Vengeance: A Reece Culver Thriller - Book 1 (14 page)

Chapter Thirty-Five

B
ack at his
hotel, Reece smiled when he walked into the lobby and heard the clerk call his name. Crystal had wired the $7,000 she’d promised, and once again he was back on track financially.

“Do you know what time that bank across the street closes?”

“Five o’clock, Mr. Culver.” Reece thanked the clerk and headed up the stairs to his room on the second floor. On the way up the breeze he was making reminded him just how bad he needed a shower. He was still sweating out the Scotch he’d had the night before with Haisley.

He felt the buzz of his cellphone and reached into his front pocket.

“Culver.”

“Reece, I’m glad I caught you,” his mother said.

“Yeah.”

“Mike Mobley called and told me you’re working with Haisley.”

“Yeah, so what’s he the
National Enquirer
?”

“No, Reece, he’s keeping me in the loop. He’s trying to keep you safe.”

“Oh, is that what he’s doing?” Reece said. “Well, Mom, I hope you’re doing well, but I’m in the middle of something right now. I can’t talk. You take care,” Reece said, ending the call.

After pulling off his cowboy boots and stripping off his clothes, he jumped into the shower. The warm flow of water felt wonderful on his stiff back. He wondered if Haisley and the guys from his old precinct had found any ID on the dead guy.

At the bank a few minutes later, he walked up to the teller and managed to wire five grand to his bank account in Denver, keeping the rest in cash. On the walk back to the motel, he decided to give Haisley a call.

“Averton.”

“Have you guys got a name for the corpse?” Reece asked.

“No luck on that. We’ll have to wait on forensics.”

“You still out there?” he asked, trying to see if they’d found anything else.

“No, I just got back to the house. We may be out of luck getting any more information, Reece. The guy they assigned, Detective Wheeler, hates my guts. He’s a real peckerwood. If you know what I mean.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Reece said. “Hey, is there any chance you can get a list of the regulars who visited Shank’s casino from your friend Cox on that task force?”

“That’s doubtful. I just got off the phone with Special Agent Cox. He’s disbanding the whole task force. They’re convinced they’ve got a leak in the unit.”

“How about the guys from Tulsa? Any chance the insider you told me about, what was his name? You know, the guy that plays poker. Would he know who the regulars were?”

“It’s worth a try. I’ll call you right back.”

*

Haisley crossed the garage, past the Camaro, and entered his office, trying to remember where he put Agent Messerman’s phone number. He shuffled through a stack of papers until he found a small scrap with the number on it.

“Hello, Agent Messerman.”

“Jim, it’s Haisley Averton. How are you doing?”

“Haisley, I just got off the phone with Cox. He’s pissed that Shanks got tipped off, but thankful we didn’t go in on the raid and get ambushed.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s one good thing, but it was a real shock this morning.”

“I bet it was. It sounds like Cox is pulling the plug on the task force.”

“Yeah, I just talked to him a little while ago. I can’t blame him. It definitely seems like Shanks has compromised the TF,” Haisley said.

“That’s too bad. I really enjoyed working with you. So what are you going to do now? Go back to your retirement?”

“Yeah, for the most part. I’ve got a PI friend out of Denver who’s working a case. Do you remember when we were briefed on Owen Roberts?” Haisley asked.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“The PI is trying to find out what happened to Tracey Roberts,” Haisley said.

“That sounds difficult, especially after all these years.”

“Yeah, it seems like a tough case.”

“Well, it’s been good working with you. Haisley. If you ever need anything, give me a call,” Messerman said.

“Actually, Jim, there is one thing you could help me with.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you remember the names of the four guys you played poker with in those tournaments when you were on the inside?”

“Yeah, I’ve got them right here,” Messerman said, reading off the names.

Now all Haisley had to do is find out if one of them was his dead man.

Chapter Thirty-Six

S
am Shanks
braced
himself as the Lear 55 settled onto the runway at Guayaquil, Ecuador, with twin chirps as the landing gear kissed the asphalt. He peered out the small oval window of the corporate jet, looking for his contact. Pablo Escodar had worked the bar for Shanks in his St. Louis casino, and the two of them had developed a loyal relationship over the years.

The jet taxied to the ramp, and after the pilots shut down the engines the air stairs deployed. He heard someone walking up the steps and wonder if it might be Pablo, but became irritated when he saw the blue cap of a customs agent.

“Welcome to Guayaquil. May I see your passport, sir?” the agent said.

Shanks reached for his thick silver briefcase and produced the document.

“Very good, sir. May I ask how long you’ll be in Ecuador and the nature of your visit?”

“I’m on a short vacation. Came to see your beautiful beaches,” Shanks said, lying.

“And how long do you plan on staying?”

“Three days.”

“Very good, Mr. Shanks. I just need to check the flight crew’s documentation and we’ll be done here.

Shanks left the airplane and walked to the hangar a few hundred feet away. He wondered where his friend Pablo was and why had hadn’t arranged for Shanks to avoid customs. The hanger was lined wall to wall with an assortment of airplanes ranging in size from small single-engine Cessnas to a large Gulfstream corporate jet. He heard a noise and turned to see the face of his friend.

