by Bryan Koepke
“Culver, I brought you some coffee. You do like coffee, don’t you?”
This must be the guy who was to play the good cop.
“Let’s see, Reece Culver, age thirty-two, out of Denver, Colorado. You’re a licensed private investigator in three states, this being one of them.”
Reece stared straight ahead. His head felt funny and specks of memory were returning. He remembered the smell of someone leaning over him. He remembered her perfume. Had he been in a hospital? He tried to think back, then thought of his client Crystal and wondered if she had been at the abandoned house. He tried to remember the scent of the perfume. Was it the same citrus smell he’d enjoyed the night she’d visited his apartment? He wasn’t sure. Reece thought about the stranger he’d seen and remembered wondering if it was a man or woman.
“You got a problem with the homeless or something?” the short cop yelled, pulling him back to reality.
Reece glanced down at his watch and wondered why it was strapped onto his left wrist upside down. In the glass bezel he saw a reflection of his image. Is that a bandage?
“Did one of you do this to me?” he blurted out, pointing toward the bloodstained bandage.
With a long bang Leftwich hit the table closed-fisted in front of Reece.
“Are you some kind of funny guy? You know goddamned well what went down in that house, Culver. I got a dead guy in my morgue with two slugs in his chest from that fancy gun of yours. You got fresh residue all over, and you’re asking stupid questions?”
“Why don’t you start by telling us why you went to the house in the first place?” Isley asked.
Reece looked toward the door. Maybe it might be a good time to lawyer up.
“You got some kind of drug habit or something we need to know about? That dump we found you in is good for only one thing,” Leftwich said, sounding aggravated. Isley advanced toward him and said, “You want to tell us what happened, or should we just charge you with murder and wait until the DA has time to sort this out?”
“Murder? What are you talking about? I want a lawyer and my phone call,” Reece said in a low voice.
The two cops exchanged a look. Leftwich got up from his seat, went over to the door, and pounded. A uniformed St. Louis police officer appeared. Reece looked up at the man. He was older with a full head of white hair and a kind face. His nametag read “Felps.”
“Let’s lock this one back up. Let him sleep off whatever he’s on. We’ll start this again in the morning.”
Reece stared at the two cops who’d been interrogating him. They were hard over sticking him with the murder, but he had no idea who had been killed.
“I’d like my phone call and a lawyer,” he repeated.
“We’ll get you a call, and we’ll get the public defender for you, but I doubt he’ll show up until tomorrow morning.”
Officer Felps un-cuffed Reece from the table and led him down a hall lined with brown industrial tile. Up ahead he saw a single black phone that looked like it had been put in service fifty years before. As Reece stopped before it, he tried to remember Haisley’s phone number. His head started to throb again, and his mind was blank except for the name “Felps.” Why does that name stick out?
Reece’s index finger turned the rotary dial of the phone, dialing area code 918 for Tulsa. Then the rest came to him, and he dialed Haisley’s home phone number. Reece listened to the phone ring four times and go to voicemail.
“Haisley, it’s Reece Culver. I’m locked up in some St. Louis precinct. I was at the old Roberts house looking for clues. Someone hit me in the head. While I was unconscious, I’m guessing someone used my gun to commit a murder. I need your help,” Reece said, hoping Haisley would call back before he spent much more time in jail.
He’d just hung up the phone when he saw a young man dressed in a brown sports coat, dress pants, and reddish brown penny loafers. This guy walked like he was going somewhere.
Reece felt a hand on his shoulder and looked over to see Officer Felps.
“I need you to come in here and take a seat, Mr. Culver,” he said, encouraging him into a small room with a single wooden table and four chairs. The link came to him. This guy Felps had worked with his dad back in the early nineties. That would explain his white hair.
“Hey, Felps, do you remember my dad, Al Culver?” he asked hoping he’d say yes. Felps remained silent as he clasped the handcuffs to the leg of the wood table.
