by Bryan Koepke
“Next slide, please. Okay, here’s a series of aerial photographs showing the property that Shanks and his crew call home these days. We’ve got a man working for us down in Tulsa who’s observed the operation at night. Our Tulsa man is a regular at a Thursday night poker game.”
With the new subject Crystal felt relieved, but she still worried that her boss George Kendall would make the connection between her and Owen. She panned the faces of the men across the table and all eyes were on the detailed map of Shanks’ Tulsa casino. From the air it looked like a series of farm buildings about a half-mile in from a small two-lane road to the north. A small creek paralleled the property on the west and that area appeared heavily wooded. A neighborhood of houses abutted the plot on the east, about a mile or so from the main casino building. From what she could see in the pictures the large expanse of land seemed like the perfect place to hide a casino.
“Have you confirmed that this is indeed an illegal gambling establishment?” George Kendall asked.
“Yes, like I said earlier, Agent Messerman has a man that’s been a regular at the property for the past three months. Agent Messerman, would you like to add to that?” Cox said as he slid the laser pointer across the table.
“Here’s a map we’ve made of the property. This brick building here is the main casino, and the other buildings service a working farm on the property,” Messerman said, aiming the red laser pointer at the screen.
“The last time we met with the CI, Owen Roberts, he told us Shanks is pulling the plug on the place. He’s got a big party planned for Saturday night, February 5. We’re going in two days before this coming Thursday night. It’s the night of their weekly poker tournament, and the place will be a zoo. It’s the perfect time to blend in and pull this off,” Cox said running a hand through his short buzz cut. “Okay, the raid will go like this.”
Chapter Ten
Once inside the archives, Reece walked down the first aisle. The shelves were filled with stacked cardboard records boxes with large labels listing a range of names housed inside. He could see that most of the boxes were arranged alphabetically, so when he got to the end he made his way toward the “R’s”. The section that was labeled with a large green “Q” was narrower than the one before it, which seemed logical.
Reece walked down the next row looking for a name that started with “Roberts”, but by the time he’d gotten to the end he’d only found “Reynolds”. He turned the corner and was in the “S’s”. Turning back he looked up toward the top of the shelving where he could just make out a box with the name “Roans” midway down from the very top shelf. It was a long way up and he wondered if he could climb the tall metal shelving to reach the top shelf. Reece took hold of a steel beam that supported the next row of shelves just above his head, and began to pull him self up. Just then a door slammed on the other side of the cavernous warehouse, and he thought better of the idea. He didn’t want anyone looking at him like a cat burglar.
He stepped down, walked out into the aisle, and searched for a way to reach the top. Down toward the end he saw a tall steel staircase ladder with two wheels on the backside, and rubber feet on the front. He sprinted to the ladder, tipped it back onto the wheels, and rolled it back into the aisle. He looked up at the area of the top shelf guessing it contained Tracey Robert’s employment file, and positioned the ladder. Stepping down on a bar that ran parallel to the wheels, he locked the brake and started upward.
The ladder held his 195-pound frame with ease. He searched for the box he’d seen earlier labeled “Roans.” He found it straight above and started to climb toward it. On the way up he got a sense of just how high he was. He’d never liked heights, at least not since falling out of the top of a tree in the backyard of his St. Louis home at the age of nine. That stunt had cost him his run for the spelling bee championship and resulted in a blue cast that at least won him lots of sympathy and signatures from his classmates.
Reece rolled until he saw a box labeled “Roberts – Rogolan.” He stood on the top step of the ladder and reached out toward the box, but was a couple of feet shy. A door slammed in the distance, and he wondered if the janitor had left for lunch. Reece looked back over his shoulder and could see all the way to the other side of the room. He was alone.
The shelving lacked much to hold onto. He stuck his right foot into the angle brace, hoisted himself up off of the ladder, and onto the top shelf. The structure wiggled in a wide, unnerving manner. He knelt down on top of a box, crunching his knee through its cardboard lid, and waited for the shelving unit to settle.
