at the courthouse. Then came the legal plan. Create enough strongly appealable issues to get Kevin a new trial not too far down the road. They couldn’t have anticipated that the technical problems over his taking the stand would play out the way they did. Hell, Carol was mucking it up bad enough on her own to generate a solid motion based on incompetent counsel. Neither could believe their good luck. Kevin had a new trial and Carol could claim she’d done the right thing. Cap it all off with the DA’s refusal to retry and they were home free.

  Along the way, they picked up Gagliano and Cullen as additional targets. Both investigators treated Carol like a professional joke and a personal plaything when they were appointed to work Kevin’s case. Cullen, a wet-brain leach, and Gagliano, a smarmy gigolo wannabe. Each salivating over the girl lawyer with the nice tits. It still made her cringe to think of them. All Carol had to do was tell Swallow how the two had come on to her and they instantly made the hit list. Getting to Watts, Gagliano, and Cullen was easy and fun for Kevin, even though the last two hadn’t died. He came close enough, and their master plan was still working.

  “Everything’s falling into place for us, babe,” Kevin reminded her over the phone just the day before he was killed. “Always has. The trial, the appeal, even Gina. If there ever was a perfect chump, it’s her. Smart enough to help, yet she doesn’t have a clue. To Gina, this is all one big gangster movie.” He paused. “Only one hitch on the horizon. I think our friend from down south is closing in on me.”

  “What makes you say that?” Carol hadn’t thought about him in a long time.

  “Had to be him that broke into Gina’s yesterday. And he made all those hang-up calls the day before, too. How could he get to me so fast? I didn’t think that jerkoff was smart enough to butter bread by himself.”

  “What should we do?”

  “We’ll do what we planned with Streeter and then split. As far as our friend, we’ll be out of here soon enough. He’ll never find us in Mexico.”

  But all that had changed now. Carol sat in her living room and thought back. She had visited Swallow daily before his sentencing. The visits continued once he went to prison, although that took some major doing. Then, when he got out, they’d hooked up again to fine-tune the plan. They’d argued a little about his elaborate methods, but in the end, she told him to do it the way he wanted.

  “Forget it, babe,” he had told her months ago. “Any goof can shoot someone down. You want that, get yourself another boy. I don’t just make them dead, I create death. I have so many ways to do it, I could take care of all four of these guys about a hundred times each and still not run out of ideas.”

  “What about all the attention you’ll get?” she’d asked. “How do we handle that if you’re running around leaving threats and announcing that you’re the killer?”

  He shook his head and grinned. “Who cares? We’ll be long gone when it’s over. I got friends down in Mexico, and with that money you got tucked away, we can live on the beach forever.”

  Seeing how pumped up he got excited her. What excited her more was the thought of Streeter dead and her in Mexico. No more courtrooms, ever.

  But Swallow’s death changed everyth
ing. She felt destroyed, like she no longer existed. Her main target was alive and being treated like a hero. Swaggering. In her misery, only Carol knew how evil Streeter really was. He had to die. Pacing her living room, she created a plan. When Kevin got out of Cañon City, he’d spent many hours explaining in detail how easy it was to rig booby traps. One method was so simple and foolproof, it grabbed her. Kevin had put the few materials needed in a storage locker she kept on East Evans Avenue. Carol had to empty the locker before she left town, anyhow. She grabbed a pad and pen and quickly scrawled some notes to herself. Kill Streeter as soon as possible and then take off for Mexico. Alone. Everything was in place down there.

  It was close to three in the afternoon when she finished. Then she picked up the phone and called the church. Her makeup bag was still over there. Carol didn’t really need it, but she didn’t want to leave any connections with the bounty hunter. She was disappointed when Frank answered.

  “Hi, it’s Carol.”

  “Hello.”

  “Are you getting used to your place without a woman hanging around?”

  A pause and then, “Yeah.”

  Carol thought he sounded more distant than usual. “Say, I left a makeup bag up in Streeter’s room. Did he mention it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d like to stop by later and get it. Will he be there?”

  “He’s running around town and I doubt if he’ll be in much. But I’ll be here all day. Just come by and get it.”

  She wanted to talk to Streeter. “I’ll try to do that today. If not, tomorrow morning’ll be fine.”

  When they hung up, Carol felt nauseous again. She went to the bathroom and was sick for quite a while.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Streeter called Detective Bob Carey on Wednesday afternoon. With twenty-four years on the DPD, there wasn’t much Carey hadn’t seen. They agreed to meet at Nallen’s bar downtown right after Carey’s shift ended at five.

  “I don’t know, Streeter,” the detective said as he eased himself onto the barstool. At six foot seven, he looked down at the man next to him. “I leave town for a few days and you shoot the place up.” He nodded to the bartender, who was holding an empty mug over the beer taps. “Everyone’s still talking about it at work. I even saw it in a short wire story back east yesterday morning.”

  The bounty hunter studied Carey. The detective had played poker with Streeter and a few guys once a month for the last eleven years. “How was New Hampshire?”

  “Vermont.”

  “Whatever.”

  “My wife drags me out there every fall to ‘see the colors’ and stay with her folks. Fly two thousand miles to watch leaves fall off a tree and eat maple syrup. How the hell do you think it was?” Carey shook his head. “I actually looked forward to getting back to work today. That oughta tell you my opinion of Vermont.”

  “You work hard, you play hard.”

  The cop looked closely at him. “My hunch is you didn’t call me to hear about life in the fast lane with Cookie and Robert Carey. What’s going on?”

  Streeter glanced around the room. Nallen’s was a Lower Downtown bar featuring solid pub food and a heavy Irish motif. It was starting to get crowded and noisy. Turning back, he said, “I need your opinion. Supposedly, all the violence should end now that Swallow’s dead. But I’m not so sure.” He then proceeded to lay out his suspicions about Carol.

