Ghosts of the Past

by Mark H. Downer

  There had been a couple of watches, an envelope containing $350 in cash from his winnings in a recent golf tournament, everything that was a precious metal or jewel from his jewelry case, and his jade and ivory pen set Max had given him at graduation. However, nothing of any size. No electronics, his golf clubs were still there, and his Browning 12 gauge had not been discovered in the top shelf of his closet.

  “Looks to me like you caught him in the act before he had time to pick you clean of the big stuff. Although, getting away in a car… they were not going to haul away anything too big. You got insurance don’t ya?

  “Yeah, I’m covered.” Ferguson replied.

  “Well, I think we’re about wrapped up here.” Brucker picked up the plastic zip lock bag lying on the table and examined the contents. “We’ll run this for prints, and if we score someone, we’ll have somebody get back to you. Thanks for your patience Mr. Ferguson.”

  “No, thank you officer, I appreciate your help.”

  “You gonna be alright here by yourself tonight? You got any relatives or friends you could stay with?”

  “No, I’ll be fine. I do think I’ll bring my shotgun to bed with me though.”

  “You do have a permit for that?” Brucker cocked his head in mock concern.

  “Yes sir officer, I’m fully compliant.” Ferguson laughed in reply.

  “Good! My guess is that whoever was here has no interest in coming back. That’s if he’s capable of even walking around. Goodnight Mr. Ferguson. We’ll be in touch.”

  For the better part of the remaining evening, Ferguson tried to put everything that wasn’t broken back in it’s place, and everything that was, he put in a pile by the same back door that had helped him save his life earlier. The biggest problem he was having, however, was the half-angry, half-disgusted feeling of having been violated by some ‘shithead’ stranger that had just stolen his property… his stuff.

  Dragging himself off to bed, he undressed and emptied his pockets and laid his wallet on the dresser. He retrieved his cell phone, the translation book and the copy of the map he had stacked by the phone in the kitchen. He set them down next to his wallet, right where he had left behind the other photocopy of the front of the letter… but it wasn’t there.

  He didn’t notice it before. He had accounted for a lot of missing things, but not the letter, at least half of the letter. The other half, containing the map had been with him at dinner.

  He scoured the floor, behind the dresser, in the garbage can, under the bed, and then stopped dead in his tracks. He stared blankly at the wall, while a small chill made it’s way up his spine. He was here for the letter.

  Chapter 6

  May 19, 2001. Chicago, Illinois.

  Jason Allen had been perched on one of the bar stools that fronted the long mahogany and brass bar at Kitty O’Sheas on Michigan Avenue. His average height and build, along with indistinguishable features, made him a very ordinary man at the age 46. He had never stood out physically among the crowd, and he had never separated himself from his peers with his talents as an artist. His short and unremarkable career had led him early on into administrative work in the fine arts to help pay the bills, and he leveraged the contacts and connections he had made into a lucrative appraisal, authentication and brokerage business with an impeccable reputation. He had worked with Grayson Lewis for years and had never done anything to cause Lewis to question his intentions. However, alcohol, gambling, and several risky investments gone bad had taken their toll as of late and he had recently begun secretly associating with some rather unscrupulous characters, even resorting to capitalizing on several questionable opportunities that had presented themselves, in most cases at the expense of others.

  He had visualized a golden opportunity when he heard from Lewis, and naturally had sworn the secrecy Lewis demanded. He had just the person in mind, when he was able to recover from the significance of the artwork that Grayson Lewis had discussed with his daughter.

  The black stretch limousine pulled up to the curb, just in front of the Hilton’s cab line, outside the bar’s front door. Allen had been periodically eyeing the street and needed no prompting, immediately standing down, knocking back the remaining portion of his half-and-half, and depositing a ten-dollar bill next to the empty glass. He hurried outside into the cool, overcast evening, walked over to the chauffeur holding the rear door open, nodded and climbed in.

