Vengeance: A Reece Culver Thriller - Book 1 (4 page)

Chapter Six

T
he next morning
Reece rolled onto his right side and grabbed the edge of the mattress, trying to avoid hitting the floor. Manchego had taken up most of the bed, leaving his master to the two-foot-wide section he’d decided belonged to the guy that fed him. Reece made his way to the living room, where he slid into last night’s clothes and pulled on his favorite cowboy boots. The leather felt cold on his calves. He sniffed the air and caught the strong scent of Crystal’s citrus perfume that had infused the surroundings. He dug through the wicker basket and found Manchego’s leash.

As Reece walked his dog down the stairs, he heard a fire truck going down 17th Avenue in an awful hurry. He wondered what was burning at six in the morning, and then remembered where he was. Manchego stretched the leash to its full length and squatted on the first piece of grass he could find. Reece waited, sniffing the cold morning air and welcoming the mind-clearing chill. They headed back toward the apartment, and when he got to the stairs out behind Chui’s Chinese he saw Larry Chang, the day cook and owner.

“Hi, Reece,” Larry said reaching down to give Manchego a few pets. “Thanks for paying off your food tab last night. Noi is still talking about the $5.00 you gave her.”

“Do you think Noi would like to watch Manchego for a few days? I’ve got a work trip,” Reece said.

“When are you leaving?” Larry asked.

“Probably later today.”

“Reece, there’s one more thing,” he said. “Rent’s due a week from tomorrow. I need you to pay last month’s rent too.”

Reece smiled at him and nodded. “I’ve got you covered.”

After returning to the apartment he spent the next few hours packing and getting Manchego’s food and gear situated so that Noi could take over her duties easily. He walked down the street to the bank, and as he entered, he caught the security guard’s disapproving look as he pulled his carry-on suitcase with a camouflaged backpack slung over his left shoulder. He had to get a wad of cash because when he’d tried to buy an airline ticket on the Internet, his credit card had been declined. With his business at the bank completed, he went out onto Colfax to hail a cab.

On the cab ride to Denver’s International Airport, he perused the notes he’d started on Crystal’s missing mother Tracey, but soon his mind drifted. The sights reminded him of the day his father had picked him up from the airport back in July of 2009. That in turn took him back to that day his father and he had followed Anthony Zimeratti’s blue Corvette through the streets of downtown St. Louis. His dad had handed him a Canon digital camera, telling him to snap pictures of Zimeratti with his mistress. It was the last piece of evidence Reece’s father needed for his PI divorce case.

He’d set the camera down on the seat as they sped up to catch Zimeratti. The blue Corvette was faster than his dad’s GTO, and Reece remembered his dad punching it and doing a power slide around a corner. The camera slid off the seat into the floor well, and Reece wasn’t fast enough to grab it. When he did pick it up, he looked through the viewfinder and everything looked fine. He ran his hands over the plastic camera body, thankful it was still working. But now he knew it had in fact broken.

They caught up with the Corvette. It roared along in the left lane and they were two lanes over to the right. Reece took four or five good shots of a hot blonde in the passenger’s seat kissing Zimeratti all over as he sped down Broadway. Reece remembered zooming in on the woman and realizing her shirt was unbuttoned down to her waist, exposing her breasts. Reece and his dad started laughing, having a good time. They eased back satisfied they’d captured the evidence Al Culver needed.

Reece felt the jerk of the cab’s brakes and looked up, letting go of his daydream. The taxi had pulled up to the curb at DIA, and he got the feeling someone was watching him. Someone was. He saw the driver’s grizzled face in the rearview mirror “You owe fifty-four. I take cash or credit card.”

“Yeah, I got it. It’s not like I can’t see those big red numbers on your toll taker,” Reece said, leaning back to grab the wallet from his back pocket. He handed the guy sixty bucks. The cabbie took his time counting out the six dollars in change, and his attitude took away any chance of a tip.

Reece paid cash for his airline ticket at the counter and checked his carry-on with the locked gun case for his Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum inside. He liked his Model 686 Plus and the idea of having seven bullets instead of the usual six. He wasn’t the best shot with a handgun, but if need be, it could be gripped by the barrel and used as a club.

