Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  “Mr. Streeter? I’m Rafael López, your interpreter.”

  Streeter nodded. “Good to meet you.” They shook hands. “Listen, I don’t want to rush things, but we have to get up to San Ignacio right now. I told Ben that we’d be back by mid-afternoon. If it’s okay with you, we can talk about your fee on the way.”

  “Fine.”

  The trip took just over an hour. Even the main highways had only two lanes, but there was little traffic and Streeter pushed the Jetta hard. The temperature was easily eighty-five but because the car’s air-conditioning was broken they left the windows open. With Rafael’s easy charm and the beauty of the countryside, Streeter enjoyed the trip. On their right, the mountains were dramatic and thick with trees, something he didn’t see often in the Rockies. On their left the Pacific Ocean rolled quietly forever to the west. As they drove, they settled on an hourly rate for Rafael and the American filled him in on what Howell had told him about the arrests.

  “I tell you, Rafael, I’ve done business with local Mexican cops north of here and it wasn’t what you’d call a peak experience,” Streeter said as he wound the car along the highway. “They like to clear cases fast and the truth can get lost in the shuffle. We’ve got a situation here where town officials used the Blazer for a little fun after the owner disappeared. Then, magically, right after they hear the guy’s family is sending someone to investigate, they turn up two killers.”

  “I’m sure they want to get you off their backs,” Rafael responded. He’d mastered English as an undergrad at the University of Iowa and had barely a trace of an accent. “The police here hate outside interference.”

  They turned off the ocean highway onto a narrow, aging asphalt road that was nothing more than one wide lane and wound into the mountains for about twenty-five miles to San Ignacio. The scenery changed dramatically as they moved through a long, broad mountain valley that looked to Streeter like a desert. Every few miles they’d pass a few run-down houses with a small store or two that Rafael said were towns. Finally they could see their destination. From a distance, San Ignacio was as idyllic as a movie set. Its red-tiled roofs and white buildings offset some of the dull browns and tans of the hills around them. Vegetation was scarce and consisted mostly of low, mean-looking cacti and shrubs. The mud-and-brick buildings sat on a plateau flat as pool table, across a deep valley. It was accessible only by the longest, narrowest bridge Streeter had ever seen. Although the setting was picturesque, up close the town itself was disappointing. They drove slowly down a main road that looked as though it doubled as a hand-grenade range.

  “The police station’s usually in the town square,” Rafael said, pointing straight ahead.

  Streeter took a left at the square. Halfway into the first block, four armed men lounged in front of a white brick building. They didn’t wear uniforms or smiles and appeared monumentally unimpressed with the approaching Jetta. “Nice-looking crew,” Streeter remarked to Rafael as they parked.

  “This is a labor-intensive country,” the interpreter said. “There’s probably one officer for every thirty people in a place like this. Chances are, most of them were just given badges and guns and about all they do is run errands for the chief.”

  They got out of the Jetta and approached the cops. Rafael spoke to them for a couple of minutes, nodding toward Streeter once as he did. One of them pointed slowly to the front door of the police station, which was also the town hall, municipal court, and mayor’s office. Rafael thanked him and then headed for the door with Streeter right behind.

  “The chief’s name is Omar Ruiz and the mayor is Daniel Hernández,” Rafael explained once they were inside. “Hernández is out of town on ‘big business.’ ”

  “I’ll just bet he is,” Streeter said. “When the shit hits the fan, there’s always big business somewhere else. Same as back home.”

  They walked down a tiled hall to a huge oak desk in front of double wooden doors. A drop-dead gorgeous young woman in a flowered sundress sat behind the desk reading a magazine. Rafael told her who they were and that they wanted to see Chief Ruiz. He explained that Streeter was a representative of the Moats family. The woman appeared as bored as the officers outside, but she finally stood up and went through the double doors. A couple of minutes later she came out again. Leaving one of the doors open, she motioned for them to enter.