In the distance a loud voice broke the silence. Reece froze, ducking down until almost lying flat on the tops of the boxes. He thought he heard the familiar voice of the janitor. It sounded like he was arguing with someone. The second voice sounded deeper with a thick southern drawl. Reece lay there trying to discern what the two men were yelling about.
“You don’t belong here,” he heard the janitor yell. Reece had no idea who he was yelling at, but he didn’t want to linger and let the intruder discover him. Reaching into the records box he’d seen earlier, he sorted through the names, but kept low to avoid detection. He found a manila envelope with a green tab labeled “Roberts.” Reece pulled it out and flipped the thick file open. He saw the name “Nester Roberts” and dropped it to his side. The next file folder had a similar green tab with the same name.
Reece heard the voices coming closer and froze, hoping they wouldn’t see the ladder. The janitor let out a loud scream—“No, don’t you—” that echoed off the ceiling above.
A long bout of silence followed. Reece didn’t like the sound of that. He listened intently, wondering what was going on below. He couldn’t see much from his vantage point, so he knelt up and looked over the top of the boxes to his right. The janitor was lying haphazardly on the cement floor a couple of rows over. A small puddle of blood was forming near his face. What the hell is going on?
A mechanical noise erupted down on the floor behind him. He heard a “clang” and recognized the noise from when he’d stepped down on the brake of the ladder he’d used to climb the shelving unit. Reece heard the squeal of a wheel bearing. He crawled closer to the edge and looked down. Someone was dragging the ladder around the corner at the end of the aisle. He was trapped.
Reece warily climbed back toward the other side. As he spotted the janitor lying on the floor, he saw someone jogging in his peripheral vision. A figure in a dark gray hoodie passed the next shelving unit before running out of sight. It looked like a man, but he couldn’t be sure. He had no time to waste. He had to finish up and get out of there before the guy that stole the ladder found him.
Reece tore into the box flipping through records. At last he spied the name “Tracey Roberts” on an orange tab and pulled it out. He opened the folder and saw the date August 19, 1989. It had to be the right one. Reece folded it in half and shoved it into his pocket. He heard a low, growling electro-mechanical sound, like a piece of industrial equipment. Standing slowly, he braced himself on the top of the shelving unit. He stepped forward a little too aggressively and felt the shelves buckle.
The mechanical noise was drawing closer, changing tone in a Doppler effect. It was moving along the ceiling with the low musical grind of a large electric motor. What the hell is that? He took a couple of steps forward, trying to see past a pile of boxes that were taller than the rest on the adjacent shelf. He felt the swaying movement beneath his feet and knew he had to take slow steps or risk toppling the shelving unit. Finally, he saw the source of the mechanical noise. It was a large yellow bridge crane spanning across the ceiling. The center had red numbers painted on it that said “50 Ton.” He looked down toward the door through which he’d entered and saw the guy in the hoodie. He was holding a yellow box at the end of a pendant that ran up to the crane. It was the control box.
The crane was gaining speed, getting closer by the second. The carriage for the crane was moving sideways. It looked to be a mere forty feet away. He saw a
big gray steel hook hanging down. Reece took hold of the shelf, grabbing the steel braces with his hands in an attempt to climb down. His weight made the unit wobble. He swung down to the next row of shelves, and lost his grip, slamming down sideways into a pile of cardboard boxes.
The crane was getting close and sounded like it was traveling at full speed. He wondered who the man in the hoodie was. Did he kill the janitor and why? What did he want? Reece reached to his waist for his gun and realized he’d left it in the car. He slid his foot into the brace under the shelf and looked down at the concrete floor forty feet below. He was high enough that if he lost his footing and fell, he’d be severely injured if not killed. The crane was getting closer. He had to hurry if he was going to get down.
Reece climbed down the green steel shelving. He grabbed the edge and felt for a cross brace underneath, but there wasn’t one. He leaned over the side of the shelf, looking down. The space between the shelves was a good ten feet. He grabbed the shelf with both hands and lowered himself.
