Vengeance: A Reece Culver Thriller - Book 1 (19 page)

Chapter Fifty-Nine

V
inton Blackwell drove
his black Range Rover down the Sands Springs Expressway heading back toward Tulsa. The high beams of a semi truck on the opposite side of the road blazed into his eyes, and he pulled down the visor trying to block it out, but at the same time keep his eye on the blue Mazda 6 in front of him.

The arson at the hotel room had been the perfect solution, except Reece Culver wasn’t there that night. Vinton clenched his fist, glad that it would be so easy to ram the car and push it off the upcoming bridge. Traffic was light, and in the darkness Culver’s blue Mazda would be over the side of the bridge before he knew what hit him. The deep waters of Keystone Lake would be cold this time of year, and if the crash didn’t kill him the cold would.

Blackwell knew the perfect spot. During the first third of the bridge the drop was a straight shot into the deep waters. He watched the red taillights of the car ahead and mashed his foot down on the accelerator of the Rover. The speedometer was climbing past eighty as he closed in on the back of the Mazda. Vinton let his truck drift to the left over the passing line and aimed the right side of his front bumper at the left rear panel of the car. He was closing fast and going at least thirty miles an hour faster than the Mazda.

Blackwell smiled, still pressing the gas pedal to the floor. He flinched as the front bumper of his truck collided with the Mazda, launching it at an odd angle up and over the guardrail. Sparks shot off the front of the Range Rover as it slammed sideways into the railing just past the spot where the Mazda went over. Vinton jammed on his brakes and swerved back left, gaining control of the truck. He eyed the rearview mirror but couldn’t see the Mazda. He counted himself lucky when he saw the highway all the way behind was free of traffic. Blackwell wanted to stop and watch the Mazda sink into the cold waters of the lake, but he couldn’t draw attention to himself.

He figured he’d read about the crash on the Internet after returning to Colorado. He chuckled as he imagined Culver fighting for his life as the car sank into the murky water of the lake. Blackwell pulled up a nice visual of Culver’s teeth chattering and blood gushing out of a head wound as it mixed with the water.

*

Helen Culver ripped at her seatbelt, frantically trying to get out of the sinking Mazda. The car was upside down and the cold water had drenched the blue dress she’d worn to her friend’s house to pick up the containers of canned fruit. They’d been canning fruit together every year since she’d moved to Tulsa, and Sheila Hampstead was a joy to be around. Her friend had wanted her to stay over and watch a movie because it had gotten dark, but Helen had insisted on returning home to check on her cat.

She screamed, hoping frantically that someone might hear. Maybe a trucker saw that crazy black truck that smashed into her from behind. She remembered perfectly the image of the man with his thick white hair. She’d looked in the rearview mirror just as they collided. He was smiling. His face was lit up somehow. Who would smile when they were crashing their car into someone else? She thought of her Bible beside her bed.
Oh God, help me.

She gulped at the last of the air above her head. It was pitch black inside the sinking car. The water was so cold and her head hurt where it hit the steering wheel upon impact with the water. She pushed the fabric of the deployed airbag away from her face. At last Helen found the seat belt release down on her right side. She squeezed it and felt the weight of her body settle downward against the ceiling of the rental car. The windows felt cold on her fingertips, and she could see nothing but darkness past the glass. She madly scratched the door and window, trying in vain to get it open. Her ears popped and she took a breath, but the air was gone. Coughing and choking, she thought of her dead husband Al.

At least this way, she wouldn’t miss him anymore.

Chapter Sixty

T
he next day,
out behind his apartment Reece tightened down the bolts on the red and black heavy-gauge cables running to the new battery, then slid the red rubber cover over the positive battery terminal of the GTO. He opened the driver’s-side door and waited for his dog Manchego to jump into the backseat.

Reece thought about the file on Crystal that Natalie had given him the night before. Nothing in it contained more than circumstantial evidence, but it appeared that she was responsible for the death of her boyfriend fifteen years earlier in Talequah Oklahoma.

She’d moved on from that relationship and had eventually married someone by the name of Paul while attending the University of Oklahoma. She’d graduated with her pre-law degree in 2003—a few years after her first husband died in a freak waterskiing accident on Lake Tenkiller. The only witness was Crystal who, it was speculated, was driving the boat when her husband, who was practicing for a waterski jumping competition misjudged a ramp and drowned. It took divers more than a week to find the body, and Crystal had to be hospitalized for two days with severe hysteria.