  Ruiz’s office was dark, smoky, and made frigid by a huge window air conditioner. The chief was pretty dark and smoky himself. With a thick neck and mustache, and lifeless features, he looked like Stalin. He didn’t get up when the two men entered, but, rather, just sat back, puffing thoughtfully on a long, unfiltered Mexican cigarette and glaring. No invitations for anyone to sit down were offered. Undaunted, Rafael stepped to the desk and started speaking. The chief’s face showed no reaction. At one point, Rafael turned to Streeter and pointed while mentioning “Señor Moats.”

  When he’d finished, it was Ruiz’s turn. Although his voice was high for such a stocky man, the words came out slowly, like he had cough syrup instead of coffee in the cup on his desk. Streeter studied him as he spoke. The cop’s words were flat and the slow confidence of his voice indicated that Ruiz basically didn’t give a shit about his visitors or Richie’s case.

  Rafael translated for Streeter. “He says that the suspects and his men are at the burial site right now. We should go there and see for ourselves. The chief deeply regrets that such a horrible thing happened here, but the two men they arrested are capable of such a thing.” Rafael spoke without emotion, letting Streeter know that he wasn’t impressed with Ruiz’s story. “He says that when they confessed, they admitted that they robbed Señor Moats and then killed him to keep him silent.”

  “That’ll do the trick, I guess,” Streeter said. “Ask him when the mayor’ll be back and also where the Blazer is. Get directions to this burial site, too.”

  Rafael turned back to the chief and they spoke for a couple of minutes more. Then Rafael looked at Streeter. “He says he believes the mayor will be gone for at least three weeks. He also says that the Blazer has been thoroughly cleaned and taken back to Mazatlán, where a driver will be hired to return it to Colorado.”

  Streeter thought about that as he watched Ruiz light another cigarette. “Ask him if the two killers mentioned anything about a woman with Mr. Moats.” Ruiz glared back and then took a whack at a smile. His lips curled up but the rest of his face didn’t go along. The result was that he looked even more hostile.

  Again, the two Mexicans spoke together. At one point, Ruiz looked at Streeter and seemed shaken, but quickly regained his stony attitude.

  “The chief says there was no mention from the killers of a female companion,” Rafael said. “His men are looking for just one body.”

  Streeter tucked that away. “Let’s go, Raffle. I want to see these two ‘killers.’ We can come back here tomorrow if I have more questions.”

  The chief’s receptionist ignored them as they left, as did the armed cops in front of the building. “It’s nice to feel welcome,” Streeter said as they drove out of the town square toward the bridge out of town. “I wonder if Ruiz ever leaves his office. What’s your read on him, Rafael?”

  The interpreter said nothing at first, but, rather, just looked out his side window at the one-story buildings they drove past. “Who knows? Maybe these two guys actually killed your friend.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if they got encouragement with their confession,” the bounty hunter responded. “I’d confess to killing Richie if it kept me out of Ruiz’s office.”

  When they got back on the bridge, a black Ford Bronco approached in the other lane. As it shot past them, Streeter saw Lise Abbott in the front passenger’s seat. She was talking and gesturing to the cameraman who was driving. Another man was in the back.

  It took them almost half an hour to get to the alleged burial site. They drove about ten miles southwest, back toward Mazatlán, on the paved road before turning off onto a dirt path heading east.
In the deep ruts, the Jetta hopped like a cricket. Luckily, the digging was being done only two miles from the paved road. As they approached a clump of low trees, Streeter couldn’t believe what he saw. Several cars and a pickup truck were parked in a circle in the middle of a flat field. About half a dozen men leaned on the vehicles and faced a man in immaculate white clothes. The lounging men were all heavily armed, with at least two of them holding automatic rifles. The man in the white suit was standing about twenty feet from the others, facing off into the open field. He was holding a golf club and stood next to a small bag on the ground with golf balls spilling out of it. He was taking practice swings and every so often would glance back over his shoulder at the others and say something. It looked to Streeter as though he was giving them a lesson.

  “Don’t tell me that Greg Norman over there is one of Ruiz’s men,” Streeter said as he pulled over and parked.

  “It might be Sergeant Rivera.” Rafael smiled. “He’s in charge.”

