Private Eye Four-Pack, page 79
“I can account for my whereabouts at all of those times,” he told the cop. “Are you really suggesting that I beat up a fellow attorney? You’re not even as smart as you look, and that hardly seems possible. And what do I get out of attacking and possibly killing Ronnie? I love her.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure you do. And she’s a real hot number, from what I hear. We got a tip from a woman on Sunday, two days ago. She tells us a guy named Soyko and someone named Romp were involved in McLean and Dopps. Turns out they both know you. So we go talk to those two first thing yesterday morning, and guess what? Your secretary or fiancée gets chased later by two guys matching the descriptions of Soyko and Romp. Several people get beaten like—how’d you put it?—‘in the most brutal and reprehensible fashion.’ All this happening right outside your fiancée’s apartment. Incredible how it shook out like that.”
The news about Ronnie talking to the police hit Cooper visibly. He looked away for a moment.
“Seems you didn’t know about that call, did you?” Haney, seeing an opening, stepped closer. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told that warped motherfucker Soyko. We’re going to be looking long and hard at everything. We know those guys work for you. We’ll put it all together, counselor. You got my word on that.”
Cooper’s stomach felt like Greg Norman was practicing his short irons off of it. So Ronnie called the cops on those two and this was their response. She never mentioned that call. Not Sunday or last night. He straightened up and returned Haney’s glare.
“Sergeant, I resent this obvious attempt at intimidation. Believe me, your superiors will be hearing about how you have conducted yourself here. And I do not choose to continue this conversation without my lawyer present.”
“That’s probably not the dumbest idea you ever had.” Haney nodded and looked at his partner. “Or will have.”
When they left, Cooper stood in the hallway for several minutes considering what Haney had said. Then he went inside and told his receptionist to hold his calls unless it was Ronnie. He went into his office and sat down. He was sucking air in shallow blasts and his exhales sounded like a crippled accordion. Everything seemed beyond his control. He thought of how he wanted to call Ronnie into his office but couldn’t. He opened his bottom drawer and pulled out the shiny Colt Python. He shifted it from one hand to the other, but the gun didn’t give him any clarity. And it was options and clarity that he desperately needed. His life was unraveling laboriously around him. Soyko and Romp on a rampage, probably gunning for him. Ronnie terrified and in danger. And, hell, it would be just a matter of time before Haney would be back with a search warrant and then an arrest warrant.
He was pretty sure his investigators wouldn’t roll on him. Certainly not out of loyalty, but they’d both rather get bone-marrow cancer than cooperate with the police. Still, they almost certainly would come after him themselves. They’d probably think he put Ronnie up to that call. They were so far out of control, who knew what they’d do next? What was it Ronnie had said? “They work for themselves. You’re just the guy that gives them stupid ideas and pays them.”
He thought of her. That woman always was far more perceptive than any three of his classmates in law school. Damn, she was right about a lot of things, but she must have been out of her mind to call the cops.
Got to do something, he told himself. If he went to the cops, he could finger the two men for Dopps and McLean. He could say he never asked them to do it but just paid them to go have a talk. Ronnie’d back him on all of that. It was almost true, and he knew Haney was drooling to clear those cases. He could say that, when he heard about what they did, he was too scared to call the police. But after the attack on his secretary, he knew they had to be locked up.
“Think again,” he muttered to himself. How could he explain why he hired them to talk to McLean after he knew they killed Dopps? He was sure to get nailed for conspiracy, among other charges. Plus, he reasoned, as long as those two were alive, either in prison with him or on the street, eventually his sorry ass would get whacked. They’d have to be stopped with no chance of getting started again. Only one way to do that. He looked at the revolver for a long time.
Who was he kidding? He knew he could never shoot anyone.