A year later, in 2004, she met her next victim while attending law school in Denver. Reece thought back to the newspaper article he’d found the day Crystal came to visit him at his office. He recalled it announcing the death of her husband Nathan in a skiing accident at Vail the previous winter. Wow, all three men she became involved with died. Not a good track record.

He’d looked through the letters Crystal had given him the night before at the restaurant with Natalie, but hadn’t found anything that led him to believe they were from Tracey Roberts except that the last few had been written in women’s handwriting. They certainly gave no clue as to her whereabouts.

He headed toward Sixth Avenue, heading for the on ramp to I-25 south. He pulled one of his disks from its case and pushed it into CD player. It was Willie Nelson singing Kris Kristofferson’s “Help Me Make It Through the Night.” Reece hummed along with the tune, trying to match the twang of Willie’s voice. The expressway was crowded and it took a while to get down to C-470 and the ramp to the city of Littleton. He was meaning to pay a visit to Charlie Anders.

Reece checked the address on the piece of notebook paper he’d used as he pulled into the empty driveway of the large brick ranch-style home. It looked like it had been built in the mid 1970’s and showed a lot of pride in ownership with its well-manicured lawn. The front door was freshly stained, looking newer than the rest of the home. Reece exited the GTO, hoping his dog Manchego would be okay alone in the car.

The doorbell was the kind that rang with multiple notes and began chiming as soon as he pushed it. No one answered, so he pushed it a second time. A bright yellow Ford T-bird was parked in the driveway, so Anders should be home.

Reece went around the side of the two-car garage and heard the squeal of a table saw ripping wood. When the grating sound stopped, he gave the door a rap with his knuckles. In a few seconds the entrance pushed out toward him, and an elderly man with thinning white hair emerged. He wore a dull green hat with the logo for the 82nd Airborne sewn into the front in yellow thread.

“Yeah?” the old man said.

“Mr. Anders, I’m a friend of your daughter Kathryn’s,” Reece said, stretching the truth as he held his investigator’s license up. “If it’s not too much trouble, I need a few minutes of your time.”

“Investigator huh,” Anders said.

“Your daughter might be in trouble, Mr. Anders. It won’t take long. I just have a few questions,” Reece said.

Charlie Anders stared at him, unconsciously taking a few steps backward into the garage.

“You see, there was a burglary in Tulsa, Oklahoma. The thieves took a lot of valuable art. Your daughter Kathryn was involved with the family that was burglarized,” Reece said.

“Kathryn, involved in a burglary. How so?”

“She wasn’t involved in the burglary. She did the appraisal on the art that was stolen. The family intended to donate it for the construction—” Reece said before Charlie Anders cut him off.

“Yeah, yeah, I know all about Melvin and Melanie Phillips. Rich people,” Anders said. Finishing Reece’s sentence seemed to make up his mind about whether Reece was legit or not. “Yeah, I guess I got time for some questions. Come on in.”

He turned and made tracks through the sawdust-covered garage. Reece took a whiff and welcomed the smell of fresh sawn lumber. Anders led him into the kitchen of his home and walked over to the refrigerator.

“Are you thirsty?” he said, reaching up to remove his hat and then placing it on top of the fridge. A shower of sawdust rained down on the floor.

“What did you say this was about? Is my daughter in some kind of trouble?” Mr. Anders said, seeming like he’d forgotten what Reece had just told him.

Reece smiled at the old man, unsure if the visit was going to be a complete waste of time. “Your daughter’s not in any kind of trouble.”

The old man opened a cupboard and pulled out two short crystal glasses. “Scotch or bourbon?” he asked.

“I’ll have whatever you’re going to have,” Reece said, looking at his watch. “There was a burglary in Tulsa about a week ago. Your daughter did some work for the family that was burglarized,” Reece said. “I just need to tie up some loose ends, Mr. Anders.”

“Yeah, okay. That sounds good to me,” the man said as he reached into the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of single-malt Scotch.

Reece could only hope that Kathryn Anders hadn’t called her father and warned him that an investigator might be coming to ask questions.

“Don’t mind the mess. I’m still getting used to being a bachelor,” the old man said. He pulled a yellowed layer of newspaper pages off the couch and motioned for Reece to sit. Anders began to talk, and Reece soon learned that he’d served in the 82
nd
airborne as a career military officer retiring at the rank of lieutenant colonel back in 1979 after his last deployment to Honduras, which was part of the military operation named Golden Pheasant.

They shared a tray of cheese, crackers, and hard salami while sipping their single malt. Reece was content to let him talk, wanting him to warm up for the questioning to follow.

