Vengeance: A Reece Culver Thriller - Book 1

by Bryan Koepke

  Bingo. She hung up the phone, pulled the skirt off the bed, and stepped into it, looking sideways at the mirror. After taking a seat on the edge of the bed she slid her feet into a pair of three-inch black high heels. Crystal plugged the charger into the phone, clicked on the lamp next to the bed, and left for the big date that would compromise her boss for good.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Reece was tired of chasing pavement and yearned to stretch his legs. He took the exit off the Mark Twain Turnpike and entered a neighborhood where the vast majority of the homes had plywood nailed over their windows. He soon spied Calvin Avenue, where Owen and Tracey Roberts chose to live on while raising their three children. He followed the directions he’d copied onto the lower half of his grease-stained McDonalds bag, past 1960s-era houses that looked like abandoned remnants after some toxic chemical spill.

  He parked in front of the house listed as 4867 Calvin Avenue. When he killed the car’s ignition, he was met by the howl of semis coming from the highway he’d just exited. It seemed like a horrible place to raise a family, but maybe the highway hadn’t been around then.

  Reece switched off the headlights and sat in the car with the doors locked. The street was pitch black, and he had a funny feeling about approaching the house. His cellphone buzzed on vibrate mode in the front pocket of his jeans. He pulled it out and answered.

  “Reece Culver Investigations.”

  “Reece, it’s your mother. Where are you?”

  “I’m parked on a residential street on the north side of St. Louis. Why?”

  “What are you doing there?”

  “I’m trying to locate a missing person,” Reece said. “I’m working a case.”

  “Oh, is Haisley with you?”

  “No, why would Haisley be with me?” Reece said.

  “I don’t know. I guess I just thought he might be.”

  Reece was irritated by his mother’s remark, and he stared toward the lone illuminated house at the end of the street.

  “You’re not still trying to solve your father’s murder, are you?”

  “No … well, yes, I am still trying to solve that,” Reece said. “But no, that’s not what I’m doing right now.”

  “I’ve told you time and time again to leave that to the authorities,” she said. “I mean it, Reece. The men who killed your father—“

  Reece had heard this lecture so many times, and after his long drive he was not in the mood for it. “Look, Mom, I said I’m on another case. This has nothing to do with Dad. This is an investigation, for which I’m being paid good money, I might add.”

  “Well, all right, then,” she said, and from her tone of voice he could tell she didn’t think that added up to much. Not like his wonderful older brother. “I thought you were coming to visit me when you were in Tulsa,” she went on.

  “I can still do that,” he said, wanting to get her off the phone. “I still have unfinished business down there, and I’ll give you a call when I’m in town.”

  “You make sure you do. It’s hard enough being all alone after the death of your father, but when your children never come to visit—“

  “I said I’ll call,” he said, trying to stop a new torrent of complaints. She’d never paid him a lick of attention when he was growing up, but now that she was lonely, he all of a sudden was to blame for not visiting her. “Do you have any plans tomorrow night?”

  “No, I guess not,” she said slowly.

  “How does six work? I’ll drop by and we’ll go to Jamils Steakhouse. My treat.”

  “Okay, Reece. That sounds good.” For the first time she sounded happy. She’d gotten her son to do what she wanted.

  “I gotta go,” Reece, said. “See you tomorrow.”

  He sighed as he clicked off. He shouldn’t be so hard on her. He should try to act more like a comforting son. That’s what he told himself, anyway. It wasn’t his fault she could so conveniently forget the past.

  Opening the glove compartment, he pulled out his holster and the .357 Magnum he always carried, figuring it might come in handy from the looks of the area. He kicked the door open a little too hard and wished he hadn’t when the large green door springs popped it back toward him. He pulled his foot back into the floor well just before the door slammed shut with a loud “clank.” Why did his mother have to call? he thought as he got out of the car.

