by Bryan Koepke
In the next photo the men were getting into cars. The third man was behind the steering wheel of a black Camaro, and the squatty guy was standing with the passenger’s-side door open talking to someone outside the picture. The Pat Riley clone was in a blue Corvette. It looked mid sixties vintage. Reece pulled the magnifier back and spotted a woman in the passenger seat of the Corvette. This was the first time he’d noticed her. He lifted the magnifier focusing in to study the interior, but couldn’t see much detail.
The next photo showed a large dirt parking lot filled with high-end cars in front of a black and white cobblestone barn. The building was long and at least two stories tall. It looked out of place somehow. He used the magnifier to look closer at the front door. It looked elaborate with two bright carriage lamps and a sign with fancy white letters that read “Malum Farms.”
Reece stood from the bed and yawned, still mulling over his father’s case. He thought of his mother, sunk in depression after her husband’s beating on a East St. Louis roof top back in 2005. He couldn’t stay mad at her. Not after what she’d endured the past several years. She was a proud woman, too proud to ask for help. She’d gotten past that and taken up a new career in real estate.
He had learned a few things about his father’s cold case, and he couldn’t help feeling angry about the way it had been handled. Someone at the St. Louis Police Department had called in the FBI after a few months of investigation. They wanted it off their plate. Six months after the FBI stepped in, the case was dropped and with it his mother’s hope that her husband’s killer would be caught. All along Special Agent Stephen Cox, the guy heading up the FBI investigation, had his sights on something bigger, the crime boss who owned the casino.
Reece thought back to all the great times they’d had together, especially during his stint as a cop in the military. He’d finally found a way to connect with his stoic father. They’d spend hours on the phone talking about cases. He missed that. All the good times they’d had were too painful to remember. They had to stay pushed away out of his mind. It was still, even after a year and a half, too fresh to dwell on.
Not anymore, he reminded himself. After all this time he had returned to St. Louis. After he tracked down Crystal’s mother, he was going to crack the case at last.
He glanced around the cheap motel room. He’d made great time driving back to Tulsa the night before and had chosen the same place he’d stayed at earlier. It felt good to rest after being locked up and harassed in St. Louis. After graduating with his degree in aerospace engineering from Parks College, Reece had packed his bags and headed west, never wishing to return to St. Louis. Now he’d come back. He was ready to even the score.
Reece’s mentor, Haisley Averton, had taken a job as a senior detective in Tulsa three years earlier. Haisley had spent a lot of time with him, both while he was setting up his PI practice and afterward. It was like he was trying to make up for something he thought he owed Reece’s father. Later on he figured out a second interest. They’d been out having a few beers one night when Haisley started talking about his wife. Reece thought it odd because he’d always been so private. He’d told Reece how tough it was when Mavis found out she couldn’t have children. That was the night he realized he was probably the closest they’d ever get to having a son.
After a shower and shave Reece got dressed, put on his Stetson, and bypassed the motel restaurant for something closer to edible. On his way to the downtown library he stopped off for some toast and a few cups of coffee. He sat on a stool at the counter, watching order tickets get clipped to a long wire that ran into the kitchen. Reece felt the rattle of his cell phone and pulled it from his brown corduroy jacket. Yet he recognized the number of his client Crystal and let the call go to voicemail. He didn’t particularly want to tell her about his fiasco of the last few days. He heard his phone chirp, and he dialed voicemail.
“Hi, Reece, it’s Crystal, I wanted to check in with you to see if you’ve turned up anything about my mother. I was wondering how you’re doing on money. I know you told me $700 a day, and you’ve been on the case for seven days now.”
He pulled the phone away from his ear before deleting her message. He needed every cent he could get, but didn’t feel like talking to her until he had some solid information. Reece looked at the phone, and saw he had two more missed calls. Both were from Haisley. One was late Friday night, the night he’d called for help from the St. Louis jail, and the second from early Saturday.
Reece dialed Haisley’s number just as the waitress dropped by and refilled his coffee cup. The aroma of the hot beverage pleased him.
“I guess you’re okay, since you’re calling me back on your cell phone,” Haisley said, answering the call.
“Yeah, I’m okay now. I lucked out a little.”
“What do you mean, you lucked out?” Haisley asked. “How did you end up in jail in the first place?”
“I was checking out the Roberts house where my client grew up. The place was trashed and filled with vagrants. I got jumped somehow, and woke up in an interview room in downtown St. Louis,” Reece said.
“Are you okay?” Haisley said.
“Pretty good considering someone smacked me in the head with a pipe.”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“I had a concussion, but I’m good now,” Reece said, not entirely convinced he was.
“How’d you get out?” Haisley asked.
“When they took me in to meet with the public defender, I recognized the name of an officer who used to work with my dad,” he said as he started to think about Crystal’s voicemail. “I guess Officer Felps talked to Mobley, or the DA, and they let me out.”
“Where are you now?
“I’m back in Tulsa. I drove back last night,”
“If you’re up for it, Mavis and I would like to have you over for dinner tonight,” Haisley said.
“I’ve got some research to do, but dinner sounds good. I’ll give you a call later.”
