He’d used that witness story a thousand times. It made landlords feel safe in giving out forwarding addresses.
“Oh my.” Nancy’s ashen face flashed a sharp crimson. “Well, we don’t have, I mean, there is no forwarding address. Shannon’s dead. She died some, uhm, some, I don’t know, maybe three months ago. Or so.”
Streeter froze. His first lead and here she was dead. That bozo Kovacs knew it, too. Tight-lipped is right.
“Just a few months ago?” At first he asked it because he couldn’t think of anything else to say, but then he realized the timing was curious.
“Yes, well, something like that, dear.” Nancy seemed genuinely saddened by having to relate the grim news. Her erratic speech was due equally to Scoresby’s Scotch and actual distress. “My goodness, yes. It was so sad. Such an attractive woman.”
“Do you know what happened?” he asked.
“Car wreck. It was, oh my, a big car accident. Out on the freeway. Well, I don’t mean there were big cars or anything.” Nancy paused to suck in a deep breath. Then she hacked out a phlegmy cough that sounded like part of her throat came up with it. “It’s just that, uhm, it was a big collision. Two people died. Shannon and her boyfriend, I think it was. Only one car, we heard later.”
Doug died in a one-car accident. “Was the boyfriend’s name Doug Shelton?”
“That was it. Yes. Very nice-looking young man.”
Streeter felt his stomach twitch and his skin got suddenly warm. Obviously, Story knew about this. “Is Shannon buried here in Denver? Was her family from here?”
“I believe they were from, uh, let me see, California.” Nancy took a deep drag from her cigarette and then looked around for her ashtray. “That other woman was here from, ah, from the lawyer, from the lawyer’s office, asking a lot of questions, too. Maybe she’s working on the same thing you are, dear.”
“What woman? When?” He snapped the words out.
Nancy seemed upset by his tone—almost guilty, like she had done something wrong. “I’m sorry, dear. Let me, uh, think for a minute. I still have her card. No, it was the card for the lawyer. She, let’s think, she had a very strange name. Like a man. She was just here about a week ago.”
The manager’s forehead went into spasms of concern. She pulled a stack of business cards out of a desk drawer and started rifling through it. The card she sought was near the top. She studied it and then handed it to him. That done, she appeared deeply relieved. It was Tom Cooper’s card.
“Did the woman give you her title?”
Nancy frowned again. “She was a, uhm, what do they call it? Something legal.”
“Paralegal?”
“That’s it. Funny name she, uh, had. A man’s name. Donnie. Ronnie. Something like that. I think, yes, it was Ronnie. Cute little thing. Very serious, though.”
It figured that a greedy ambulance chaser like Cooper would be on the trail of the money, Streeter thought. And the lawyer easily would have known about Shannon. Streeter’s only surprise was that it took Cooper a couple of months to get over here. The bounty hunter knew he had to get together with Story to talk about it. He was angry at her for not telling him about Shannon, but far more angry at himself for being so careless and not asking for details. Still, why the hell would she not let him know all about the accident? He had asked her if Doug had any girlfriends, and it was doubtful that Story believed Mays was just Doug’s pal. It could turn out to be an insignificant detail, but it didn’t do much for his trust level with his new client. He wondered what else Story neglected to tell him. He definitely wanted to talk to her, but for right now he mainly wanted a drink. That and to get out of range of Nancy’s hideous perfume.
EIGHT
Story didn’t liked Streeter’s attitude on the phone when they set up the meeting. He sounded surly, sarcastic. She did not need grief from the hired help. However, she did want a progress report. Also, she wanted to talk to him about that dipshit Cooper’s latest ploy. Sometimes Story wondered why men didn’t simply shut up and get with the program. Just because they didn’t menstruate, they seemed to think they ran everything.
And what was with this Thomas Cooper? He calls a meeting with her to discuss “Doug’s outstanding balance,” as if it were any of her concern. She didn’t know specific numbers, but Doug had told her more than once that he dished out a huge amount of money to his attorney right after the arrest. Now Cooper was going to try and browbeat her into paying his phony bills. That kind of grief was something else she did not need. If he kept pushing her, he’d find out that hassling Story Moffatt could be about as pleasant as attempting foreplay with a cornered razorback.