  He walked onto the unkempt lawn, adjusting his eyes to the dark. He studied the lit-up house across the street, wondering if they might have known Owen or his missing wife Tracey, but decided he’d hold off on knocking on any doors. As his attention turned to the front of the Roberts home, he saw that the slender windows on each side of the front door had been covered in plywood from the inside.

  With the trunk of the car open, he pulled out his nine-inch LED Maglite and lit the street behind the car with its strong white beam. Satisfied that the light would guide him through the darkness he extinguished it and pushed the trunk closed.

  Reece walked toward the front door, feeling the weeds scrape his pants with their rough edges, and noticed two ancient oil stains where a car had once parked. He walked up on the porch, and listened, half wondering if Owen might still inhabit the place. Reece thought he heard a noise coming from inside, but wasn’t sure. He tried the doorknob and found it was locked. Leaning back, he slammed his left shoulder against the front door, but it didn’t budge. Maybe he’d have better luck trying the back.

  Making his way across the front yard, he saw a faint glow coming from the front room of a house down the block on the opposite side of the street. Maybe those neighbors had known the Roberts family back then. He’d come back the next day to canvas the neighborhood.

  Reece walked around the house until he came to the man door on the side of the garage. Inside he saw the remains of a motorbike. Pressing down on the Maglite, he shined it inside. The motorcycle was an old Honda seventy with flat, rotted tires and a rusty seat stained from the springs below. The engine was badly coroded and he wondered if Crystal or her two brothers had once ridden last. He painted the side of the garage with light, and saw bare weathered wood with peeled paint stretching outward.

  Reece switched off the Maglite and made his way into the back yard, adjusting once again to the darkness. The stars were peeking out from the clouds, and he could just make out the back porch, a triple-stepped concrete slab. He tried the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge. He stepped back and gave it a savage kick, knocking it open just enough to enter. Something was blocking it from the inside. Reece squeezed past the door, and immediately the stench of rotting garbage filled his nose. He turned his head and retched, almost losing his dinner. At least he knew the garbage was recent.

  With the flashlight on he saw a sea of broken bottles littering the floor. Long strips of wallpaper curled down the walls. Reece slid his feet as he advanced, pushing aside glass shards and who knows what with every step. The room was pitch black and the small beam of light lit a patch just a few feet wide.

  The first room he came to was the kitchen, off a short hallway from the back door. A table with long aluminum legs and a yellow vinyl top sat in the center, covered with an assortment of beer cans and bread wrappers. He lit up the cupboards, noticing the absence of doors.

  Reece heard something from the next room. That was definitely someone. He started forward, dropping his hand to the grip of his revolver. The floor in the next room was covered with trash, and in the center of the room sat a red flyer wagon piled high with the burnt remains of the doors from the kitchen cabinets. He swept the room with light, looking for clues. He heard a creak in the distance and he knew he had company. Reece pulled out his gun and held it down to his side. A few more steps and he came to a doorway that led into another large room. He doused the walls with the flashlight’s beam, looking for the source of the noise, and sensed movement to his left.

  He turned in that direction, leading with the light. Someone grabbed his right wrist, and he swung the revolver up, making contact
. He heard a grimace of pain as he brought the flashlight around and saw he’d knocked a vagrant to his knees. The homeless guy looked up at Reece, clenching his chin. A thin bead of blood oozed between the fingers of the man’s right hand.

  “Why you do that? I just tryin’ to hep you,” the man mumbled from his crouch. Reece brought the gun up, drawing a bead on the guy’s forehead and said, “Stay put unless you want something a whole lot worse.”

  He continued toward the next room with his gun pointed out. Painting the walls of a smaller room with light, he spotted a lone dresser in the corner. The floor was covered in old aluminum beer cans and yellowed newspaper pages. Reece walked to the dresser. He opened the top of four drawers and shined the narrow beam inside, seeing nothing but the wood bottom of a well made tongue and groove drawer. He worked his way down the chest.

  The bottom drawer was heavy to pull out and contained an assortment of junk he guessed might have been left over from the house’s last occupants. There were batteries, rubber bands, Band-Aids, playing cards, and stacks of poker chips. Reece brought one of the chips up to his face, shining the light on it and read “Malum Farms Casino.”

