Marty could feel the pressure on his temples increase. He’d had a headache for hours and listening to Streeter didn’t help. But he was too drained to argue. “We’ll talk about it in the morning, son. For now, I need some sleep. Richie’s doing much better but he’s still pretty knocked out. He’s under police protection.” He paused. “You have any idea where Tina is?”
“She called me before but she wouldn’t say where she was. I’ll be talking to her again. Said she’d call here tomorrow.”
“Then I guess all the excitement’s over for today. We’ll talk in the morning.”
TWENTY-ONE
That storm Grover was waiting for didn’t take long to develop. It hit Denver at precisely five-thirty-two the next afternoon. Once again, Streeter and Frank were watching the local news in the downstairs apartment when they saw the whole mess go down. And Lise Abbott, of all people, delivered it. Her eager young face was set in its most serious, professional-journalist expression as she stared into the camera.
“News Three has learned that Richard Moats—nephew of Colorado’s legendary ‘Waterbed King,’ Martin ‘Marty’ Moats—is part owner and a driving force behind a string of sex-for-sale businesses and is also a suspected kingpin in one of the state’s largest illegal drug operations. Moats, thirty-three, allegedly has partial control over three strip bars, four adult-book shops, four lingerie-modeling stores, and numerous massage parlors. According to accounting documents obtained by News Three, Moats is in partnership with Grover Royals in all of the businesses.
“News Three also has learned that Royals, forty-seven, has been the subject of several state grand jury probes into illegal drugs and prostitution and at least one federal RICO investigation. Thus far, he has not been charged with any wrongdoing.
“Richard Moats recently made national headlines when his Chevy Blazer was found in the rural Mexican town of San Ignacio. Mexican police originally said that two young men confessed to killing Moats and taking his truck. However, a subsequent investigation failed to turn up a body or any real evidence against the men, who later recanted their confessions and were released.
“Then, yesterday morning, Moats was shot and seriously injured in a bizarre incident in an Englewood parking lot that left one man dead and another in critical condition at Littleton Hospital. Police investigators have linked the injured man, Sidney R. Wahl, forty-three, with Royals, which has led to speculation that the shooting may have been drug-related. It is not known if Moats’s disappearance and yesterday’s violent shootings have anything to do with his alleged drug-and-prostitution empire. Englewood police refused to comment this afternoon when confronted with the documents obtained by this reporter.”
Streeter flew off the couch, staring at the TV screen in utter disbelief. “Where do they get all that crap?” he asked Frank. “Richie couldn’t even handle a simple phone scam. And how could he work with Grover? The two never met each other. They’ve never been in the same room and she’s got them running a multimillion-dollar porno ring.” He pointed to Lise standing before the camera in front of what appeared to be Littleton Hospital. “I met her when I was down in Mexico. I didn’t think she was capable of this. Where’s she getting these supposed documents?”
Back on the TV, Lise’s voice deepened and her eyes narrowed dramatically as she went off on another tangent. “When contacted by News Three this afternoon, Martin Moats expressed surprise at the allegations. Moats, perhaps one of the state’s most recognized figures, said he—quote—doesn’t care what’s written on some papers. Richie’s no drug dealer and that’s all there is to it. End of quote.”
Suddenly, Marty’s face appeared on the screen. He was standing in front of one of his stores looking lost and pale. “This has to be some big mistake. For one thing, my nephew doesn’t have the sense to run a business that big. You’re talking millions of dollars. Richie’d more than likely get overwhelmed operating a hot dog stand. For another thing, he doesn’t even know this supposed partner of his. This is nothing but a lot of horse manure.” He turned to the frowning Abbott and added, “Can’t you people get your facts straight and leave the boy alone? He’s in the damned hospital.”
The old man was so shaken that he didn’t even plug his stores this time.
Streeter shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the screen. “This is crazy, Frank.”