“Mr. Shanks, I’m sorry for my late arrival. I had some difficulties with airport security. I guess they’ve been having threats of some sort lately.”

“It’s good to see you, Pablo, my old friend. How have you been? What’s it been, two years?” Shanks said, extending his hand and then falling in next to the man as they walked toward the rear door, where Pablo’s Toyota Tundra was parked. The two men got in and the truck sped away.

“So you mentioned wanting to charter a large plane from Guayaquil up to the U.S. and back. What did you have in mind?” Pablo asked.

“I’ll be needing something with a couple thousand nautical miles range capable of carrying large wooden crates. I was also thinking of using coffee beans stacked around the crates to make it less appetizing for customs to inspect the airplane.”

“How about an Airbus A-320? I checked and the airline that flies out of Eagle-Vail flies them. How many passengers would you be bringing on the flight?”

“Ten to twelve people on the leg down to Guayaquil.”

“And how about the second leg of your trip?” Pablo said.

“That’s something we’ll have to discuss further. I have a special request.”

*

Several days later an orange and white cab drove out of the darkness into the well-lit area in front of the general aviation ramp at the international airport. Sam Shanks climbed out wearing khaki pants and a dark blue blazer with brass buttons. His bald head was moist with sweat, and he wanted nothing more than to find air conditioning. Shanks pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket and walked toward a man standing near a large twin-engine cargo plane parked just inside the hangar. The jet was solid white with no markings other than the tail number stenciled in black numbers on both sides of the vertical stabilizer.

“You must be the guy Pablo told me about,” he said.

“Yes, how was your flight?” the man asked in a thick accent, offering his hand. “I’ve got the airplane all ready for you, Mr. Shanks.”

“How long have you been flying A-320’s?”

“I crewed for the airlines until the strike last year. Now I do specialty cargo,” the man said. “Follow me. I’ll show you the flight deck.” He led Shanks up into the A-320 jet, then added:

“You guys got one of the nicest models that Airbus makes. It’s got plenty of range for both legs of the flight, and the previous operator was hauling cargo, so the back is already set up the way you guys want it.”

They walked through the elaborate flight deck into the rear cabin area. The first section had two forward lavatories, a full galley, and twenty rows of seating. He followed past the last row of seats, and watched as the man opened a solid door that led into the rear bulkhead. The floor beyond was flat with aluminum skids and a series of recessed aluminum rollers to bring pallets on board, and the walls held equally spaced D-rings for use in tying down cargo.

“This will work perfectly. What’s the range of this aircraft?” Shanks asked.

“That depends on the load and winds aloft. The maximum stated range at full load on the standard configuration is 3,200 nautical miles. It’s 2,849 from Denver to Guayaquil, and another 2,700 miles down to Montevideo. This airplane has winglets, so it’ll have better range. I’ll get the specs on this model and e-mail them to you it that’s okay.”

“That would be good to know. You can send them to this e-mail address,” Shanks said, handing a business card to the man. “I’m heading home tomorrow and I don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

T
he Norman exit
was easy to find and in no time the plethora of red OU flags confirmed that Reece was drawing near the home of the famous University of Oklahoma football team. He drove past the student union and watched a group of students all dressed in bright red uniforms march in four lines, each carrying a wooden rifle. He figured they were part of the drum corps, but they looked young to him.

Reece was hoping he’d be able to locate Kathryn Anders. The registrars would know where Ms. Anders kept her office, but that required locating a parking space, and Reece wasn’t in the mood to overpay.

It was less than refreshing to find that only a decade later, parking was still one of the most precious commodities on a college campus other than beer. He remembered back to his college days in St. Louis, and knew that without a parking-permit you were virtually screwed. Reece was driving down a long line of cars parallel parked when he saw a small space between a jacked-up Ford dually truck with an empty gun rack and a new Lexus. It was tight, but he managed to get the Mazda sandwiched in.

He walked up the steps toward a tall red building, and the sweet chemical smell of new carpeting filled his nostrils as he went in. A long line of students was waiting at the counter for the Registrar. He entered the line and waited. Reece must have stuck out from the crowd because a nice woman waved him over and opened a new service window. He asked about Professor Anders’ office number, and was told she was in the Arts building at the other end of the campus.

He set off at a fast clip, figuring if he hurried he could catch her before lunch. Maybe he could grab a bite with her while asking questions. People being questioned were always more free with their words when food was involved. Soon, Reece was walking up a flight of stairs in the Arts building, looking for office number 279. He rounded the corner and found it, but was disappointed to find that the door was locked. Professor Anders had a weekly schedule posted on her door. She was in class from 10:00 – noon, at lunch till 1:00 pm, and had office hours from 1:00 to 3:00.

He whiled away the time eating and surfing the internet until a glance at his watch told him that it was one-thirty. Reece felt lucky when he saw the professor’s office door open and was about to walk in when he noticed she was talking to a student. Ms. Anders looked up, making eye contact as if to say, I’ll be with you next and continued her conversation with the girl in her office. Reece turned away and noticed a group of Italian Renaissance reproductions running down the opposite wall. He studied each one, remembering a class he’d taken back in college. He’d always wanted to get over to Italy to see the paintings in person.