He shifted to his next option. It was his only real option and he knew it: get far away and fast. Hook up with Ronnie and get them both out of Colorado by the next afternoon. It would take him that long to pull his money out of his accounts and sell his second car, the old Corvette, to that dealer on South Broadway who always was so hot to buy it. His quick calculations told him he could get maybe sixty-five or seventy thousand together that soon. Enough for a new start somewhere else. It would probably mean the end of his legal career. That certainly wasn’t what he had in mind when he left law school, but it was better than getting shredded by Soyko, or spending the next fifteen years playing house with a three-hundred-pound ape in Cañon City. He’d like to do something to avenge the assault on Ronnie, but getting himself killed was in no way suitable. Better he should live, preferably out of jail, to keep her happy, he told himself. Leave all that Chuck Norris nonsense to those better suited for it.
“Someone here to see you, Mr. Cooper,” the receptionist barked through the intercom. Her voice was drenched in satisfaction. “A police detective.”
Cooper frowned. What did Haney want now? As he was reaching for the intercom button to tell her he’d be ready in a minute, his door swung open and in walked a man he hadn’t seen since Doug Shelton’s preliminary hearing.
“Looks like this ain’t your week, counselor.” Art Kovacs shut the door behind him and approached. “And here it is, only Tuesday.”
“Well, come right in and make yourself comfortable,” Cooper said with mock indignation. He paused. “You look familiar.”
“We met on that Doug Shelton bust.” Kovacs now stood at the desk.
“You’re Korchak. No, wait. Kovacs, right? Arthur Kovacs, wasn’t it?”
“It still is.” The detective smiled quickly at his own cleverness. He dropped into the chair across from Cooper like he hadn’t sat down in months. “I think we should have us a talk here. You look like you could use help. And I mean help from someone that’s got a little pull.”
“Let me guess. You just happen to have a little pull.” Cooper was confused.
“Bingo.” Kovacs pointed a finger at him like a pistol. “I don’t want to waste a lot of time, so I’ll just lay it all out. You’d be very mistaken to consider this a suggestion. We’ll call it a mandate. That’s a new buzzword we hear downtown. Now, I know for a fact that you’re basically fucked with the department. It’s just a matter of a day or two before that birdbrain Haney’ll have something to go to the DA with. That means you’ll be charged and they’ll come down your throat with a meat cleaver, believe me. When Haney gets a hard-on for someone, he don’t let up.”
“I figured that one out for myself.”
“I’ll bet you did.” Kovacs loosened his light-tan tie and rolled his neck like it was stiff. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt the approximate color of prune juice, and his forearms were so hairy there was practically no skin visible. “Here’s where your new friend could come in handy. I’m working on this investigation, too. I can make sure it drags out for a while, and I can give them enough troubles that maybe you don’t burn. Maybe. They got a circumstantial case on this McLean thing, and that guy up in Commerce City—forget it. They got very little unless Soyko flips you. Is that possible?”
“Not likely.”
“Well, then, with my help you might not be in such big trouble, after all. At the very least I can let you know what’s coming down, and when and where. Think that might be helpful to you?”
“It might at that,” Cooper acknowledged. “I just wonder what it is you want in return for all this magnanimous assistance?”
“I want you to stop chasing after Doug Shelton’s estate. I want you to forget that guy ever existed.”
“How did you know I’m chasing anything?” Cooper sat up straight in his chair.
“This coke whore that used to play with Shelton told me Soyko was trying to scare information out of her. He did a good job of it. I’ll level with you, partner. That estate was located a long time ago. By me. Mr. Shelton told me a lot of interesting things about himself and his business ventures right after he was arrested.”
“I gather that would have been about when you two hatched up a deal to steal the evidence against him.”
“Basically. He took a fair amount of persuading, but he finally opened up.”
Cooper broke into a smile of recognition. “So that explains who beat the snot out of him right after his arrest. How much did he leave?”
“There was some snot beating, all right.” Kovacs grinned. “Dougy left enough to make me happy but not enough so’s I’d want to share it with you or this Story what’s-her-name. I don’t need no interference from anyone. I’ll deal with Story and her big, bad bounty hunter on my own. You just deal with those two jerkoffs that work for you. Pull them off the hunt. That sound like something you can handle?”