Lise’s voice provided a verbal explanation and the camera panned what appeared to be accounting ledgers and official documents from the Secretary of State’s office. The name Richard M. Moats was typed in next to a scribble that was supposedly his signature. “According to state registration documents and personal notes on ledgers for the various sex-for-sale businesses, Richard M. Moats has had dealings with Royals going as far back as 1990. Because these documents were obtained only recently, the meaning of the ledgers is not yet completely known to News Three investigators. However, they would seem to point clearly to a partnership between the two men.”
Next, the perplexed face of the Denver District Attorney appeared on camera. He was sitting at his desk when Abbott stuck a microphone in front of him and asked for his reaction to the allegations. “I cannot, of course, comment on an ongoing investigation, but our office has had—historically—an interest in Mr. Royals’s business affairs. How this is connected with yesterday’s shooting incident on South Santa Fe per se, well, I’m not at liberty to discuss that just now.”
“I’ll bet he’s not,” Streeter said to the screen. “Look at that fool. His office has been trying to nail Royals for years.” He turned back to Frank. “And as far as Richie’s concerned, the DA doesn’t have a clue. That ‘ongoing investigation’ junk is his way of saying we don’t know nothing about nothing.”
“Trouble is, it all sounds legitimate.” Frank walked to the kitchen sink and ran some cold water. He filled a glass with it, all the while staring at Streeter. “It sounds real and looks credible. That means people will believe it. Doesn’t much matter if it’s true. It also means that someone who knows Grover’s operation must have talked to this Lise.”
Streeter nodded and walked slowly toward the door. “I’m meeting Billy McLean down at the Wynkoop to discuss this whole situation. Right about now, I really wish your old pal Marty had never stopped here that night he found out about Richie in Mexico.”
Frank broke out into a small grin. “Say hi to Wild Bill for me, okay?”
William McLean was sitting at one of those high tables scattered around near the front of the Wynkoop Brewing Company. The Wynkoop is probably the senior pub in Lower Downtown. By several years, it predates Coors Baseball Field and the rash of sports bars now surrounding it on three sides. The first floor contains a huge kidney-shaped bar and a large restaurant, as well as the brewing facility itself. The second floor holds an enormous pool hall and tavern catering mostly to the under-thirty crowd. Streeter hardly ever went upstairs, as he wasn’t too fond of Yuppie pool sharks or Generation Xers. But he liked the downstairs with its wide range of beers and its European-style saloon food.
McLean had gone to the Wynkoop right after a court appearance and he was wearing a dark gray business suit. The tall table suited his six feet five inches fine. Being one of the last professional men Streeter knew who still smoked cigarettes, McLean had a glass of amber ale in one hand and a lit Marlboro in the other when the bounty hunter first spotted him.
“Hey Bill,” he said as he walked up. “What’s to it?”
McLean put his beer on the table and stood up. With silver hair and a deep, booming voice, he could make reading from the phone book sound important. “Street man,” he said. They shook hands and McLean nodded to one of the televisions over the bar. “It looks like you’re in even deeper shit than we thought. I just saw something about the Moats clan and your buddy Grover Royals. It wasn’t flattering. If you’re involved with all that, you have yourself some trouble.”
Streeter shook his head and sat down. A waitress was passing by, so he ordered two more amber ales.
When they came, he and Bill touched glasses and drank in silence for a couple of minutes. Streeter then broke into a long story of his complete involvement with Richie, Marty, Tina, and Grover. He concluded with what had happened at the warehouse on Sunday morning.
“Jesus,” McLean said as he snuffed out a cigarette. “If the DA’s in a real good mood and hasn’t opened a statute book in a few years, he’s only got you for attempted murder, conspiracy to transport a controlled substance with intent to sell—the Quaaludes are yours, technically—leaving the scene of a murder, aiding and abetting a felon, withholding evidence, assault with a deadly weapon, and littering—you left a lot of bodies out there. Now, if he’s got a hard-on and there’s a statute book nearby, he can probably find eight or ten additional charges. As far as Richie and Tina are concerned, forget it. They can throw the proverbial book at those two and it’ll all stick.” He gestured toward the TV. “You say that was all bullshit on the tube tonight? About Richie and Grover?”
Streeter nodded. “Royals is probably into most of that stuff, but putting Richie with him like that is complete nonsense.”