“Every one of you guys got a story,” he said, then turned and left the room. Reece wanted to go after him, but he would need to take the table with him.
He sat staring at the same tiled walls that he’d seen earlier in the interrogation room. He reached up toward the knot on the side of his head with his left hand and felt a solid bump. He pushed on it and pain shot through his temple. Reece searched his memory, wondering where he’d been the day before. He was almost sure that he’d spent the night in a hospital bed. He remembered a cute, nice-smelling nurse but little else. It was weird. He’d had dreams and fantasies about woman, but this was too real for that, yet he had no other solid memories other than lying on the floor in the Roberts house.
Reece rubbed his wrists and noticed the red grooves the steel had made upon his reddened skin. The door swung open, and someone began talking in a fast high-pitched voice.
“Mr. Culver, I’m your state-appointed attorney, Jed Harris.”
Reece sized up his young face, wondering how many weeks it had been since he’d gotten his law degree. The attorney took a seat, setting down a brand-new leather briefcase that matched his loafers.
“Tell me about the events leading up to the homicide, Mr. Culver. What took you to the house on Calvin Avenue the evening of Wednesday, January 26?”
Reece stared at the kid with his brown crew cut, and red cheeks wondering if he was old enough to vote.
“Listen, kid. What’s your name? Jed? Is that short for something?” he asked sarcastically. His head hurt. He was sleep deprived, and he was tired of playing games. Reece had a feeling his rights had been violated and he was due to be released.
“Cut the crap and tell me your story, Culver. That is, if you want my help. They got you up on murder charges.”
Reece leaned forward, staring through the kid. “What they got me up on is a bunch of lies.”
“Not according to them. They got a dead man in the morgue with two bullets in him from your gun. That’s enough to put you away for a long time, Mr. Culver.”
“The only problem with that story is this head wound here, and the fact I have no memory after I was hit with something last Wednesday night. The other problem is, I’m a licensed private investigator in this state and I have certain rights…” he said, then lost his train of thought. Reece sat silent and then the rest came back to him. “And as far as I can tell, my rights have been violated.”
“What do you mean, violated?”
“I haven’t been mirandized,” Reece said.
“You don’t remember meeting with me in the hospital on Thursday morning?” the attorney asked, looking puzzled.
“The only thing I remember is being hassled by those two pricks a few minutes ago.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Crystal watched the red Jaguar a few car lengths ahead roll to a stop near the front entryway of the Phillips’ mansion. A woman dressed in a stunning black Carolina Herrera stepped out onto the curb, her husband joined her, and one of the valets drove the car away. Crystal’s gaze strayed to the Band-Aid in the center of Vinton’s throat. She couldn’t imagine how he had managed an invitation to an event of this caliber, but wasn’t going to risk upsetting him by asking.
One of the valets opened her door, took her hand, and assisted her out of the truck. She joined Blackwell at the curb. “This feels like we’re arriving at the Oscars or something, Papa. All that’s missing is the red carpet.”
“Just look like you own the joint.” He took her hand, and they followed the line of guests entering the stone man
sion of Melvin and Melanie Phillips.
“Welcome, Mr. Blackwell,” a tall man in a black tuxedo with thick gray hair greeted them.
“It’s nice to be here, Mr. Phillips. Let me introduce you to my stepdaughter, Crystal Thomas.”
Melvin Phillips reached out and took her hand in his. Crystal smiled, despite her irritation that he was staring at her like a piece of candy. She wanted to pull her hand away, but Phillips continued to squeeze it.
“My wife Melanie is somewhere around here,” Phillips said. His plump hold finally let go of Crystal’s hand, and he passed onto the next guests.
Crystal took a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray and watched in amusement as her stepfather studied a large framed piece of modern art.
“Papa, how do you know Mr. Phillips?”