But Mr. Streeter concerned her more right now. Even though he ruined her lawsuit and he was crabby on the phone, she liked the guy. He was probably no genius, but he was street smart and he had a gentle way about him without losing his masculine edge. As if someone with forearms and shoulders like his could ever lose his masculinity. They planned to meet at the Pearl Street Grill, an upscale, quasi-British pub in south-central Denver. She liked the Grill’s secluded patio. The meeting was set for eight o’clock Friday night, and he was calmly nursing a Beck’s Dark when she walked in a little before nine.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Streeter.” Her smile was barely noticeable as she walked to the back patio, where he was waiting for her at the far end, near the lighted garden. “Business, you know.”
“It’s okay with me. In my line of work you get used to waiting. Plus, it’s your money we’re pissing away here. I’ll wait until closing time if you want to screw around like this.”
She hesitated for an instant and then sat down. Streeter could tell he’d riled her. She had a way of letting you know she wasn’t pleased with a quick, pinched-up smile. The waitress came and Story ordered a club soda. Then she turned back to the bounty hunter and gave him an intense stare. “So, how are we doing with our little search?”
“We?” He hesitated before continuing. “Nothing on the bank-vault idea. I’ve checked a bunch of them and come up with zip.” He paused again. “Why didn’t you tell me Doug wasn’t alone when he died?”
So that was it, she thought. Poor little boy must feel excluded. The waitress brought the club soda, which gave Story a chance to think. She took a long sip and carefully put her glass down, deliberately wiping the corners of her mouth with a linen napkin.
“Shannon doesn’t have anything for us,” she said as she settled back in the black cast-iron patio chair.
“That’s really not the point.” Streeter didn’t like her lack of reaction. “If I’m going to do this job, you’ll have to tell me everything that relates to the man. You had to know something like that was important, or at least it might be important. This hunt’s going to be difficult enough. I don’t have time to screw around. And how can you possibly know she doesn’t have anything for us?”
“I spoke to her family and…” She shrugged, holding her palms out innocently.
“So what? You think they’re going to come out and tell you. ‘Hey, we found, oh, about seventy-five thousand bucks on top of Shannon’s refrigerator. It must be yours. After all, she was screwing your fiancé. Here, take it.’ Is that what you think?”
“If you’ll let me finish. I also went through her apartment.”
“How the hell did you manage that?” He leaned forward.
“Look, I may have been somewhat less than totally candid with you the other day. I knew about his affair with Shannon. All about it, including where she lived. Streeter, this hasn’t been a picnic for me.” Her voice softened and a trace of genuine pain spread over her eyes. It softened them nicely, he thought. “Telling you all about Doug’s problems and the troubles he and I were having was very difficult for me. The drugs, the women, the lying. I just got tired of going into all the gory details.” Then her voice stiffened slightly. “At any rate, I went over to Shannon’s shortly after the accident and talked the weekend manager into letting me in. I told him I was her sis
ter and he bought it. I went over every inch of the place and there was nothing.”
Streeter didn’t say anything for a moment and they sat in silence. Finally, he spoke. “You’ve got this annoying little habit of being ‘somewhat less than totally candid.’ Just keep it up and we’ll be somewhat less than totally successful finding Doug’s money. You’re quite an operator there, Ms. Moffatt. Your fiancé isn’t even cold in the ground yet and you’re going through his mistress’s apartment looking for his money. Sounds like an adult sitcom.”
“Hell, our life together was a sitcom. Doug probably had several ‘hobbies’ like Shannon Mays. Let me tell you a little about us. I tried to make it work but he never really let me close. In public he could be very aloof and uncaring. And in private, well, let’s just say Doug made love like he did everything else. Quickly. To get done with it, and with as little hassle as possible. Half the time he was either so drunk or in such a big hurry, it was almost comical. We must have looked like the Special Olympics of sex, for God’s sake. He’d put in a little showmanship along the way, but never with any real feeling. I endured a lot from him. If he left anything, I’m entitled to it and I’m going after it. It’s my inheritance we’re talking about. Maybe I should have told you about Shannon. I didn’t and I apologize. But now let’s get on with it.”