With a forceful whack the crane collided with the top of the shelving unit. His feet swung out away from the next shelf at a forty-five-degree angle. Squeezing his hands, he tightened his grip. He looked up at the ceiling and could see the entire shelving unit tipping over toward him. I’ll be smashed.
Reece let go. Time slowed as he fell. He hit something hard and felt an explosion of pain in his side. The blow knocked the wind out of him and he fought to breathe. A mountain of boxes crashed down. He heard the steel shelving unit crash to the concrete floor and cringed, hoping it wouldn’t hit him. He lay still, listening to the sound of boxes smashing dully to the floor all around him.
When the bombardment was over, Reece opened his eyes and found himself blinking at darkness. He was lying underneath the mountain of boxes he’d been climbing among earlier. He lay silent, thinking about the crane. He took deep breaths, forcing away the pain he felt in his side. He thought about the man with the control box. He had to climb out of this mess and get out of here before the guy came after him. He heard a box sliding to the floor a few feet away. Someone was walking toward him.
The only thing he could do was ready himself to launch a surprise attack if the wrong boxes were flung aside.
Chapter Eleven
A black stretch limousine glided up in front of the Philbrook Museum of Art under a cloudless sky in Tulsa. The rear door of the car swung open, encouraged by a pomegranate colored Berluti loafer. The shoe retracted from the leather interior armrest followed by a man whose stature was less than average. He wore a long black wool overcoat topped with a scarf that matched his shoes, and provided warmth to the sides of his prominent hairless head. The limo driver stepped out to get the door, but the man waved him off as he reached for the pale outstretched hand of a young woman.
The man pulled out a tall brunette with quaffed hair, bright blue eyes, and well-toned legs. She wore a crushed black taffeta dress with short black sleeves. The man in the overcoat turned toward the limo driver.
“I’ll call you when the party’s over,” he said in a Chicago accent.
“Very good, sir. If anything changes, just use this number,” the driver said, handing him a business card. The passenger shoved the card into the breast pocket of his William Fioravanti suit and slid a hand under the woman’s right arm. They walked toward the entrance of the museum, where two doormen dressed in matching black and gold suits were positioned on either side of large double doors. Sam Shanks grabbed the ornate black steel of the stair railing with one hand and undid the buttons of his overcoat with the other as he and his date ascended the steps.
Shanks had always admired the look of Villa Philbrook, a structure originally constructed in 1927 as the home of oilman Waite Phillips. Shanks knew the story well. Phillips had hired Edward Buehler Delk, a Kansas City architect to design an Italian Renaissance villa on the twenty-three-acre plot as a place for their two children to entertain friends. In 1938, Phillips announced that he was giving the seventy-two-room mansion and surrounding grounds to the city of Tulsa as an art center.
Shanks had a dream of doing something similar someday at a place far from here. He led his twenty-something date through the museum lobby toward a group of patrons dressed in similar fashion. A gray-haired man dressed in a tuxedo took a close look at them and said.
“Mr. Shanks. Welcome, it’s good to see you. I trust you had a good flight.”
“Very good,” Shanks said, knowing he’d not been on an airplane in months.
“May I take your coats?” the man asked. Shanks slipped out of his overcoat, handing it to the man, and led his date across the yellow marble tiled foyer toward a room where the group had arranged to meet.
“Sam, I’m so glad you could make it,” a tall woman said, approaching the couple. She wore a dress of white silk with a bright yellow scarf draped over her right shoulder. “We’ve got a great group. Would you like a glass of champagne?” she said, snapping her right finger skyward.
“Do you know any of these people?” Shanks’ date said, biting her lip.
“I know everyone that’s anybody in the art world, my dear. It’s what I do,” Shanks said. A tuxedo-clad waiter appeared with a tray covered in glasses of sparkling wine. He helped himself to a glass and handed a second flute to his date before joining a large group of people who were milling around in the main area of the museum. The walls were lined with a collection of mid seventeenth-century Italian artwork.