“That’s all you’re checking in?” the ticket officer asked.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

*

Once he landed in Tulsa, he ended up renting a blue Mazda 6. The car’s acceleration was responsive as he pulled out of the airport and merged into the northbound lane of the highway. Reece dialed Haisley to see if he’d turned anything up on his missing person, Tracey Roberts.

“Haisley, what’s going on?” Reece asked.

“Culver, where are you?”

“Just flew in to Tulsa. Did you get the file?”

“I did, but it’s a dead end.”

“Dead end, what do you mean?” Reece asked, annoyed.

“There is no file. All I got is the folder jacket. I convinced Darla over at Riverside to let me look myself, but that’s all I came up with.”

A file missing from the archives? “Is there anything written on the jacket?” Reece asked, knowing that sometimes detectives would write investigative notes inside the cover.

“All I got is a photograph of a green and white house, plus the name Ann Fletcher. I wish I had more for you, Reece.”

“Spell the name for me,” he said, pulling his notebook out of his bomber jacket.

“It’s spelled just like it sounds,” Haisley said.

“How about the picture of the house? Can you tell where it’s located?” Reece asked, hoping for something.

“It could be anywhere. There’s a green lawn, and the house is a ranch style with white wood siding and green trim. The neighborhood has lots of trees. There’s really nothing else to add.”

“Well, I guess having a name is better than nothing,” Reece said.

As he continued onward, he kept considering why the file of a long-cold missing-persons case would be missing. It could have been misplaced. That sort of stuff happened. But it stuck in his craw, all the same. This attractive woman decides after all these years to look up her mother, and that happens to be a file that is missing from the police records.

Well, he thought, sighing, he knew the woman worked in health care. He’d just head over to the hospital. They’d have records on Tracey Roberts—or at least he hoped so.

Chapter Seven

A
new white Ford
van took the Garnet Road exit, southwest of Tulsa. The driver eyed himself in the rearview mirror and smoothed his shaggy windblown hair with the palm of his hand. He turned into the Motel 6 he’d spotted and parked near the entrance. The driver pulled a large black handgun from the center console and shoved it into a black leather satchel on the passenger’s seat.

He pulled the hood of his dark gray sweatshirt, a twin to the one he’d bought for Owen Roberts, over his hair and got out. He walked with an air of purpose into the motel office. He frowned when the young acne-faced clerk asked for his driver’s license and credit card, and instead slid a crisp hundred-dollar bill across the counter.

“This should take care of one night, and the rest is yours,” the man said, staring at the young clerk coldly. He instantly jotted down the name John Doe in his motel log next to room number fifty-six, and slid a green fobbed room key across the counter.

The driver made his way to the bright orange steel door of the motel room and, once inside, went immediately to the window to close the curtains. He turned on the light and retrieved a towel from the small motel bathroom. After placing the towel lengthwise on the bed, the driver took his clothes off and folded each article into a neat pile on the towel as he undressed.

The hot water of the shower felt good on his muscled frame, but the cheap motel soap was hard to work into a lather despite the massaging of his strong hands. He rubbed the bar firmly upon the thick white hair of his scalp, trying to loosen any remnant of blood spatter that remained after dismembering the body. He’d caught the blackjack dealer writing e-mail to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. What kind of crap was that? he thought as he continued washing. A grim smile lit his face as he pictured the chainsaw he’d purchased at the hardware store. That made the task of inserting the dealer’s six-foot frame into a blue plastic fifty-five gallon drum manageable. Now he was sucking up fish food in the Arkansas river.

The driver emerged from the steam-filled bathroom energized and pulled on a fresh pair of underwear and a white button-down shirt he’d picked up. The garment bag he’d brought with him in the van had a lone drip of dried blood, but the navy blue suit coat and matching dress pants inside the bag had remained pristine. He wrapped the towel on the bed over the his old clothes and placed them into the clear plastic garbage liner from the cheap brown wastebasket next to the TV stand.

He doubted anyone did any diving into this motel’s Dumpster.

Chapter Eight

T
he large hospital
where Tracey Roberts had once worked in the ICU took up half a block or more on the east side of 61
st
Avenue. Reece found a spot in visitor parking, and made his way into what looked like the administrative section of the mammoth red brick building.

He found a receptionist’s window with the title “Medical Records” and approached.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for some employment records,” Reece said. “Would you be able to help?”

“It depends whose records, and how old they are,” the woman snarled, pushing up her bifocals.

“The records are for a client of mine who worked here. A nurse in the ICU,” he said, holding up his identification.