  He felt a chill run down his back. That was the name of the place where they’d found his father’s dead body. He pocketed the chip and continued rummaging through the drawer.

  At the bottom he spotted a legal-sized manila envelope. He pulled it out from under the three inches of junk that lay on top. One of the corners had been burned and the black ash remains crumbed off as he bent back the copper clasp that held the top flap closed. Reece pulled out a thick stack of documents and laid them down on the top of the dresser. He paged the first document off the stack and set it down beside the others. His flashlight illuminated what looked like a checklist written across a single sheet of paper. It looked like a man’s cursive handwriting.

  Duct Tape

  Rope

  Box Cutter

  Tarpaulin

  Map

  Gas Cans

  Tie Wraps

  Canteens

  The last words ran into the burned area and looked like the description of something. Reece stared at the words and wondered if Owen had written the list the day his wife went missing. He took the next piece of paper off the stack of documents and saw a hand-drawn picture of the southern U.S. He set it aside and spotted an old travel magazine folded open to an article about a Mexican fishing village named Cabo San Lucas. Reece scanned the article, familiar with the location, and figured back then the town had little more than its marina and fleet of fisherman. He pulled several more sheets of meaningless paper off the stack, shining the light at each and came to a map. He opened it and panned the light down at what looked like magic marker running down the highways from St. Louis, Missouri, to Tulsa, Oklahoma, over to Oklahoma City, and then south through Texas to Brownsville.

  Reece shoved the documents back into the envelope and stashed it back into the drawer, thinking he’d come back and get it on his way out. He was just about to shove the drawer closed when he spotted a small black book. The first couple of pages were empty and then he spotted what looked like a ledger of gambling losses. Each entry read like (lost $450 – Owe S.S. 9/23/82). Reece thumbed his way through the book, and after a few pages of similar entries showing wins and losses, he came to more blank pages. Shining the flashlight into the drawer, he found what looked like a legal document under a stack of yellow cocktail napkins. He pulled it out and read over the paperwork for a second mortgage on the house he was standing in. The date on the top was written in cursive and looked like July 20, 1989. Near the bottom of the last page Reece saw the loan amount $45,000.00 and the signature Owen L. Roberts.

  After putting everything back as he’d found it, he pushed closed the dresser drawer and left the room. Reece came around a corner and walked through a doorway into what looked like the den. He shined the light along the walls, not wanting a repeat of what he’d experienced earlier with the vagrant. On the far side of the room he spotted something. It was a person standing behind what remained of a burned-out sofa.

  The figure was tall with a long gray trench coat, black gloves, and dark combat boots. Reece studied the stranger, shining the light upward toward his face, and saw only a narrow chin, which made him wonder whether it was a man or woman. The cheeks were reddish, and the wide-brimmed black hat covered the eyes.

  “What are you doing?” Reece asked, lowering the light so he could still see the figure but not blind him. He heard a scratch on the floor from behind and half turned, still keeping his eyes on the stranger by the couch.

  Reece felt sudden harsh pressure on his left wrist and the flashlight was stripped from his hand, falling to the floor with a loud clatter. He gripped the gun, pulled back the hammer, and held it outward, ready to fire. He heard footsteps rushing toward him from behind. He held his gun up and fired into the ceiling.

  Reece heard the back door slam open with a chorus of footsteps, running toward the kitchen. In the errant beam of his flashlight, he noticed that the person in the trench coat he’d seen earlier was gone. Reece had six more rounds in his Smith & Wesson 686P, but for the first time he felt vulnerable. For all he knew the house was still full of vagrants. He needed that light.

  Reece wanted to bend down and grab the light off the floor, but he also wanted to ensure he was alone. The room was quiet. He bent down on one knee, hoping some addict’s dirty syringe wouldn’t stick him. He reached out for the Maglite, feeling the cold hard surface of the floor penetrate his thin pants. The flashlight was just beyond reach. He stretched out farther to snatch it. He heard a faint skid a few inches behind.