Streeter shrugged. “You really don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but if you keep holding back it’ll just slow things up. I wasted a lot of my time, not to mention your money, finding out something you could have told me about last week. I got paid up front, so, if you want me to keep flushing it away, keep doing that.”
They both sat in silence again until Streeter spoke. “Did you know that Tom Cooper is looking into this, too?”
Story blushed for a second. “I, uh…No, I didn’t. Into what? How do you know?”
“I assume he’s looking into Doug’s affairs, if you’ll pardon the pun. When I went to Shannon’s apartment building, the day manager told me about it. It wasn’t Cooper but some girl from his office. Ronnie or Donnie or something like that. She was there last week asking if Shannon had left any of her stuff.”
“That jerk. That mother…I think I know who you’re talking about. I met his secretary with him at Doug’s funeral. She had some butch name like that. Kind of cheap-looking, and I got the impression Cooper and her had a thing together.” She took a sip of her club soda. “He called me yesterday and we set up a meeting for next Wednesday. He wants to discuss a bill that Doug supposedly owed him. Can you believe the gonads on that schmuck? He’s going to try and bully me into paying for what Doug already paid. I probably deserve a refund!”
“You have any invoices, receipts? Documentation?”
“No, but Doug told me he paid a bundle to Cooper right after his arrest and he was worried that Cooper wasn’t doing much to earn it. I’m sure Doug didn’t owe him anything. By the way, did you ever find out if I might be liable for his debts?”
“I talked to a lawyer friend of mine. He told me that, unless you two were calling yourselves husband and wife, telling everyone you were married, then Cooper probably doesn’t have much of a chance. But he can still make the claim, and it could cost you a bundle to defend yourself.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. When you start in with the lawyers, it always costs.” She sat silent. “Will your friend work for me on this?”
“He said he would. His name is William McLean. He was the DA in Arapahoe County for a whole lot of years. Every lawyer in town knows him and knows how good he is.”
Story nodded. She stared at her club soda, running her finger around the lip of the glass. The patio seemed almost dead except for some rustling in the trees that formed a green awning over part of it. At a nearby table, three androgynous Generation X’ers sat mumbling to each other, apparently lost in deep conversation. They all had the standard ponytails, baseball caps worn backward, pierced faces, and vacant, vaguely obtuse expressions. Story glanced at them for a moment. They seemed indistinguishable from one another. A warm breeze swept the whole area, causing the leaves to rustle much louder. Pronounced yet soothing, like soft, muffled chimes. She looked up, her face set like Charles Barkley’s when he was charging the basket.
“Maybe I can cut Cooper off before he gets started,” she said. “How’s this for an idea? We’ll draw up a demand letter saying that Doug told me he paid, hell, I don’t know, thirty thousand dollars or something major like that for a retainer. We’ll say he told me that only a small part of the money was earned by Cooper when the case was dismissed. I’ll ask him for a breakdown of how the money was spent and demand about half of it back. We’ll put it on McLean’s letterhead. If his rep is as good as you say, Cooper might just fold up like a cheap telescope when he reads it.”
Streeter considered the plan. “That’ll sure give him something to think about. It couldn’t hurt to put him on the defensive.”
“Precisely. I’ll run it all by McLean to make sure we don’t cross the line. Nothing illegal. I just want to cut this guy off at the knees so hard and so clean that he’ll go away for good. Plus, if he’s tracking down Doug’s money, this might get him off that trail. My hunch is he doesn’t have the stomach for a fight.”
Streeter thought about what Carey told him about Cooper’s trial in Adams County, but he said nothing.
“It’s important to show this joker that I’m no pushover,” she concluded.
“That might do it, but don’t underestimate Cooper. Is this how you run your business?”