Charlie Anders told him how he and his wife had raised several pairs of chocolate Labrador retrievers over the years after Reece had commented on a picture in the kitchen. Reece told him about his dog Manchego and could tell the old man was warming up to the idea of being interviewed.

“Do you have the dog with you today?” Anders asked.

“Yeah, I do. Manchego’s out in the car.”

“It’s probably hot out there. Why don’t you bring him in? I’m sure I’ve got some treats he’d like. Hell, it’s not like I’m going eat the damn things myself,” Anders said with a chuckle.

“You sure you want him in here?”

“Yeah, let your dog stretch his legs. I got a nice big backyard.”

Reece went to the car and brought his dog Manchego back to the house on the leash. Anders rubbed the dog’s ears and pointed to the ground. Manchego instinctively dropped into a sit and then sank all the way to the ground. Anders reached into the end table next to his recliner and pulled out a box of dog treats. Manchego rose into a sit, eyeing the man intently, and was rewarded.

“So, what did you want to know about my older sister Tracey?” Charlie asked, setting down his glass of scotch.

Reece didn’t remember asking anything about Tracey, and the man’s question confirmed he’d spoken to his daughter Kathryn.

“I do have a few questions, as a matter of fact. First off, what did you think happened to your sister back when the police reported her missing?” Reece asked, pulling his notebook out of the side pocket of his down jacket.

“Well, I guess at first I thought it was some kind of mistake, but when I went down to the station, and they told me she’d left the kids alone overnight at the bus station. I immediately suspected foul play.”

Chapter Sixty-One

E
arly Saturday morning
a strong wind buffeted Crystal Thomas’s red Mercedes on the drive toward Vail. She thought about Reece Culver, curious about what he was doing with the constant supply of money she’d been sending him. She thought about the scene in the car the night before and knew she had stirred him, despite his hasty escape. Reece Culver was right where she wanted him. Close to her, but not close to the things she wanted to keep hidden.

The phone ringing in her purse pulled her out of the daydream.

“Hello, this is Crystal,” she said, not recognizing the number.

“Crystal, it’s Michael Zimeratti. What’s going on?”

“Oh hi, Michael.”

“Are you still up for some skiing?”

“Very much so, I’m just about there.”

“Good, I’ve got our lift tickets, so just park in the lot I told you about and I’ll meet you by the lift.”

Crystal hung up her phone and exited the highway for the Vail ski area. She found the lot Michael had mentioned, and after parking she gathered up her ski gear and took the bus to the base of the lift where they’d arranged to meet.

She had arrived first and stood staring at the mountain, imagining what it would be like to ski down it. Someone touched her left shoulder from behind. Crystal ignored it, deep in her own thoughts. She knew Michael was behind her, but she didn’t want to seem too eager, whatever game he was playing. He patted her left shoulder again and she turned to see him standing on his skis, grinning at her.

“Hi,” he said.

“Good morning.”

“Did you spend the night up here or drive up this morning?” Michael asked.

“I came up this morning. I had the road to myself and it was good to clear my head.” Crystal banged the tip of her ski pole onto her boot ,knocking off a big chunk of snow, and stepped into the binding of her left ski, clicking the boot into place. She followed the same routine with her right and jammed both poles into the snow to push off into a glide on her skis.

*

Michael Zimeratti followed Crystal into the lift line, admiring how trim she looked in her form-fitting black ski pants. He was rapidly warming to Shanks’ idea of starting something up with this beautiful creature. She was spunky and unpredictable, and Michael liked the idea of banging Vinton Blackwell’s stepdaughter.

The sun peeked out from the thick white clouds, warming his face where the ski helmet and goggles didn’t cover. He poled his way up next to her.

“What a great day to ski. I’m glad I called yesterday. This is a great idea,” Michael said, grinning at her while devising a plan to wine and dine her later that day. He’d done it so many times before with his Italian machismo. He had the money, charm, and wit to get almost anything he wanted. He could already picture Crystal standing next to him in his warm steam shower.

“Let’s take this one up and then head to the back bowls. I can’t wait to ski some black diamonds,” Crystal said with a hint of competition. The couple in front of them skied toward the quad lift and waited their turn to hop on. Michael waited, letting another couple go, and then followed Crystal and skied into position ahead of the approaching lift. The chair kissed the back of his thighs and lifted him into the air. He scooted backward against the rear pad, getting settled, and slid his ski poles underneath his thigh for safe storage and free use of his hands.