Shanks spotted Dominic Vance and nudged the arm of his date. She turned toward the approaching man like a fine diamond being shown off by its proud owner. Shanks watched the man’s eyes take in the lovely piece of arm candy he’d brought, and for a moment it helped Sam feel superior to all of the other well-heeled gentlemen in the museum.
“Who do we have here?” Vance said, extending his hand.
“Dominic, I didn’t see you. You look well. Let me introduce you. This is Candice,” Shanks said, pushing the woman toward the Manhattan gallery owner. He took her right hand, kneading it like a piece of molding clay.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Candice. Do you have a last name?” Dominic said as the woman pulled her hand as if from a snake.
“Just Candice.”
“Very well, then. Sam, there are some collectors here I’d like to introduce you to. Come this way.”
Vance passed in front of the couple and led them toward a corner where a small group including the woman with the yellow scarf and two other couples dressed in drab business attire were admiring a large fresco.
“Excuse me, this is the man I was telling you about earlier,” Vance said as they approached the group. “Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, this is Mr. Shanks and his date, Candice.” They exchanged greetings and Vance introduced the second couple as Mr. and Mrs. Shimmer.
They headed as a group through the marble-floored rooms of the museum looking at fine art. Sam Shanks was looking over Mrs. Phillips—an obvious trophy—when he caught Melvin Phillips staring at him. The man’s wife was in her early forties with long blond hair, high cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes. Her husband was closer to sixty and walked with a noticeable limp. Phillips pulled two cigars from his inside breast pocket and nodded toward Shanks as if to say, do you want to join me? The two men left the group and walked out the side door toward the extensive gardens.
“It’s a great day to be outdoors,” Phillips said, handing one of the Arturo Feunte cigars to Shanks and then holding up a torch-like stainless steel lighter.
“It is, Mr. Phillips. Thanks for the smoke,” Sam said, lighting his cigar and taking several puffs as the end started to glow. Sam held in one of the puffs, enjoying the flavor, as Mr. Phillips lit his own cigar.
“I’ve got to ask you, Phillips. Are you any relation to Waite Phillips?”
“No, I’m afraid not. All we share is the same last name and a fondness for beautiful things.”
“I’ve got to bring a camera next time I come here. I’m building a new home down south,
and I could definitely take some cues from this place.” Shanks said.
“Down south. In Texas?” Melvin asked.
“No. The land I own is on a whole different continent,” Shanks said.
“Yes it’s always good to have multiple homes. We’ve got a few spread out across the country, and then there’s our villa in Tuscany,” Melvin said, sounding competitive. “So Mr. Shanks, are you a collector?”
“Very much so. How about you, Mr. Phillips?”
“Call me Melvin, and yes, my wife and I are very active.”
“Do you have a favorite artist?”
“It varies, but these days I’m looking for a Van Gogh.”
“Anything in particular?” Shanks said.
“Something small and priceless.”
Chapter Twelve
Reece tried to hold his breath, but his side hurt. The footsteps on the concrete went around him. He heard the sound of boxes being thrown and crashing down in the distance. The killer would soon be digging him out. His heart pounded in his chest, feeling helpless as he hid under the boxes pushing down on him. Yet whoever was stalking him apparently came to the conclusion that he must have already left before the shelf units came crashing down. Because he heard more steps. The person was walking away.
Reece didn’t budge. He felt the adrenaline pumping through his body and took slow calculated breaths, calming himself.
A heavy door slammed in the distance. He was reminded of the janitor and quickly came to the conclusion that he might still be alive. Using his shoulder to nudge the boxes aside, he soon was able to stand up among the wreckage of cardboard. He hugged the wall and came to the spot two aisles over where he’d seen the janitor. He was gone. There were drag marks where the Frisbee-sized puddle of blood had been smeared toward the center aisle. It was obvious that the killer had dragged the body away to hide his handiwork.
Reece took his time walking toward the back door. Seeing a green desk phone on the janitor’s desk, he lifted the receiver and dialed 911. He set it down just as the operator answered, knowing that the number alone would alert them to dispatch someone. With extreme caution he stepped out of the second door, looking both ways. The alley was empty.