  Guillermo Rocca was comfortably squeezed between two incredibly beautiful and scantily clad ladies of the evening. A half empty bottle of Perrier Jouet Champagne lay in an ice bucket, while all three had arms and legs entwined, and were sipping from one another’s glasses. Rocca peeled away from the emerging orgy and slipped into the seat next to Allen, holding his hand up in a gesture of patience to the two young girls.

  “Jason, good to see you again.”

  “Thank you Mr. Rocca, it’s always a pleasure to see you. You look as if you’re in good hands.”

  “Yes, these are my friends Ginger and Sabrina. They come highly recommended.” Rocca looked at the two and winked, and quickly returned his attention to Allen. “You have some good news for me?’

  “Well, good news and bad news I’m afraid.” said Allen somewhat nervously.

  Rocca’s seemingly happy demeanor disappeared and he focused intently on Allen, his coal black eyes cutting into Allen’s soul. He sat back slowly in his seat and again held up his hand at the two giggling ladies, this time asking for quiet.

  Guillermo Rocca, was a physically intimidating man. Tall, muscular, dark-skinned with jet-black hair and mustache, and at 57 years old, he was probably the wealthiest man in all of Ecuador. He had grown up dirt poor in an orphanage outside of Dastilla. However, as a young teen, through an incredibly fortunate set of circumstances, he obtained information that implicated some very influential people in the local government. He successfully blackmailed his way into ownership of some presumably worthless land that ironically turned out to provide one of the wealthiest gold strikes in Ecuador’s history.

  His amassed fortune now included numerous commercial properties and developments around the world, three mining operations, and agricultural plantations throughout South America. However, well hidden and intensely protected in a Caribbean island mansion just south of Barbados, was one of the greatest accumulations of artwork the world never knew existed. It was Rocca’s greatest passion in life, and he had stopped at nothing to build and add to his impressive collection over the years.

  Allen was aware of his reputation as a collector, and he was also aware of the unsubstantiated rumors that people’s lives had been ruined and lost when they got in the way of his obsession. He also had heard of the astonishingly generous compensation Rocca lavished on those that had helped him acquire the art he pursued.

  “The works I mentioned to you may or may not still be in existence.” Allen continued.

  “I don’t follow you Mr. Allen.”

  “Let me try and explain.” Allen gave him as much of the story as he knew, which was lacking details and specifics, but in general was quite accurate.

  “So this collection of Goering’s might have been destroyed in the initial crash. Or, if it survived, could have been ruined if it was never found. Or if it was found, may be in the possession of another owner. Or, might still be intact, even in relatively good or restorable condition, if it had been packaged properly before it was to be transported,” said Rocca, as he tried to digest the facts presented to him.

  “Correct!” Allen was beginning to relax since Rocca’s well-known short temper had not exploded.

  Rocca reached over the two pair of long, gorgeous legs stretched out in front of the television cabinet and picked up the cell phone lying in an open tray. He punched through several menu options, and finally selected a stored entry.

  “Juan? Yes, it’s me. I need you to be on the
plane in thirty minutes. I need you in Louisville, Kentucky. I want you to keep an eye on a young lady there by the name of Courtney Lewis.” Rocca looked at Allen, as if to confirm the accuracy of the name. “Yes. Hang on.” Rocca lowered the phone and spoke to Allen. “I need a physical description, work and home addresses, make of automobile, and anything else that will help.” He raised the phone back to his ear. “I’ll contact you again in flight with everything you need. Please be very discreet! No contact unless I say so. We just want to keep tabs on her whereabouts at all times. Understood? Thanks, I’ll phone you shortly.”

  Allen had already pulled out his business cards and was busy writing down the details Rocca wanted on the backs of four cards. While he was completing the information, Rocca had repositioned himself back between his amorous companions and was giving instructions to the driver through the slight crack in the privacy windows.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were back in front of Kitty O’Sheas and the rear door on the limo once again had been opened. Rocca whispered into the ear of the blonder of the two blonds and she shifted her gaze from the floor to Allen. After an exchange of kisses, Ginger smiled deviously at Allen and moved from her position in the back seat, to the side of Allen’s arm.