“What were the dates of employment?”

“She worked here during 1989,” he answered. He had barely finished when he was greeted with a cackling laugh. The woman turned her back and wandered off down a long aisle.

Reece stood at the window, not sure if she’d return. He had a mind to walk though the door labeled “Records” to his right. He heard what sounded like the same woman talking in the distance behind several large shelves. He heard her say “1989” and break into laughter.

Reece clenched his fist. She was patronizing him. He hated that and considered hopping over to the other side of the counter to shake some sense into this rude person.
Why walk away and blow me off?

Instead, he left the counter and continued down the hallway looking for help. An older woman was coming toward him with a stack of medical records under one arm. She was short but sturdy with gray hair and thick glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.

“Excuse me,” he said, reading the name Joan off of her badge.

“Yes.”

“I’m looking for a historical employment record. Would you be the right person for that sort of thing?”

Joan walked off without saying a word, and Reece wondered if the hospital was going to be a dead end. He watched her open a door on her right and turn back.

“Come this way,” she said. They walked by several rows of records neatly stacked in large yellow racks.

“What year is your historical record?” Joan asked.

“It’s 1989,” Reece answered, smiling at her.

“I was here then. What was the employee’s name? I might have known him.”

“Tracey Roberts. She was a nurse here for a short time.”

“Doesn’t sound familiar,” Joan said. “That’s a long time ago, however. If we still had those records they’d be downstairs. I was going to take lunch now, but if you have a few minutes we could go take a look.”

“Sure,” he said. They went to a reception desk, where he signed in and was given a visitor’s badge. They walked down long hallways filled with sick people lying on gurneys, and Reece remembered why he disliked hospitals so much. Almost all of his previous visits were associated with pain, with damage to some part of his body, and the only thing that stayed the same regardless of which hospital he’d visited was the smell.

They took an elevator down for what seemed like twenty minutes, and on the way Reece learned that Joan had worked for the hospital for thirty-seven years, and was going to retire soon up on Lake Ten Killer. It made him think of his mother, who had recently bought a home on Keystone Lake west of Tulsa. He made a note to visit her while he was in town.

The elevator doors opened and they walked down a dark damp hallway toward a distant room she said was where they archived the records.

“The morgue is over there to the left down that hallway. I hate coming down here alone. You’d think I’d get used to it, but even after all of these years this place still gives me the creeps.”

They passed a narrow passage leading to the morgue. A shrill wine came at them from nowhere. They stopped, and he tried to place the sound. Joan looked over at him with wide eyes.

“Sorry,” she said, and then turned and hustled back to the elevator. The noise was continuous, as when construction workers rip sheets of plywood. Reece watched Joan disappear into the elevator. He guessed it was the kind of saw they used to cut open bodies during an autopsy. He continued down the hallway until he came to a single steel door with the words “Records Archive.”

Reece tried the handle but it was locked. He walked to his right, down another hallway that seemed to lead to some unfinished part of the hospital. There were no doors, so he turned around. He searched the basement for a quite a while, and was about ready to call it quits when he found a door that exited into the back alley behind the building.

He stepped out welcoming the bright afternoon sunshine, and followed the red brick exterior toward the area where he thought the medical records might be. Reece came to a loading ramp with a door beside that read “Medical Records Archive”. He rang the bell and waited until the door cracked open and a face appeared. “You got to go around to the front, mister,” a short, pudgy man with wisps of blond hair on the sides of an otherwise bald head said.

Reece put his hand against the door to avoid having it slammed in his face. He knew enough now to fabricate a plausible fiction.

“I’ve been up front. I checked in with Joan in Medical Records. I’m here to continue my search.”

“What did you say your name was?” the man asked, pulling the door open a little farther.

“Reece Culver.”

“Are you with the hospital?”

“No, I’m an investigator,” Reece said, holding up his ID.

“You working some big murder investigation or something?”

Reece kept quiet and followed him through a second door into a football field–sized room with high ceilings and tall steel shelving units that reminded him of the aisles at a warehouse store. He stopped and turned back toward the janitor.

“There haven’t been any murders in the case that I know of.”

“Okay, mister, I got work to do. Don’t take anything, but if you need to make copies, you can use the copy machine over there,” he said, pointing at an office area on the far side of the room. “You can let yourself out the same way we came in.”