A man and a woman shared the lift with them, and all four rode up the steep slope. The trees were covered with a fresh dusting of snow and the air felt crisp to Michael. At the top they skied off side by side and took the first black diamond run to their right.

Zimeratti let Crystal lead, admiring her form as she sped off down the steep run, carving turns back and forth. He loved skiing and had raced on the high school ski team back in Chicago, before his father’s decision to move the family to St. Louis. He looked ahead and saw Crystal a hundred yards in front, skiing back and forth following the steep fall line down the mountain. The wind blew through his hair on the sides of his helmet and felt good. He needed to get out and do this more often. Skiing helped him reconnect with his youth.

Up ahead, she slid sideways, stopping at the top of one of the stair steps on the ski run. He himself did a hockey stop, shooting snow sideways at her, and came to a halt only a few feet above.

“Nice, she said, grinning at him despite all the snow sprayed on her. “God, I love it up here. I never want to set foot in Denver again.”

“You shouldn’t have to. You’ve paid your dues long enough.”

Her mouth twisted into a frown. “Paid my dues? What do you mean, Michael?”

“I mean, you’ve been daddy’s girl long enough. It’s time you do something for yourself.”

Crystal looked away from him into the tall pine trees to one side.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever be done helping Vinton. He’s done so much for me in my life. He saved me from that orphanage. He adopted me and put me through law school. I owe him my life,” Crystal said.

Michael pulled his helmet off and pointed his skis downhill, gliding forward until his left ski slid in between hers. He was close to her and wanted to grab her, but waited.

She stiffened, almost as if bracing, as he tried to take her into his arms. She turned her head sideways, looking down the slope. “We should keep going. We came here to ski.”

“No, not yet,” Michael said, planting his lips on her cheek. Crystal turned toward him with a funny look. He was trying to read her. He wanted to figure her out. He decided to take a chance and pressed his lips against hers. She kissed him back, halfway at first, and then gave in. They both dropped their poles, and she wrapped her arms round him, kissing him like she meant it.

“It’s okay, Crystal. I’ve got the means to help you now. You can free yourself from him. I see it in your eyes. You love him, but he scares the hell out of you too. You—”

“No,” Crystal screamed, pushing away from him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s okay. You can tell me. I’m here for you. You can tell me all about it,” Michael said, moving closer to her again.

“I do love Vinton, or at least I’ve tried to. It’s not been easy,” Crystal said with tears streaming down her red face in the bright sunshine.

“It’s okay, baby. I’m here for you,” Zimeratti said. He watched her come toward him with her lips parted. They kissed and ran their hands over one another for a satisfying long while. Despite the cold, he was getting plenty heated.

Finally, he suggested they finish the ski run. He followed her once again, thinking about her relationship with Vinton Blackwell as they skied. Zimeratti had always wondered if she’d been sexually abused. A guy like Blackwell didn’t care about anything but what he wanted.

After a few more runs they got in the line for the three-person chair lift that ran to the back bowls of Vail. The strong sunshine felt good beaming down onto his face. He noticed the stern look on her face and wondered what she was thinking about.

“Michael, I was wondering if you know what Shanks is planning to do next. He must know Agent Cox is still looking for him. Especially since you guys bugged out of the casino back in Tulsa just before his planned raid.”

“That’s probably true. Shanks has been out of the country for the past few days, coming up with a plan, but there are a few problems.”

“Problems? What do you mean?” Crystal said, skiing into the lane in front of the coming chairlift. Michael followed and they settled onto the green padded seat as it came and took them up the slope.

“We have more personnel problems,” Michael said, unbuttoning his helmet and clipping the strap to his jacket.

“Personnel problems. What do you mean? Is there someone else in Shanks’ organization working for the feds?” Crystal asked.

“No. Someone has stolen a major piece of artwork.”

“Who?” she asked, pressing against his shoulder.

“It’s just a suspicion right now, so I really shouldn’t be talking about it.”

“That’s not fair. You’ve brought me this far. Who does Shanks suspect is stealing from him?”

“It was the job we did in Tulsa. An article afterward in the paper listed the works of art we got,” Michael said. “There was a small Van Gogh painting of yellow poppy flowers. It’s valued at something like $55 million.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of that painting. It’s one of Van Gogh’s small works. What did the article say about it?”

“It was listed as stolen during the job, but when we inventoried the paintings, it wasn’t one of the works in the vault,” Michael said.

He imagined that she had a good idea who could have stolen it. “Maybe it was never taken. I’m sure that sort of thing happens all the time.”