“I met him at Sam’s. The man certainly knows his way around a poker table,” he said, moving to the next painting. Crystal watched Mr. Phillips take the arm of a stunning tall blond-haired woman dressed in an emerald gown, and she followed her stepfather toward them.
“Melanie, I’d like to introduce you to Vinton Blackwell and his charming stepdaughter Crystal.”
“It’s nice to make your acquaintance,” the woman said, offering her hand to Vinton, then smiling at Crystal. Crystal noticed Mrs. Phillips’ reaction to her stepfather. She’d seen it before. He had the physicality of a much younger man, and that coupled with his chiseled Nordic features made women melt.
“You have an amazing art collection, Mrs. Phillips. It’s very impressive.”
“Thank you,” Melanie said, taking a step closer to him. “It’s been a hobby of mine for quite some time.”
Melvin motioned for Crystal to join him. She disliked the thought of spending time with the old lech, but walked with him anyway. On her way she spotted one of the waiters with a full tray of champagne and paused to scoop up another glass.
“Tell me about your hobbies, dear,” Melvin said, taking a glass for himself. He brought the glass to his lips and drained it. The waiter stood near them.
“Well, I’m not into art,” she admitted.
He gave a short laugh. “I find that refreshing. What is it you’re into?”
“Skiing,” Crystal said.
“Downhill, cross country, or water?”
“Downhill. I don’t have the patience for cross-country, and there aren’t any lakes in Colorado big enough for waterskiing,” Crystal said.
“Oh, do you live in Colorado?” Melvin asked, eyeing the party. Crystal waited for his attention to return.
“Yes, I live in Denver, and my stepfather and I share a little villa up near Vail.”
“That means we’re practically neighbors,” Melvin said with sudden enthusiasm. She cringed as his hand ran down her back and lingered just above her hips. “I have a house up on the golf course.”
Crystal wanted to pull away from his touch, but she knew she’d been brought along to occupy Melvin. She just wasn’t sure why.
“Crystal, come this way. There’s someone I’d like to introduce you to.” Crystal let herself be guided toward a woman dressed in a bright red gown with her back to them.
“Kathryn, I’m so glad you could come tonight,” Melvin said. The woman turned to face them. “Crystal, I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Kathryn Anders. Kathryn, this is Crystal Thomas.” Crystal smiled at the woman, vaguely thinking they’d met before. “Kathryn has been busy appraising all the pieces we will be auctioning off next month.”
“That sounds like an interesting job,” Crystal said.
Two young waiters opened a pair of double doors up ahead. Someone tapped a spoon on a glass, and she saw her stepfather and Melanie Phillips standing on the left side of a large crowd. The room fell silent as Melanie began to speak.
“Melvin and I would like to thank everyone for coming this evening. If you’ll come this way, cocktails and dinner will be served in the grand hall, and afterward we have a special announcement to make.” Crystal watched the guests flow past Melvin on their way to dinner. She held back, hoping to lose him.
“Would you be my escort, dear?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
As Reece became awake, he found himself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. It wasn’t the house he’d entered searching for Owen Roberts. He blinked his eyes and tried to find an escape from the dull, throbbing pain. Reaching out, he gripped the side of the bed and felt cold steel. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light, and he realized he was in the same jail cell he’d been led to the previous day. Fuck, why am I still here?
He realized he’d missed picking up his mother for their dinner at Jamils Steakhouse in Tulsa Thursday evening. I hope she’s not worried. Of course she didn’t trust him anyway. She never had. That’s why she constantly patronized him. I’ll show her. I just need to get out of this damned place. Get back to solving this missing person’s case, so I can devote all of my time to finding out who murdered Dad.
He gripped both sides of his forehead, thinking about what he’d done. What if Dad went back to get pictures of Zimeratti and he saw something that led him to the farm casino? It never would have happened if I’d held onto that damned Canon camera. The sense of guilt was overwhelming and he wondered if somehow being clubbed in the head had made it worse.