  “Thank you for the information Mr. Allen, I am very grateful to you for having thought of me. Ginger is your reward for the evening. Let us call it a good faith gesture on my part. If anything comes of this enterprise, I can assure you that you will have enough money to buy thousands of Gingers. I will be in touch.”

  “Thank you Mr. Rocca!” Allen could hardly contain his enthusiasm. “Your generosity is much appreciated. I look forward to working with you!”

  Ginger escorted Allen from the car, and the two of them headed north on the sidewalk and disappeared into the front door of the Hilton as Rocca’s limousine pulled into traffic on Michigan Avenue and headed north into the city.

  Chapter 7

  May 20, 2001. Louisville, Kentucky.

  The doorbell startled Dr. Karl. He had just sat down at his kitchen table to consume a toasted bagel with cream cheese, and relax with a nice cup of coffee and the morning paper. He certainly wasn’t expecting any visitors at 8:28 a.m., looking up at the clock on the microwave. The bell rang again impatiently.

  He reached the front door as the bell rang for the third time, and opened it up with a jerk. “Would you mind not ringing the doorbell again please!”

  Standing side-by-side on the front porch were Jimmy Syron and Jay Nieron. Syron’s face had a crisscross bandage around the nose, leaving the purple tip exposed, and he leaned at an angle on a cane in his right hand. Nieron appeared to be supporting him as well.

  “Are you John Karl?” Syron said with a snarl.

  “Johann Karl.” Karl replied.

  “Close enough!” Nieron chimed in as he helped lead Syron through the door and into the small foyer.

  “Excuse me, but who in the hell do you think you are barging into my home?”

  “We have a package for you, special delivery. I believe it’s a letter you’re looking for.” Syron continued.

  “Ah, yes! Yes, please come in.” This was sooner than Karl had expected the letter to surface, and the messengers left a lot to be desired. Nevertheless, this was a welcome intrusion.

  Nieron offered the envelope and Karl took it. He pointed to the tapestry couch in the adjacent living room, “Please have a seat”, while he sat in the striped wingback chair across from the coffee table separating them. He tore open the envelope and removed the single sheet of paper.

  After turning it back and forth twice and then checking the envelope again, he looked up at the pair. “This is a photocopy, and where’s the rest?”

  The two wretches looked at each other and then back at Karl. “What do you mean the rest?”

  “This is only the front of the letter. There is a back that contains the map. The map is what I need.” Karl was growing uneasy and irritated. What have you done with the map?”

  “Fuck you old man!” Syron jumped to his feet, his face twisted in pain. “That’s all there was!”

  “Calm down Jimmy.” Nieron stood and grabbed him.

  “No, you don’t understand there was more than just this!” Karl shook the paper at him.

  “No, you don’t understand you old fart!” Syron exploded. He came over the coffee table, disregarding any pain, and slammed the end of the cane into the nose of Karl, sending him back into the chair as both flipped backward into the wall.

  “Take it easy Jimmy!” Nieron stepped in between the two. “This ain’t gonna get us our money.”

  Karl crawled out from behind the chair, stood up, and slowly backed away toward the dining room entryway. He was starting to realize the seriousness of the situation. These two miserable boys were big trouble and he wondered why Irwin Jones was associated with them. He tried to think of a way out. He would try Jones on the number he had given him, since these two most certainly had to answer to him. He was bound to have some control over their actions.

  “Please! Please, calm down!” Karl implored. “Let me get in touch with your boss. I have his number… right here.” Karl stumbled through the dining room into the kitchen, picked up his briefcase off the kitchen table knocking the cold bagel to the floor, and retrieved the card with the phone number from his Daytimer.