“Well, then.” Bill smiled broadly. “If that’s the case and little Richard gets a good lawyer and a sympathetic judge, he should be out in about three or four lifetimes. Tina, maybe as few as two.”
“You’re cheering the hell out of me, Billy.” Streeter took a sip from his beer.
“You want cheer, go rent a video. I’m your attorney and I’m telling you what you’re up against. My advice is get your friend Tina and all the evidence you have on Royals—plus those locker keys—and meet me tomorrow morning. We’ll have a session with the Arapahoe DA. I think I can get one of the heavyweights from the Denver DA’s office to join us, too, seeing as how some of this involves them. We’ll lay it all out, say how the three of you are willing to testify against Royals and Sid and Rudy What’s-his-name. We dangle those two in front of them and chances are really good that they’ll drop what they have on you three. Do Richie and Tina have attorneys?”
“He probably does.” Streeter shrugged. “Her, who knows? Look, the problem is that I can’t get ahold of Tina Gillis. She said she’d call me today and she never did. I have no idea where she is and chances are good that she’s left the state by now.”
“To hell with her, then,” McLean said. “Talk to Marty tonight, tomorrow at the latest. Convince him that Richie should roll over on Royals. We’ll cut the best deal we can with or without Tina.”
Streeter nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. Marty sure looked terrible on TV just now. This whole thing is taking a toll on him, and his business is going to suffer if people identify the Moats name with drugs and prostitution.”
“Nothing we can do about that, Street. From what I saw on Channel Three, there’s going to be a lot of pressure to bring Grover down. That report may have been complete BS, but the pressure on the DA to nail the people mentioned is going to be real enough. The quicker we cut our deal, the better. Even if it’s just you and me sitting down with the police, we’ll still have considerable coin. They’ll be drooling to get into those lockers.” He paused. “This could get rough on you, pal. But you’ll be all right if you stick to the truth and cooperate.”
Streeter looked around the room. “I suppose. Let’s get something to eat so I can go back to the church and call Marty.”
Rudy sat at his desk and wondered what the hell was going on with Grover. Not that he was complaining. The big man had called him minutes after the Channel 3 report aired, screaming about suing the station for libel. Grover suing? That wasn’t his style. Rudy was surprised enough that Grover hadn’t gone after Streeter the night before. But now, not moving on him all day and then threatening to sue over the news story? Made no sense. He’d pegged Grover to go out and litter the city with bodies by noon at the latest and then sort out who he meant to kill. Streeter should at least be in the hospital. But Grover sounded almost subdued on the phone. Rudy figured it must have something to do with his late meeting with his partner last night. All day, Fontana tried to figure out who the hell was in business with Grover. He’d never seen any names on the corporate documents other than his own, Grover’s, and Sid Wahl’s. Whoever the man was, he sure knew how to keep Grover in line. Rudy wouldn’t even allow himself to think of what that partner could mean to his plans when Grover went down.
For now, Rudy felt so good about what the big man was going through, he didn’t even care if the moron figured out that he was the one who fed the story to Lise Abbott. Dummied-up Secretary of State papers, phony ledgers, and everything else. He’d deal with Grover eventually, if he had to. No sir, he’d just enjoy his drink and savor the big payback for Mr. Royals.
TWENTY-TWO
Bad cop, bad cop. Dumb cop.
That’s how Grover pegged them as he walked out the side door of his house that Tuesday morning. He could tell they were the law the minute he spotted them through his front window. The hell do they want? Grover thought he knew the older one. A longtime Denver investigator with an Irish name. The other two were strangers. One was in his late forties. The other—the dorky one—looked to be about thirty. They were leaning against a mud-colored car at the end of his driveway, although the young one straightened up and started to play with his tie as Grover approached.
“You mind moving that thing?” Grover glanced at the unmarked car. “Some of us have to get to work today.”
The older cop stepped away from the car and pointed to the rear door. “Your business can wait, Royals.”
Grover stopped about ten feet from them and frowned, glancing at the two cops he didn’t know. Then he looked at the one who’d just spoken. “You’re Denver, right?” The man nodded. “So who are Moe and Larry here? They can’t be state or federal.”