He closed his eyes, trying to calm his mind. Reece knew there’d be more questioning the next day and he needed his sleep. He stared out past the dull white bars of his holding cell. A sixty-watt bulb hung from the ceiling behind its wire cage. He let his mind zone out back to better days. Reece remembered sitting in the dimly lit garage holding a flashlight and watching his father Al try to reassemble the carburetor for the GTO. They were done and it was time to put it back onto the dull gray manifold that sat on top of the engine. Al looked down at the metal can they’d been using to clean parts and saw four screws and a small coil spring. He’d put everything back together and still had parts remaining.
He looked up at his son dumbfounded and then watched as Reece tore down the carburetor and reassembled it adding the spring and the four Phillips head screws. They put it on the manifold and later Al let his seven-year-old son turn the key and start the car. At a young age he’d begun to tell his dad his ideas of how to put things back together, and for the most part Reece had always been correct. He remembered his father telling him, “You’re going to be an engineer someday.”
Reece stretched his arms above his head and groaned, looking toward the small rectangular window above the commode. It felt good to stretch. The space was small, but had all the necessary furnishings for an overnight stay.
He was still trying to piece together his fractured memory. The doctor had visited the night before, and suggested he was still suffering from a concussion, but he didn’t require a return visit to the hospital. He’d informed Reece of an overnight stay for observation Tuesday night, and was told that he had no memory of the occasion. The doctor expressed concern and told Reece he needed cognitive rest.
“Wow, you’re a carbon copy of your old man,” Reece heard someone say on the other side of the bars. He sat upright, and saw a thick man who at first glance looked like Teddy Roosevelt. Reece studied the man’s tailored black suit, bushy gray hair parted to the left, and his shirt pulling at the center button behind the suit jacket, suggesting the need for exercise.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” the man said, looking in at Reece like some primate in a zoo. “Mike Mobley. I worked with your dad when he was a detective.”
Reece got to his feet and shoved a hand through the bars. “Good to meet you,” Reece said, and then heard footsteps coming down the hallway.
“You can let Mr. Culver out of his cell. I’d like to have a chat with him in room six,” Mobley said. He headed toward the room where Reece had talked to the public defender. The cell door opened with a “clank” and Reece stepped out. Officer Felps was standing in the aisle, smiling.
“Turn and face the bars,” he said, taking Reece’s hand
s behind his back and fastening on a pair of bright steel handcuffs. Felps led him down the hallway and into the room where he’d been questioned earlier. Mobley was inside sitting in a chair with his coat hanging on the back.
“Take the cuffs off and leave us,” he said to officer Felps, waving his hand.
“Tell me what got you in here, Reece,” Mobley said with a grin.
“I’m working on a missing person’s case for a client of mine. She grew up at the home on Calvin Avenue here in St. Louis. I went there to look for clues about the disappearance of her mother Tracey Roberts.”
“Okay, so you were in the house looking for clues,” Mobley said. He was studying Reece’s face like he was trying to find a resemblance between him and his father.
“The house was full of meth addicts, and one of them managed to get my flashlight. I’d been attacked earlier and fired a single shot into the rafters to clear the place,” Reece said.
“Okay, that explains the gunshot residue on your right hand. What happened next?”
“I waited for the place to clear. A little while later I bent down to grab my light, and that’s when I got smacked in the head. That was it, lights out. The next thing I remember is those bozos of yours playing good cop, bad cop.”
“Did you tell this to the detectives last night?”
“I never got a chance.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Michael Zimeratti walked down the overgrown dirt path from the main casino building to one of the galvanized steel sheds still left on the property from its days as a working farm. It was the kind of circular outbuilding that farmers use to store grain. He took a breath and blew out a stream of moist winter condensation, still wondering why Owen Roberts had decided to turn on them. Especially after all he’d been through. He knew Owen had a history with Shanks and Blackwell, but he thought it crazy for him to work against them with the FBI.