  “What the hell?” Streeter said as he shut off the engine.

  They waited for the thick plume of road dust they’d kicked up to settle before getting out. The golfer turned to face them and leaned on his club, which appeared to be a driver. Rafael got out and walked toward him. He was already talking to the man, who indeed turned out to be Rivera, by the time Streeter got there. Rivera was the flip side of Ruiz. Although short and stocky, and with same thick mustache the chief wore, the sergeant was handsome, with a broad, friendly face, and he spoke English as well as Rafael. He was wearing a white-on-white disco suit that would have done John Travolta proud. When the bounty hunter got within a couple of feet, Rivera straightened up and extended his hand to be shaken.

  “Señor Streeter,” he said as he grinned vastly. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Sergeant Rivera.” He shot a glance at the cherry head of his three-wood. “Do you play this evil game, sir?”

  Streeter frowned in confusion as he looked at the club. Then, turning back to Rivera, he answered, “I used to. Not very well.”

  Rivera narrowed his dark eyes and continued to smile. “Then we have something in common. Golf is more of a curse than a pastime. It’s already practically ruined my marriage, but still I come back for more.”

  “Sergeant, I don’t want to interrupt your stroke here,” Streeter said, “but we were told that this was Richard Moats’s burial site. Your chief said you had two suspects in Mr. Moats’s killing and you were looking for the body.”

  “This is true.” Rivera nodded earnestly. “Mr. Ruiz informed me this morning about the confession. He then told me to get out here and supervise the digging for Mr. Moats.” He rolled his eyes quickly, confidentially, as if he and Streeter were sharing a joke. “We’ve been out here for over three hours now. I always do what Mr. Ruiz instructs me to do.”

  “If you always do what he says, how come you boys aren’t digging for the body?” Streeter asked.

  Rivera nodded, his smile still in place. “We’re policemen, not grave diggers.” He pointed over Streeter’s shoulder toward the vehicles. “The digging continues even as we speak.”

  Streeter turned around to face the cars. A couple of the men lounging against them perked up and glanced toward the middle. There, almost in the center of the circle, a lone worker with a shovel chopped casually at ground damned near as hard as poured concrete. In over three hours, he’d opened a hole almost big enough to bury a dachshund. A very small dachshund.

  The bounty hunter took a couple of steps toward the cars and studied the worker. Then he turned to Rivera. “You’re kidding.”

  Sergeant Rivera hunched his shoulders into a quizzical shrug and shook his head. “I am not. This is what the chief wants, and in my opinion, this is the effort it deserves.” Then he nodded again with that shared-secret grin back on his face. “Wouldn’t you say I’m right?”

  Streeter agreed. He moved back to Rivera and lowered his voice. “That’s exactly what I’d say.” He paused. “But if you know this is nonsense, why bother with it at all?”

  Rivera shifted his weight and grabbed the golf club with both hands in front of him, studying the head again. Then he looked up. “I have my orders. They came from the chief, who probably was instructed by the mayor. Someday, when I’m chief, things might be different. But for now, as I said, I have my orders.” He smiled broadly once more. “Tell me, which part of this game gave you the most pain? For me it is the tee shots.”

  Streeter shrugged, considering what the sergeant had just said. “Me, too.” He glanced back at the other officers before returning to Rivera with another question. “And the suspects? We were told they’d be here.”

  Rivera turned around, with his back to Streeter and facing the rough fairway he had been hitting balls onto when the visitors arrived. He curled his lower lip and let out a wolf whistle loud enough to stop a train. About fifty yards down the field, two young men stepped out from under a large tree. One of them waved his hand wildly and Streeter could see that he was smiling. He couldn’t see much else of the boys at that distance, but they both seemed to be smoking cigarettes.

  “Those are the two desperadoes? The chief said they have criminal records. They’re supposed to be a couple of tough guys.”

  Rivera turned back and grinned, but this time there was little humor in it. “I wouldn’t know about criminal records, but they’re both excellent shag boys. I haven’t lost a ball all morning and it’s not because I hit them straight.”