  Syron drug himself to his feet, staggered through the foyer, and entered the kitchen from the other door, “If that’s anybody else, you’re a dead man!” He produced another stiletto knife similar to the one he had lost at Ferguson’s, and flicked open the blade.

  Karl had already entered the number into the phone and Jones answered on the second ring. “Mr. Jones, Dr. Karl here. We have a problem.”

  Syron reached over and snatched the phone out of Karl’s hand. “Who is this?”

  “I’m sorry, who is this?” Jones retorted.

  “This is Jimmy Syron you stupid fucker! Now who’s this?”

  “Mr. Syron, this is Walter Smith, what seems to be the problem?”

  “The problem is we got the letter like you wanted. We didn’t get Ferguson, but we will. This old turd here in front of me tells me we didn’t get the entire letter. No one told me there was more than one page. You said, ‘The letter with the Riechsmarshall Goering head on it’. Shit, I don’t care. All I know is we got what you wanted us to get, now we want to make sure we get paid.”

  “You will be paid, Mr. Syron, please calm down. I’m on my way now, and we can discuss payment when I get there. Let me speak to Dr. Karl please.”

  Syron turned the phone back to Karl. “Yes?”

  “Dr. Karl, I’m in route to your house, I’m only a few minutes away. Please remain calm and review whatever they brought you and tell them it should be sufficient. I will deal with those two punks when I get there.”

  “Thank you.” Karl hung up the phone and turned to Nieron who was holding the crumpled up letter. “Let me see that again. It may be enough.”

  Mr. Jones entered through the front door of the house unannounced.

  “We’re in the kitchen.” Syron called to him.

  Jones entered the kitchen to find Karl seated at the kitchen table with Syron seated in a chair next to him. Nieron was standing behind them, leaning against the counter next to the refrigerator.

  “We’re having a party I see.”

  “This ain’t no fuckin’ party Mr. Smith, Jones, whatever your name is. You asked us to do a job and we did it. Now we want to get paid.”

  “I told you that you would be paid when you got the letter and took care of Mr. Ferguson. You completed the first order of business, however we have some problems that still remain. The second item has yet to be fulfilled. You will be paid in full, through the account as we agreed, when the job is completed.”

  “Well, that’s w
here we have a difference of opinion.” With that, Syron pulled his hand out from under the table and plunged the stiletto into the side of Karl’s throat. Karl’s mouth opened and his eyes bulged in shock, his hands clutched at his chest for a brief instant and then he fell forward. Syron slid the knife out while Karl’s life bled away onto the table. “We’d like our money… Now!”

  “That was a very stupid thing to do Mr. Syron.” The whole sequence had caught Jones off guard. He thought he was prepared, having tucked the silenced Walther PPK into the waistband behind his back before entering, but he did not anticipate them to act irrationally and kill Karl. He had made a grave mistake picking these two to handle this particular job. He thought they were ready, but he was wrong. They were nothing but insignificant, second-rate losers, and always would be. He had screwed up, now it was time to correct the mistake.

  Syron stood shakily, while Nieron leaned over to help him to his feet. That was all the time Jones needed. He reached expertly behind his back, retrieving the Walther and bringing it up immediately. He clicked off one round that landed just over the right eye of Nieron sending the majority of the back of his head splattering against the white refrigerator door. Nieron wobbled slightly, and then hit the floor with a thud. Syron froze in shock, panic stretching across his face.

  “Very stupid Jimmy.” Jones was slowly shaking his head back and forth.

  The last sound Syron heard was the ‘cough’ of another round discharging into his forehead.

  Soft, filtered rays of early morning sunshine radiated through the half-open blinds. Ferguson wasn’t sure if he had been to sleep at all, except for the faint remembrance of it having been dark the last time he had looked over at his sleeping companion. The Browning 12 gauge was clearly visible lying on the top of the sheets, and the LED readout on the alarm clock confirmed that he had been asleep for the last two and a half hours.