“It certainly does.” Cooper sat back for a minute. He knew that if he told Kovacs how out of control Soyko was he’d get no help. “I’ll be glad to do all that’s within my power to keep my associates from making further inquiries into Mr. Shelton’s estate.”
“I don’t give a shit what’s within your power. Just call off those two mutts.”
Cooper nodded. However, he had no intention of coming away from this Shelton search empty-handed now that he knew who had the money.
“You know, Kovacs, I put a lot of time and effort into looking for this money. If I were to suddenly cease my efforts, I feel as though I should be compensated in some fashion.”
“No fuckin’ way!” Kovacs yelled. He could feel his stomach churning. He’d been popping Pepto-Bismol tablets like they were breath mints and still his intestines complained. No one ever cooperates. Everyone’s always got their own angle. “You maybe keep from getting skinned alive on this thing. That should be compensation enough.”
“I am not certain that it is.” Cooper frowned thoughtfully. “But for, say, twenty thousand, my comfort level would increase dramatically.”
“Oh, would it now?” The cop calmed down and studied the attorney. “Let me get back to you on that one. I’d hate to do anything to disturb your fuckin’ comfort level.”
“Fair enough. Can I ask you one more question?”
“Would it matter if I said no?”
“How much did Douglas pay you for your help with his evidence?”
Kovacs stood up in disgust. His stomach was burning fiercely now, and he wondered where the restrooms were.
“Go to hell. Just get those two nut cases off my ass and away from my money and I’ll let you know what’s going on from our end.”
He walked out of the office in determined search of the nearest “facilities.” When the detective planted himself in the toilet stall on Cooper’s floor, he was sweating from a gastric burn that gripped him like an enormous swamp slug. His insides were getting worse every day. His so-called partner had suggested this stupid talk with Cooper. Plain to see that the lawyer was more trouble than he was worth. No way he could control Soyko and Romp. Kovacs knew he’d have to do that himself. Turned out he had to do everything himself. And his partner was becoming as useless as Cooper. The stress of all these decisions was turning his stomach into a mini-Chernobyl. He just wanted to end the anguish, and it was becoming clear that that meant he was going to have to end several lives.
Streeter got information on Soyko from Cooper’s receptionist on Monday. Without hesitation, she gave his and Romp’s phone number and address. The bounty hunter had gone to their apartment a couple of times that day, but no one was home. Finally, about ten o’clock Tuesday night, he went back and saw a light in the window. Walking up to the third-floor unit, he could feel his nine-millimeter tucked into the small of his back. It was there strictly for self-defense.
From the outside walkway leading to the apartment, Streeter could see the shaky blue glow of Soyko’s television dance off the curtains. He tried to look in the window, but the drapes were drawn too tight to give him much of a view. He rang the buzzer several times. No one answered. Then he pounded on the door. Still no answer. He rattled the handle, and was surprised to find it unlocked.
“Anybody here?” he asked calmly as he opened the door a couple of inches. Nothing. He pushed harder and repeated the question. “Anybody here?”
When he pushed the door open and stepped into the living room, he got his answer. There—draped over the couch, half on the floor—was the process server who had given Story her papers at Cooper’s. The left side of his head was matted with blood, and there was a large spray of red over the couch and wall a few feet from him. This must be that Jacky Romp that Carey mentioned.
Streeter took out his handkerchief and covered his right hand. He walked to the couch and checked Romp for a pulse. There was none, but the skin was still mildly warm, indicating that he hadn’t been dead for long. Streeter noticed that both of the man’s wrists were cut and the marks looked fresh. Romp’s face was twisted in rage, like he had died giving someone serious verbal grief. Judging by where the blood spray ended up on the wall, Streeter guessed that he was shot kneeling down and then sort of thrown onto the couch after he was dead. Streeter backed away from the body. He wiped his prints off the doorknob and left.