“Advertising is like being at war half the time. You have to strike hard and fast. First impressions, appearances, they can mean everything. These guys I pitch to wouldn’t take me seriously for a minute if I couldn’t show right up front that I mean business. Don’t tell me that in your line of work you never shovel a little crap or take a few shortcuts to fake someone out.”
“True. I remember my first job for Frank. I found a bail jumper—a confidence man, of all things—up in Salt Lake City, staying at his sister’s house. Frank wanted me to have him come back here on his own money so we could save the airfare cost. I sure as hell couldn’t call him up and ask him politely to come home. So I decided to play on his greed. I sent him a cheap clock radio, like he’s won a contest back here in Denver. I also sent with it a registered letter saying he’s won the grand prize—a Town Car, I think it was; even put a Lincoln brochure in with the mailing. But the real clincher is, I sent him a one-way ticket to Denver. Told him he had to claim his prize in person. A lot cheaper than paying all that extra airfare for me and him. Course, I was taking a chance the guy didn’t just keep the radio and cash out the plane ticket. Luckily, he was as greedy as I thought. Not to mention as stupid. I went out to the old Stapleton International the night his flight’s due in, and sure enough the slob got off the plane looking every bit like he was expecting Vanna White to meet him. You should have seen his expression when I put the cuffs on him.”
“You’re kidding. That’s fantastic. I knew there was something about you I liked.”
“Coming from you, I’m not so sure that’s a compliment.”
Her smile stayed in place. “I suppose it’s that kind of cleverness that got you on Jeopardy?”
The question surprised him. “How’d you find out about that?”
“When I gave your name to my secretary, she said she remembered seeing you on the show a couple of years ago. Memories of the big, bad bounty hunter from Denver stuck with her. She said you won the night she watched. You were pretty sharp with the facts, she told me. How’d you get interested in that?”
He shrugged. “It’s all in the family. My parents and I used to toss trivia around while we ate dinner.” Streeter didn’t want to tell her the whole saga, but his parents—both pretty smart—liked to show off. They used their knowledge to outdo each other. Some families called it arguing, but his mother referred to it as a “lively exchange of ideas.” “Trivia’s a hard habit to break, I guess.�
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By now it was dark, and she asked him to walk her to her car. “I parked across the street, behind that office building. I know I’m not supposed to, but it’s so hard to find an open spot around here. I’ll show you my baby, too.”
“Your baby?”
“Corky. He’s my wheaten terrier. He’s a good little dog but he’s so cute, all white and fluffy, that I spoil him rotten.”
They paid for their drinks and left. As they crossed the street they heard a faint jingling from down the block. Story seemed confused.
“That’s Corky’s bell collar. How’d he get out of the car?”
The sound grew louder as it came quickly toward them. Corky was about a half-block away when they spotted him in the streetlights. There was a bright-red streak along his side, and when Story saw that she screamed. “Corky!”
The dog didn’t seem to be hurt as he ran toward his mistress. When he got to her, she and Streeter could see that someone had sprayed red paint on his back and down his right side. The dog was oblivious to the paint and clearly delighted to see Story. As she bent down to check him out, he jumped up and licked her face like it was smeared with lamb chops.
“Who did this to you, Corky?” Then she looked up at Streeter. “My car!”
They quickly walked around behind the two-story brick building to where she had parked. Corky had made out much better than the Audi did. Someone had slashed all four tires and sprayed red paint on the left side of the steel-gray sedan. The driver’s door was jimmied open and they could see in the glow of the inside overhead light that someone had sprayed the dashboard with more of the paint.
“Oh my God,” Story yelled when she saw the damage. “What the hell’s going on, Streeter?”
He walked up to the car and noticed a crumpled piece of paper lying on the front seat. “Someone left a calling card.” He picked up the paper and read it. The two simple words “back off” were scrawled in blue ink on the stiff white paper. He turned and showed it to Story. “Very subtle. It looks like someone wants you to stop doing something.”
Low End of Nowhere Page 7