  Streeter shook his head and smiled himself. “Aren’t you afraid they’ll run off?”

  “To where? It’s a long walk back to San Ignacio and it’s pretty warm out here. Those two are cousins. The Durán boys. I’ve known them their whole lives. They won’t run anywhere.”

  “This is one hell of an investigation.” Streeter looked around for a moment. “Let me ask you something, Sergeant. What do you think happened to Richie Moats?”

  The golfer shrugged slightly. “I haven’t given it much thought.”

  “Did you personally see a young American around here lately? He’d probably be traveling with a beautiful woman.”

  Rivera shook his head. “I’m certain I would have heard about the woman.”

  Streeter liked Rivera but he knew that he wouldn’t be getting anything more of value from the man. “Goodbye, Sergeant. Thanks for leveling with me.” He paused. “And keep your head down and your body silent. Let the club do the work.”

  Rivera’s grin widened. “I try to, Señor Streeter. It’s not always easy.”

  When Streeter turned to leave, Rafael, who had been standing quietly off to the side during the conversation, joined him and they walked back to the Jetta. Once inside, Streeter started the engine, backed up, and quickly turned the car around. It wasn’t until they got back to the paved road that the bounty hunter spoke. “No point hanging around here. Those guys’ll find Jimmy Hoffa before they get to Richie.”

  FOUR

  “So you’re telling me this whole murder thing’s nothing but a crock of refried horseshit,” Marty said. His voice sounded tinny and distant on the consulate phone.

  Streeter glanced at Howell, who was on the extension. “I can’t say that for sure, Marty. Richie may have been murdered. It’s just that based on what I saw today, if you want to find out what really happened, you won’t get it from the San Ignacio police. Certainly not the chief. He’ll say anything to get rid of us and protect the mayor. If I’m going to get you solid information, I’ll have to spend some quality time with the locals. Find out if any of them saw Richie and Tina.”

  Marty considered that. “What do you say, Ben? You think the cops are full of it?”

  Howell sat up slightly in his chair. “I have no substantive reason to doubt what they say, sir. Unless we receive solid evidence to the contrary, I have to believe that the San Ignacio police are on the right track.”

  “But Mr. Streeter there says they’re out scraping at the dirt in the middle of a field and playing golf or some damned thi
ng. Sounds like a bad dog-and-pony show to keep the gringos off their backs. And what about the mayor leaving town? Hell, the guy was laying pipe in my nephew’s car. Wouldn’t that make him a suspect? Not to mention there’s no contents left from Richie’s Blazer. They don’t have squat.”

  Howell’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Well, there certainly seem to be a number of holes in their investigation, but as an official of the U.S. government, I can’t interfere. We have to believe they’re making a good-faith effort at finding the truth.”

  “That sounds like a lot of bureaucratic manure, son.” Clearly, Marty was losing his patience. “Just between us girls, what do you make of it?”

  Howell cleared his throat. “I don’t see how Richard could still be alive unless he’s a survivalist. It’s rough country out there and if he made it to a town, any town, we would have heard by now.” He hesitated. “Regarding the police investigation, I believe that Mr. Streeter has raised a number of legitimate concerns.”

  “You bet your sweet ass he has,” Marty concluded, clearing his throat. “As far as being a survivalist, forget it. Hell, Richie gets disoriented when he wanders off the carpeting.” He paused. “Mr. Streeter, let’s have you stay down there for a while and sniff around. Find out what the real people saw. Your basic Mexican is honest if you treat ’em right.” He paused again. “Howell get you a good interpreter?”

  Streeter nodded to Rafael sitting across the room. “The best.”

  “Good,” Moats shot back. “Just hang in there and do like you said. I trust your instincts on this, son. Do you think the boy’s been killed?”

  Streeter frowned. “I’m not sure what to think yet, but there don’t seem to be too many other options.”

  “Give me a call if you hear anything. Either way, check in tomorrow night and we’ll see where we stand.” With that, Marty Moats hung up.

  None of the three men in Howell’s office said anything for a moment. Finally, Rafael spoke. “You want me back here at nine?”