“I’ll tell you who we are, asshole.” The young one took a step forward. “We’re the guys who’re gonna mess up your life so bad you’re gonna wish you never heard of Englewood.”
Grover broke into a quick smile. “Ouch. That hurt.” He walked up to the man, his smile fading. The cop glanced at Grover’s shoulders, the two thick arms coming out of the short-sleeved shirt, and took a half step back. That’s when the third cop broke in.
“Let’s everyone calm down,” he said, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. He opened it to show Grover his badge. “I’m Sergeant Steinke, Englewood Homicide. This is my partner, Detective Hooper.” He turned to his right and nodded at the last cop. “That there’s Sergeant Haney, Denver PD.”
Grover had been in a stare-down with Hooper while his partner spoke. Now he glanced over at Steinke and Haney. “Let’s not get too dramatic about this, okay? If you’re arresting me, I’ll get in the car and we can drive downtown. If not, move away from my drive. I got places to go. This ain’t L.A. and you guys ain’t all that scary.” He shook his head and smiled again. “Englewood.”
Haney now took over for their side. “Royals, we’ve got a file on you as thick as your skull. Some of it’s pretty damned interesting. What with all this excitement down in Englewood on Sunday and your boy getting caught in the middle of it, we’re about to turn something fairly soon. Oh yeah, there’s one name we wanted to run by you, too.”
Grover took a step toward Haney, his smile narrowing. The chunky old cop smelled like tobacco. Cheap cigars. Not as cheap as the brown suit he was wearing, but pretty rank. “Is this where you say Sid Wahl and I’m supposed to cave in?”
Now it was Haney’s turn to smile. “No, this is where we say Eddy Spangler. What you do with that is your own business.”
Grover was obviously surprised. His jaw dropped slightly. Hooper saw the opening and stepped up again. “Didn’t expect that one, didja? Late last night, Mr. Spangler got stopped for a DUI and driving under revocation. No insurance and a bunch of other stuff. Too bad for him, he had some pot and coke on his backseat. All of a sudden he’s in trouble. Seems he’d seen a certain television news story earlier in the evening and that gave him a bright idea. Now
he figures it’s better to talk to us about you than to face a drug charge and all those driving problems.”
Haney stepped between the two men. “Bottom line,” he said reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out some folded papers, “is that the DA’s requesting the honor of your presence at a little grand jury he’s holding this week.” Slowly, he handed the subpoena to Grover. “Friday morning. Don’t be late. It’s more of a command than a request. You might want to bring your lawyer, too.”
Then, one by one, they got into their car. Hooper kept staring at Grover, so as they drove off, the big man lifted his hand and flipped out his middle finger.
“Assholes,” Grover mumbled. Eddy Spangler was not something he’d planned on. He’d figured he could keep Sid in line and deal with whatever else the police came at him with. But Eddy could be the missing link between Grover and the shootings. Not to mention what was in the lockers at the bus station. As he walked up the drive toward his Mustang, he shoved the subpoena in his back pants pocket. Time to have a talk with his boss again.
Rudy couldn’t believe how stupid she sounded on the phone. Don’t reporters have to go to journalism school or something? Ain’t that like college? He took a long pull from his cigarette and studied his coffee, barely paying attention to Lise Abbott’s voice. He debated whether to pour a pinch of whiskey into his cup. Normally, Rudy prided himself on never drinking before noon and seldom before four. ’Course, he’d fudged on those guidelines a bit lately, but these were unusual times. Still, there was no way to justify an eye-opener at just a shade before eight-forty-five in the morning, even if he was awakened by a call like this.
“I suppose I should have studied those so-called papers from the Secretary of State,” she was saying, “but we didn’t have much time before I went on the air. Let me ask you, did you fill those out yourself?” Then without waiting for an answer, she continued. “And those ledgers. Our accountants went through them late last night and they can’t make sense out of them.” She took a long pause. “I have to ask you, was this stuff all phony? Did you set me up?”
Streeter Box Set Page 61