Reece finished his breakfast, left a stack of money to cover the check and the tip, and headed out to the sidewalk. The air felt moist and humid outside, and he decided to leave the rental car in the spot out behind the restaurant and walk the four or five blocks to the library. He liked the safe feel that the city had, but started thinking about how Haisley had told him Tulsa had more murders annually than Denver. Reece wondered why, since Denver had a third again as many people. He figured it might have something to do with the mild climate of the city.
The downtown Tulsa Library had an industrial feel, and tables near the entrance were occupied by a cast of characters ranging from a bearded homeless man dressed in the remains of a three-piece suit to schoolchildren with their soccer moms in tow. Reece spent a few hours looking through old newspaper clippings for any articles about the disappearance of Tracey Roberts. He found a few and made copies of them. He was searching the name Roberts when he came across an article about the tragic death of Bobby Teeter, age seventeen, who accidentally fell to his death while hiking with his fourteen-year-old girlfriend in Tahlequah, Oklahoma, on August 5, 1997. Reece read the entire article, and found out that Bobby was the quarterback of the Edison high school football team.
A second article dated a few weeks later had more information on the accident, and some details about how the boy’s girlfriend, Crystal Roberts, had been hospitalized after the accident for psychiatric evaluation. Reece copied both articles and searched for more, but only found earlier articles with the highlights from Bobby Teeter’s football career.
He sat at the library table thinking about the accident and wondering if it was an accident, or if his client was a childhood psychopath. Reece’s phone began to vibrate. He looked down at the display and saw that the incoming call was from none other than Crystal. Spooky that she calls when I’m uncovering her past.
“Hi,” Reece said as he left the table and hurried outside to talk.
“Reece, did you get my earlier message?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“How is the investigation going? Have you found anything?” Crystal asked. Reece thought about the article he’d just read. “I visited the house where you grew up.”
“Did you find my father Owen?”
“No, that turned out to be a dead end. Say, Crystal, I was meaning to ask you. Have you seen your father since you were a kid?”
“No, and it’s probably a good thing, because if I did see that bastard I don’t know what I’d do to him,” Crystal said ominously.
“When you called earlier, you mentioned my fees. This might take a few weeks to solve. There’s not much to go on after twenty-two years.”
“I understand, Reece. I can wire you more money when the bank is open on Monday. What hotel are you staying in?”
“I’m at the Executive Inn. It’s off the highway on the north side of Tulsa. Room number 237,” Reece said, wanting to tell her to add an extra $5,000 for pain and suffering.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The wheels of Sam Shanks’ Lear 55 chirped as the main landing gear kissed the runway upon landing at Denver’s Rocky Mountain Metropolitan Airport. The sun was long gone, having set over the mountains hours before, and the twin landing lights of the corporate jet parted the blackness as the plane made its way down the taxiways.
Shanks felt the forward motion cease and pulled at his lap belt, freeing himself from his plush brown leather recliner. Out the side window of the jet he spotted her still driving the same gray Maserati he’d helped her pick out at the dealership a few years before. The twin turbine engines of the jet spooled down to a welcome quiet.
After pressing the button to deploy the side air stairs, the co-pilot nodded at Shanks as if to say see you next time. Sam walked down the steps into the dry Colorado air. A gentle wind blew across the tarmac, and he reached down to fasten the bottom button on his signature blue blazer. He wore it everywhere like a uniform.
The sleek four-door coupe crept forward past the tail and stopped near the fuselage. The trunk popped open and the co-pilot hoisted three cardboard boxes from the rear of the jet and loaded them into the Maserati.
“Thanks, Jeff, I’ll call you guys in a few days for the return trip,” Shanks said.
“Very well, sir. Safe travels.”
Shanks opened the passenger’s side door and admired the tall brunette sitting with both hands braced on the steering wheel. Her eyes sparkled in the vehicle’s interior lighting like diamonds under glass. He slid into the leather seat and sniffed the mixed scent of new leather and citrus perfume. It had been far too long since he’d last laid eyes on her.
“It’s so good to see you, Sam,” she said, leaning toward him. She slipped an arm around him as he wrapped both his arms around her. Their lips met and they held one another. Shanks felt the stresses of his world slipping away. It was good to have her in his arms once again. He had a plan for her, but he couldn’t share it yet.
They both withdrew from the hug. She shifted the car into reverse and backed away from the jet. Her long brown hair flowed down over the shoulders of a yellow mid-thigh length Donna Karan dress. He let his eyes run down her body, admiring her tanned thighs.
“Are you hungry? Do you want to grab something before we drive up?”
“No, it’s late. I’ll eat when we get there,” Shanks said as the acceleration of the Quattroporte pushed him back into his seat. Before long they were following 120th Avenue west toward the foothills paralleling the airport.
“How’s business been?” Shanks asked as the woman slid her fingers under his left hand and squeezed. Her face was illuminated only by the glow of the car’s instrument panel. She’d kept herself up well over the years despite the troubles she’d endured early in life.
“It’s been busy at the Golden Spur since the holidays,” she announced in a businesslike tone. “That’s all good, but things have changed since Evelyn made the announcement that she’s going to retire after New Year’s.”