“It wasn’t a case of insurance fraud, Crystal. It’s your stepfather, Vinton Blackwell. He wants out.”

“You’re mistaken, Michael,” she said too quickly. “Vinton would never steal from Sam. They’re like father and son.”

The chairlift reached the top of the mountain, and Michael pushed up on the steel bar they’d been resting their skis upon. He watched her ski off the chair, wishing he’d never brought up his suspicions about her stepfather. He knew he’d hit a nerve. He wanted to help her, pry her free of her controlling stepfather. Zimeratti knew Blackwell wouldn’t be joining them in Uruguay. Shanks had been losing interest in Vinton ever since he’d killed the blackjack dealer in Tulsa. Shanks wanted rid of his nemesis, and setting him up to take the fall in Ecuador was the perfect plan.

Zimeratti watched the top of Crystal’s pink helmet disappear down the ski terrain. Straightening his skis, Michael shot down the steep hill after her. He was gaining speed when he caught an edge on a sheer piece of ice. Crouching downward, he began sliding out of control and braced, ready to fall. He managed to turn and slide, then pulled upward, and was back in control. Michael slid to a stop, glad he hadn’t crashed. Pivoting, he looked back and saw a bunch of skiers coming.

Michael pointed his skis downward and picked up speed racing down the mountain. As he turned back and forth, carving turns, Crystal had stopped up ahead on the edge of a stair-step section. He skied toward her. She turned back, making eye contact with him, and then pushed off, zooming downhill. Michael felt his tired thighs burning. He needed to stop and rest. He wasn’t as young and tireless as he had been in past years. Crystal was going straight down the hill, not turning to control her speed. Zimeratti worried about her. If she fell, she’d break a leg. She was so sensitive, yet so in command when she wanted to be.

He came down the hill and saw that she’d stopped a few hundred yards before the roped-off area that led to the lift. She was waiting for him. He came up alongside her and stopped. Michael smiled but stayed silent, waiting for her to make the first move. She motioned toward the three-person ski lift that serviced the steeper terrain and stepped left, skiing toward it. He followed and skied into the lift line behind her. They were all by themselves and got right to the lift. She scooted onto the chairlift bench and he followed, taking a seat beside her with his thigh pressed up against hers.

Crystal took off her helmet and goggles, and clipped them onto the side of her coat. Zimeratti followed suit and pulled his sunglasses from his pocket. He looked over at her, expecting to hear angry words, but she was smiling.

“The bright sun feels good,” Crystal said. She turned back, looking down the hill toward the empty chairs behind them. “We’ve got the whole lift to ourselves.”

“It’s probably the terrain. No one has the guts to ski this stuff,” he said with satisfaction. Down below them, the steep slope was narrow, mottled with large sections of snow-covered rocks. The wind had picked up and the chair bobbed. He grabbed the pole beside himself to hang on. The chair was rising above the slope, until they were at a high point a couple of hundred feet above the rocky slope. The wind tore at them and he sank down into the collar of his coat, blocking his face from the biting cold. Down below, he noticed, more skiers were finally getting on.

“Ahh!” Crystal yelled.

“What’s wrong?”

She sounded like she was in awful pain. “I’ve got a cramp in my left calf. Oh, it hurts so bad, Ahh.”

“What can I do? Can I help you?” Michael said, rubbing the top of her thigh with his gloved hand.

“Can you reach my boot? Get the top buckle undone. That would help. Oh, ouch, it hurts. It’s like a knife. Can you reach it for me?”

He leaned toward her and shoved his ski poles under his right thigh to free his hands. Michael let go of the bar on his right, and with his left hand pressing down on the seat of the chairlift leaned out over her legs. He was reaching for her boot, trying to grab the buckle.

“Ahh, it’s so bad,” Crystal said in an agonized voice.

Michael touched the buckle of her hot pink ski boot with the tip of his index finger, but it wouldn’t unlatch. He felt her hand on his shoulder and was thankful she was keeping him in his seat. He looked down at the jagged snow-covered rocks a couple of hundred feet below. The wind was blowing hard, and the chair lift was swinging side to side in a steady rhythm.

“Can you get it? I’ve got your shoulder,” Crystal said in a weak, pain-ridden voice.

Michael leaned out farther toward her boot. Finally he had the buckle. It flipped open.

Without warning, her hand on his back gave a hard shove. He slipped forward, off balance, and reached desperately for the bar on the side of the chair lift, but missed it. He felt himself falling. The rocks far below came up at him much too fast to survive.