“Did you need something?” Reece turned, and for a moment didn’t recognize the face. She didn’t look like what he’d torn out of the newspaper article. She had long chestnut hair pulled back into barrettes, and he thought the look accentuated her high cheekbones, making her appear younger in person than in the picture. She was wearing a plaid dress with a green sweater draped over her shoulders. Anders looked like she was used to dressing conservative at school, but when she wore an outfit that was less baggy she’d have no problem hailing a cab.

“Yes, I was wondering if we could talk,” Reece said.

“Are you a student?” she asked, studying his face.

“No, I’m an investigator,” Reece said, handing her one of his business cards.

“Oh,” she said. He followed the Professor into her office.

“Is this about a student?”

“No, it’s about your aunt, Tracey Roberts.”

A weird look came over her face. “What about my aunt?” she asked sounding annoyed.

“Crystal Thomas hired me to find her mother.”

“Why would she do that after all of these years?” the professor asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to piece together.”

“And you think I’m the magic link that will help you solve your case?” she said, sounding sarcastic. The more he talked to her the more he realized he was in for a less than pleasant experience.

“I don’t think anything, but if you’ve got a few minutes I have a couple of unanswered questions.”

“What was your name?” Kathryn asked.

“Reece Culver,” he said, extending his hand and adding a smile. Reece watched as the professor’s attention shifted toward her office door. A tall red headed coed dressed in a grey OU sweatshirt and torn jeans was standing in the office doorway.

“Professor Anders, could I ask you some questions about yesterday’s quiz in AH302?” the girl asked, looking eager for them to finish.

“Yes Angela, we’re done here. What can I help you with?” Kathryn said, ignoring Reece.

“Mr. Cooler, you’ll have to come back another time. I have student matters to take care right now. That’s what OU pays me for, not to answer questions from total strangers.”

Reece wasn’t putting up with this B.S. He walked to the office door and said, “Angela, the professor will be with you in a minute.” He shut the office door and returning to the desk. “Now look, I didn’t drive ninety miles to get a bunch of crap off of you. Answer my questions and we’ll be done here. Got it?”

She reached for the gray desk phone. Reece put his hand on top of hers, keeping her from picking up the receiver.

“Stop or I’ll call security,” Kathryn Anders said loudly.

“Cut the crap, or I’ll call the police and have you taken in for questioning. You did the appraisal of the artwork at the Phillips’ home in Tulsa, and that artwork was stolen just the other day. Sounds like there could be a connection to you? Doesn’t it? I’d bet the police would love to find out,” Reece said.

Professor Anders removed her hand from the desk phone and crossed her arms, glaring at Reece.

“What year did my aunt go missing?” she asked.

“It was August of 1989. How old would you have been back then?” he asked, guessing she wasn’t much older than himself.

“I would have been in the first or second grade. Crystal, my cousin, and I were born the same year.”

“What relation were your parents to Tracey Roberts?” he asked, finding it interesting that she and Crystal were the same age.

“My father Charlie is Tracey’s older brother. Tracey was the youngest of three children,” Kathryn said as she reached up to flip her long bangs out of her eyes.

Reece studied her face. “Do you remember your father talking about Tracey back then?”

“A little,” she said, then stood up, looking toward the closed office door. “I need to get to my students.”

“In a minute,” Reece said. “Does your father Charlie live in Oklahoma?”

“No, he lives on the outskirts of Denver. Are we done here?”

*

On the way to the rental car Reece dialed the number for a friend who worked for the Jeffco sheriff. Actually, Natalie was more then a friend. They’d dated for a few months a couple of years back.

“Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office, how may I direct your call?” the receptionist asked.

“I’d like to speak to Deputy Natalie Gleason,” he said. Walking down the steps in front of the art building, Reece looked at the students perched on each side reading books and talking in small groups.

“This is Natalie.”

“Hey, Natalie, I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

“Depends what it is,” she said, sounding stressed.

“It’s not urgent, but when you get some time, can you do a multi-state search, and get everything you can on Crystal Ann Thomas? She was born Crystal Ann Roberts on August 26, 1982, in St. Louis, Missouri.”

“What did this one do?” Natalie asked.

“She’s a client who hired me to find her missing mother, but last week when I was at her childhood home I got jumped.”

“Jumped? Are we talking punched out or shot at?”

“Neither. I was hit in the head with a blunt instrument.”

“Did you see a doctor?” Natalie asked, concerned.

“Yeah, I did. Nothing can damage this thick skull of mine.”

“Do you know what other states this Crystal person lived in?”

“Oklahoma, and Colorado, but there may be more. Also, I found a newspaper article about an accidental death near a place named Tahlequah, Oklahoma. See if there’s anything more on that.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” Natalie said.

“I should be back to Denver in a couple of days. Pick a place for dinner, and I’ll take you out. It’ll be my treat.”