  Searing pain ripped through his skull, and Reece bit the tip of his tongue, tasting blood. He tried to brace himself but collapsed to the floor, pinning his hand under his shoulder. My gun, he thought, struggling to push back up, but the room was spinning crazily and his strength was gone. Reece looked along the beam of the Maglite just beyond his outstretched left hand. He sniffed the wood floor fighting to remain conscious and the smell of urine filled his nostrils. He felt something wet running down the left side of his face, turned his head in that direction, and saw combat boots striding toward him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Owen Roberts drove his boss’s prized black Range Rover south out of Tulsa in the black night on his way to a place he’d called home for the past several years. He’d once entertained the thought of driving south and stopping for nothing until reaching Mexico, but that thought had failed to return since the day his boss caught up with him two hours east of Amarillo, Texas. Two chops of a meat cleaver cost Owen both of his pinky fingers, persuading him to never attempt such pursuits again.

  He pulled off the two-lane blacktop onto the single-track road that looked like an entrance to a farm. Tall plants grew on both sides of the trail, and it seemed like forever until he saw the lights and parked cars of the casino rising out of the overgrowth in the distance. Owen drove the Range Rover behind the single-story red brick building that looked nothing like a gambling establishment.

  A chill ran down Owen’s spine when he pulled in to park next to the bright white Ford van he’d earlier noticed was missing from its parking place. Owen had heard a rumor from the one of the female bartenders that Rocco, the blackjack dealer, had insulted their boss one too many times.

  Owen Roberts went inside, dressed in pressed black dress pants, a white dress shirt, and a black vest with gaudy gold trim. Greeting several of the regulars, he took up his post behind a green oval Texas Hold’em table. Four men sat in front of him watching as he slapped the shuffling boot and started play.

  A few minutes later, Sam Shanks, dressed in a black pinstripe suit, walked past the long bar, nodding at the female bartender. His alligator loafers glided through the thick shag carpeting.

  “What’s Owen doing working the table tonight? I thought we had agreed Rocco was a better choice,” Shanks said.

  “Ah, Mr. Shanks I didn’t know you were here,�
�� Michael Zimeratti said, turning around on a stool to face his boss and sliding a hand over his thick black hair. “Rocco seems to have disappeared, so I made a last-minute personnel change, thinking Owen was better suited for the Texas Hold’em table than the other dealers.”

  “So who are our guests at the table tonight?” Shanks asked.

  “That’s Dr. Hank Johnson, the dentist there on the far right. Tavo Sheave, the city councilman, is next to him, Dan Kochi’s there, and the new guy, Melvin Phillips, is on the far left.”

  “Oh yes, good to see Mr. Phillips made it. I met him at the museum. We’ll have to keep an eye on him,” Shanks said.

  “How about the fancy dresser, what was his name? Angelo, was it? Have you seen him around?” Shanks asked, turning back toward the bartender and raising his hand with a wave.

  “You mean Angelo Messerman. No, I haven’t seen him around lately. Maybe he ran out of money,” Zimeratti said with a laugh.

  “Good evening, sir, will you be having your usual?” the bartender asked. Both men smiled and nodded, sending her back toward the bar.

  “What do you know about this guy named Phillips? He looks well dressed, what’s he do for a living?” Zimeratti asked.

  “Oil, goes back a couple of generations on his wife’s side of the family. They’re big art collectors. I get the impression he comes from family money too, but I don’t know much more about him. I had him tailed when they left the museum. They have a very big place in Southern Hills, and he mentioned having other homes across the country.”

  “Sounds like the kind of people we’re trying to attract.”

  Shanks let out a snort. “Sounds like the kind of mark who would like to donate his art collection to us.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The stranger in the combat boots and trench coat walked toward Reece Culver’s unconscious form, shining a large flashlight beam downward. He squashed what remained of a shattered Miller Lite bottle. The room was silent except for the distant moaning of the vagrant he’d paid in methamphetamine.