  “Jesus, Streeter,” Carey said when he’d finished. “I always thought Irwin was kind of a bitch, but you’re making a serious charge there. Is she really capable of all that?”

  Streeter nodded. “Anyone who’d stick their hand in a disposal or try to run down a friend is capable of damned near anything. It fits, her having the motive and Gina’s phone number and all. You’ve seen worse on the job.”

  “Yeah, I have.” He sipped his beer. “You never know what people’ll do under the right circumstances. So what’s your move?”

  “I’d like to talk to Haney, but he and I aren’t on good terms. I was wondering if you might act as a middleman. Sit down with me and him tomorrow. That would give me more credibility. But first I’m thinking of confronting Irwin. At least ask her why she has Gina’s number. Either she’ll have a good reason or maybe she’ll unravel. I’m meeting a PI in here soon. Terry Nathan. We’re going to Carol’s to talk to her, if she’s home. I’ve called all day and she never answers. Even tried her office and they haven’t seen her.” Streeter shook his head. “She told Frank yesterday that she’d come by the church to pick up her things but she never showed. That’s just like her, to get weirded out and disappear. She always tries to run and hide from her problems.”

  “I was you, I’d want to know exactly where she is at all times. If your hunch is right, you want to keep her in plain view.”

  “I have to find her first.”

  Carey said nothing for a moment. “Go have your talk and then call me in the morning. Depending on what she tells you, maybe we can see Haney together. I’m not promising nothing. Look, it’s been a slice, but I gotta run. And don’t forget, a week from Friday. The game’s at your house, so you can’t leave early.”

  “If you’re there, why would I want to? I swear, Carey, if I could get you to a poker table a couple days a week, I’d never have to work again.”

  The cop just nodded, grunted goodbye, and left. Streeter went to the bathroom. By the time he returned to his seat, Terry Nathan had arrived. “What did Carey say about your theory?” he asked, leaning against the bar.

  “He seemed underwhelmed, but he might work with me on Haney. We’ll see what Carol says first.”

  “You ever get a hold of her?”

  Streeter shook his head. “She’s not at her office, either. My hunch is she’s hiding out at home and not picking up the phone. That’s her style. Let’s head over there.”

  They took Terry’s Bronco to Carol’s. She lived in central Denver in an elegant, older apartment building on Pearl Street, just south of the six-lane diagonal Speer Boulevard. It was getting dark when they got there at six-thirty. Carol lived on the first floor, in a corner unit in the rear. They didn’t hit the lobby buzzer, because they wanted to come up unannounced. To get through the locked door, they stood there, acting casual, until someone came out. Then, without appearing anxious, they grabbed the door before it closed. It’s a trick all process servers learn fast.

  When they got to Carol’s door, Streeter leaned his head right up against it. He listened for a moment and then turned to Terry. “Sounds like her radio’s on back in her room,” he whispered. “She’s not moving around, though.”

  “Give the door a pound and see if she bites,” Terry said quietly.

  “No. Wait here and keep listening. I’ll go out back and look through the window.”

  Terry nodded. Streeter went to the door just down the hall. He walked out into the rear parking lot, propping the door open with a rock. Carol’s was the first set of windows as he turned right, just past a clump of tall shrubs. The windows were high enough so that he had to stand on his tiptoes just to see in the bottom edge of them. That wouldn’t do. It was almost completely dark now, and her living-room light was on and the drapes were drawn. Glancing around, he spotted a large cinder block near the wall, by a water faucet. He grabbed the block and placed it, the tall way, next to the wall. When he climbed up, he strained to find an opening. There was a two-inch crack where the drapes hadn’t been pulled completely together. He leaned slightly to his left and looked through it.

  Her living room was every bit as messy as he recalled. Worse than her office. It was lit, dimly, by one bulb in a track-lighting scheme shining off the far wall. The other two bulbs were burned out. Just like Carol, he thought, not to replace them until all three went. Streeter squinted hard. Given the angle of the drapes, he could only see about two-thirds of the room. His eyes worked their way slowly from right to left, toward the wall with the brick fireplace. When he’d gone almost as far as he could, he spotted something that nearl
y knocked him off the brick.

  Terry was still next to the door when Streeter walked back into the building. His head jolted when he saw the expression on the bounty hunter’s face. “Damn, Street. You look like pure dog shit. What’s wrong?”

  Streeter stopped about five feet from him and leaned against the wall, his eyes looking down. “You still got your cell phone?”

  “In the car.”

  He glanced up. “Go call 911. Carol’s inside there dead as all hell. The whole place is torn apart.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Sort of ironic, wouldn’t you say?” Haney asked, standing in front of Carol’s door, talking to Streeter. It was just after nine o’clock. “I mean, you drive all the way down here thinking she wants to kill you, and then she turns up dead. Ironic. Be real ironic if they find your prints inside, huh?”

  The bounty hunter stepped closer. “Moronic is more like it. You saying I killed her, trashed the place, and then called the cops on the way out the door? Now, there’s some top-flight police work.”

  Haney grinned. “I ain’t saying nothing other than it’s all kind of funny, in an ironic sort of way.”

  “A good vocabulary’s a terrible thing to waste.” Streeter’s voice was even. “When can I go in there and look around?”

  “Oh, probably never.” Haney seemed pleased with his answer. “That’s what we call a crime scene. You got no business in there. Not ever. Besides, you got a feel for the place when you snooped in the window.” He paused. “I can tell you that every room was tossed. Looks like a burglary. There’s been a string of them around here lately and she’s not the first victim to get tied up like that. First one to die, though. A lot of the usual stuff was taken, and Irwin had bruises on her face and shoulders and arms. The perp was some kind of sadistic son of a bitch. A burglary with a sick twist.”