When he got back to the church, he went to Frank’s room. Once again, the bondsman automatically grabbed his Scotch and they headed to his office.
“It’s getting way out of hand, Street,” Frank said when they sat down at his desk. Then he nodded to the Scotch bottle. “This is getting to be a regular event around here. You got to go to the police.”
“I called 911 from a phone booth on the way back here.”
“I assumed that. I mean you got to sit down with them and fill them in on all of this stuff.”
“That would be nice, except that I think it’s the police who’s doing most of it. This Jacky business wasn’t Cooper’s work. And Soyko wouldn’t do Romp. No motive, and Carey tells me these two guys were closer than brothers.”
“You think Kovacs did it?”
“Romp had cuts on his wrists. My guess is handcuffs. Kovacs doesn’t want anyone messing into Doug’s business. This is his way of telling Cooper to back off. He probably figured he’d have to be a little more forceful with Cooper than he was with Story.”
“So where’s Soyko now?”
“I wouldn’t mind knowing that myself. I’m meeting Carey tomorrow afternoon to see what I can find out. I also got a call today from Cooper’s secretary. Seems she was attacked last night and she wants to get together with me tomorrow and talk about it. Ronnie Taggert. I may have mentioned her.”
Frank was puzzled. “Why’d she call you?”
“I gather she can’t go to the cops, because she’s in over her head. And she doesn’t think Cooper’ll be much help.” Streeter smiled. “I think maybe she’s got a thing for me, too. For whatever reason, she trusts me.”
“Great. You need to get messed up with someone like that. You got a real knack for hitching up with trouble all of a sudden.”
“I’m not hitching up with anything,” he said, dropping the smile, “but I’m dying to find out what she knows about all this. We’re meeting first thing in the morning for breakfast.”
Frank shook his head like he had a stiff neck and poured another drink. “Let me know if you need anything. And watch your ass, huh?”
TWENTY
Jacky Romp was one of the most dead-looking bodies Soyko had ever seen, and he’d seen maybe a dozen guys in that precise condition. He’d been standing in the middle of the living room smoking and looking down at Jacky for almost half an hour. It didn’t take an orthopedic surgeon to figure out that Romp’s condition wasn’t brought on by natural causes. One side of his head looked like he’d stuck it in a blender. It had lolled off to his left and rested on the couch back. His legs shot straight out, like he was a puppet thrown down hard. It looked to Soyko like someone had used a cannon on his partner.
He had known Jacky for nearly ten years and roomed with him for most of that time. Jacky was not only Soyko’s closest friend, he was the only real friend he ever had. But Soyko wasn’t so much sad as puzzled about what to do next. Not about what to do with the killer. That was a definite no-brainer. No, he wondered about what to do in general without Jacky around.
Suddenly he turned to face the wall, let out a dull wail, and ran his fist through the cheap plaster. He did it twice more, then felt better. Jacky was history, but someone had to pay. Soyko would still leave town tomorrow, as they had planned, but he would be by himself. He knew he’d have to be careful until then. If the cops weren’t on his tail before, this would certainly get them there.
Life could be very strange at times, he decided sadly.
He walked into his bedroom and stuffed his clothes into two suitcases. Exactly what happened to Jacky? It wasn’t a burglary, because nothing was missing. It didn’t seem likely the cops did it, either. The name Tom Cooper waltzed slowly through Soyko’s noxious, if sparse, mind. So did the term “payback.” The attack on Ronnie Taggert had to be avenged, so Cooper must have hired a couple of goons to turn Jacky out like that. Easy enough to find out. Go to his office in the morning and don’t leave until you get some answers.
Forget Doug Shelton’s money and that Moffatt broad, Soyko thought. He could feel pain and uncertainty sprouting around him. Time to take the two actions that always brought him relief: he had to lash out and then he had to split. This McLean beating had turned into one monumentally bad idea. He could see that now. Also taking Ronnie on brought too much heat, and maybe cost Jacky his life. Tomorrow, dealing with Cooper, that had to be done.