“Oh yeah, how so?” Shanks asked.
“She hired a general manager to run operations. I like having the help, but I’ve got to tell you, I hate this new guy, Derrick. He’s a control freak and he seems like he’s trying to make a name for himself.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s never any fun when new people come to the party and think they’re smarter than anyone else.”
She down shifted and guided the Maserati from Highway 93 onto Highway 6. The tachometer showed the rpms building, matching the sound of the engine’s acceleration as they sped off down the road.
“This is one sweet car, and from what I see, you’re enjoying it,” Shanks said.
“Very much. It’s great for the curvy mountain roads.”
About twenty minutes later she turned off the main highway and drove up a series of switchbacks through a forested area to a solitary log home at the top of a mountain. Incredible views stretched in all directions.
“I like what you’ve done with the place. You’ve got a yard now,” Sam said.
“Yeah, I guess that’s what you could call it. The deer up here love it.”
“The house looks the same as it did when I brought you out here,” Shanks said.
“Yeah, I’ve come a long way since those days,” she said. “That reminds me. Does Vinton still work for you?”
“Yes, he has his talents.” Shanks said as he followed her into the home and took a seat at the bar in front of the kitchen. The woman dropped her keys onto the black granite counter, pulled two long-stemmed wine glasses from a cabinet, and went to work pulling the cork from a bottle of expensive Cabernet.
“So tell me more about this Derrick person,” Shanks said.
“Well, you remember we had the vault and the two safes. The safe in my accounting office on the third floor has always suited me for a place to keep the revenue from your ventures. It’s separate from the main casino and has always been fine.”
“Yeah,” Shanks said, bringing his wine glass up to his lips and nearly draining it.
“Derrick had the bright idea at our last weekly meeting to change things around. He wants all the cash in the vault, and he wants to keep the large denomination poker chips in my safe.”
“What does Evelyn think about that?”
“She’s fine with whatever anyone wants to do. She left the planet, as far as I’m concerned. All she thinks about these days is yoga and buying a place in the Caribbean.”
“It sounds like its time for you and I to come up with a plan for Derrick,” Shanks said. “You’ve been laundering my money for over a decade. We can’t let some new bozo come to town and ruin things for us.”
“It gets worse. Last night I was out for a drink with him and Evelyn, and Derrick came up with the great idea to move all the money next week and then on the first of the month do a company-wide independent audit.”
Shanks stiffened, and his reply came out as a growl. “Those are fighting words.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
A large dual-axle truck with the name Maverick Gardening painted in green letters across both sides turned into the Southern Hills subdivision on the south side of Tulsa with a black Range Rover following close behind. The two trucks drove down a residential street lined with cars on each side, and slowed as the passageway between the cars became too narrow to proceed. The driver watched his rearview mirror, as if wondering what to do.
Melvin Phillips walked up to the driver’s side window and rapped on it with his knuckles.
“Are you here for the golf tournament?” he shouted.
The driver cranked the window open. “No, Mister. We’re here to do some gardening in the neighborhood.”
“Gardening, huh? Whose house are you working on?”
The man in the truck hesitated and reached across the seat for his cellphone. Michael Zimeratti, dressed in a solid green gardener’s outfit, emerged from the Range Rover and approached Melvin Phillips.
“What’s the hold-up? We got work to do,” Zimeratti
grumbled.
“I was just trying to figure out what you’re up to. This is a neighborhood watch area,” Phillips said.
“We’re here to work on the Austins’ place. They’re out of the country, and their daughter Ann called saying that the place is overgrown with weeds,” Zimeratti said, running his hand through his slicked-back hair.
“I know Chuck Austin. He’s a good man. Wait a minute, I’ll clear the way for you.”
Phillips made his way down the street, stopping at each car to talk to its driver. A group of cars pulled to the side so that both trucks could pass. Soon the large one pulled past a long red brick driveway with a circular arch. Turning in reverse, he backed toward the garage of Melvin Phillips’ seventy-two hundred square foot home.
Vinton Blackwell, who had been lying under a blanket in the backseat of the Range Rover, climbed out wearing dull green pants and a matching shirt with the name Maverick Gardening stenciled across one sleeve. He bent down and began working the multi-colored flowerbeds, appearing busy but studying the nearby houses for signs of life.
He worked his way down the right side of the garage, stopping every so often to pull a weed from the flowerbed. As he neared the side door of the three-car garage, he looked through the window. The side door was unlocked, he discovered, and once inside, he brushed the dirt off his gloves.
A sleek navy blue Aston Martin was parked on the far side of the garage, and Blackwell sniffed at what smelled like the inside of a basement. He pulled a small leather pouch from his rear pocket and went to work on the keyhole of the garage doorknob. With his cellphone held to his ear, he started talking.
“I’ve got the door unlocked. Read me the alarm code.” The reply came instantaneously.
“Four-nine-six-two,” he said out loud, reciting the code. Blackwell smiled, pushed open the garage door, and entered the home, setting off the beeping of the alarm. He flipped on a light switch and entered the code he had just been given. He watched the alarm status light change from red to green.
