by Bryan Koepke
“Just a bunch of old slot machines. I don’t see anything that would help ID the body,” Haisley said, backing out with a handkerchief held tight against his face.
“What’s that?” Reece said, pointing at a large rectangular object covered in black felt. Haisley handed off the flashlight, and Reece crawled into the truck hunched over to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. He took a breath and caught the smell of the decaying body up front. He dry heaved, and then took a second breath with his nose buried in the sleeve of his jacket.
Reece latched onto the felt-covered container. It felt wooden like a frame. He pulled it out of the truck, and welcomed the smell of fresh air as he stepped down onto the ground. Haisley peeled back the felt bag, holding the frame with his hands. It was a painting of several cowboys on horses near a stream. The detail was amazing, and if it weren’t for the three-inch hole punched through the center it might have been worth something.
They closed up the truck, and walked back toward the car.
“Reece, I think you should probably take Mavis’s car back to the house, and I’ll call this in. If anyone asks I’ll say I was dropped off to avoid detection, and on my way out found this.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Reece drove back to Haisley’s house puzzling over who the dead guy was and who might have tipped off Shanks. It seemed like Shanks had always been one step ahead of law enforcement. He promised himself that once he solved Crystal’s case, he’d spend some time working on putting Shanks and his men behind bars.
He parked the Ford in Haisley’s driveway and climbed into his Mazda rental. The sight of the dead body had made him think of another dead body found out in the country, his father Al Culver.
Feeling unsettled, Reece took off down the street. He was hungry and the car’s heater felt good on the drive toward the same diner he’d gone to every morning. Reece parked in the lot and stopped by the newspaper machine out front to see if any Sunday papers were left. He pulled the handle open and saw that the box had been stripped clean.
Reece took a seat at the counter and ordered coffee. The waitress smiled like he’d become a familiar face. A Sunday Tulsa World was lying on the seat next to him. It had been pulled apart, sticking out in all different directions. Drinking coffee, he paged through the sports section. The waitress returned to fill his cup and handed him another stack of newspapers. He glanced down at the local news section, and spotted an article about a recent burglary that had smashed the hopes and dreams of two Tulsa philanthropists.
Reece read the article and learned that Melvin and Melanie Phillips had planned to auction off their art collection to raise money for the construction of the new Melanie Phillips Cancer Center.
“Would you like something other than coffee?”
Reece looked up at the waitress. She stood holding an order book in one hand and a pen in the other. “Are you reading the article about Mr. and Mrs. Phillips?”
“Yeah,” he answered.
“I hope they catch whoever did that. We really need that new cancer center. It’s really amazing what the Phillipses have done for this town.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Crystal drove west on Sixth Avenue, squinting into the rearview mirror. She saw her exit and veered right, cutting off another car just in time to make the turn, and heard the car’s horn. The ramp circled around to the south, and after a few hundred feet she pulled into the Denver Federal Center. After driving a few blocks she turned in and parked in the lot where she and her boss George worked. As she stepped out, the howling wind lifted the edge of her dress. She reached down, stopping the dresses rise, and in doing so dropped her briefcase. All of her files slid out onto the ground beneath the car.
“Damn it.” She picked up the leather case, straightened her papers, and buttoned the leather flap closed. On the way toward the building Crystal wondered why so many cars were parked in the lot this early on a Monday morning, then dismissed the thought, figuring there must have been a big meeting.
Fighting the wind once again, Crystal opened the first set of doors and barged into the building. She smiled at the same guard she saw most mornings and passed by security, holding up her badge. He nodded as she walked by and disappeared down the hallway into the right wing of the building. She past several doors for federal departments until she reached the seal on the door that read Colorado Federal Attorneys Office.
Crystal greeted the receptionist, walked past George Kendall’s large office, and continued to her own just down the hall. She logged in to her computer and had started reading e-mail when she noticed the red light on her desk phone blinking.
“Hello.”
“Ms. Thomas. Mr. Kendall is here and would like you to come to his office,” the receptionist said.
“Tell him I’ll be right down.” Crystal said having anticipated this little chat. She grabbed her coffee cup and headed over.
“Crystal, come in and shut the door,” George said.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m going to take you off the task force,” George said without looking up from his computer.
“Why are you doing that?” Crystal asked, sounding hurt.
“We have other priorities that need your attention.”
“This is not fair, George. I’ve been on the task force with you since it started. Does this have something to do with the past week?” Crystal said, struggling to keep from slamming her fist on his desk.
“No, Crystal. First of all, what happened was a mistake and will never happen again. Second, you’re the daughter of our informant, and that constitutes a conflict of interest for this office. We’re lucky Special Agent Cox or one of the others hasn’t made that connection. Third, Jim Burney is a junior attorney, and he needs your experience on his case.”
“But George—”
“We are done here,” George interrupted. “Go back to your office. I will be setting up a meeting this afternoon between the three of us, so you can transition smoothly onto Jim’s case. Oh, and shut the door on your way out.”
Crystal stared at the top of his downturned head and left his office. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot. She went to her office to get her briefcase and headed to the ladies’ room. She took the first stall, locking herself in. She sat down on the cold toilet seat and reached into her briefcase for her personal smart phone—but it wasn’t there. How could that be? She pulled out the contents of the briefcase, hunting for it. It wasn’t where she’d put it, and she felt a sense of dread.
Crystal tore into each of the three side pockets on the briefcase. She was desperate to find her phone, but only found an assortment of lipsticks, Kleenex, and an old boarding pass. She began to sweat. Where could my phone be? The video on it could easily ruin her career.
On the way back to her office, she retraced the events of her morning and decided she must have left it in the car. Crystal pulled open the office door and popped her head in.
“I have to run a quick errand. I’ll be back shortly. Call me if anything urgent comes up.”
“Sure thing, Ms. Thomas,” the receptionist said.
Once outside, she felt the wind blowing even harder than before. The twin Colorado and American flags stuck straight out like postage stamps against the bright blue sky.
She pressed her key fob and watched the car’s lights blink amber with a “chirp”. She stopped at the door, and unbeknownst to her, the tip of her shoe nudged the smart phone she’d dropped earlier. Crystal slid into the car, started it, and rolled the side window down a few inches to get some air. After checking the glove box and coming up empty, she shifted into reverse, heading for home, and felt a slight resistance. She stepped harder on the accelerator and heard a crunch from somewhere under the car. She continued to back out but stopped when another car had backed out from the row behind, blocking her progress.
Crystal saw something smashed in the parking spot she’d just vacated. She slammed the transmission into park and jumped out with a sick
feeling in her stomach. The horn of the SUV blared from behind, but she ignored it. Crystal walked toward the pile of smashed plastic—what remained of her shattered phone. One half looked fine except for the cracked screen, but the other side was cracked with chunks of plastic sticking upward.
The blue Ford Expedition was still waiting with the woman in the driver’s seat. Crystal heard the horn blast again and felt like turning, and giving the driver the finger, or better yet approaching the SUV, and grabbing this asshole by the throat. She instead focused on the pile of plastic. With the cardboard backing of her notebook pressed against the pavement, she used her left hand to scoop up the pieces. She saw the cracked green circuit board with tiny white wires. With the end of a legal-sized envelope held open, she tilted the notebook downward coaxing the pieces inside, and prayed that the video would be okay.
*
Back at her apartment, Crystal grabbed the stack of her mail. She saw that one of the envelopes was different from the rest. With her thumb she flipped through the letters and stopped on a small taupe-colored envelope about the same size as a wedding invitation. She pulled the card out of the stack and brought it to her nose sniffing. The taupe envelope smelled like a mixture of paper and cardboard.
She shoved her thumbnail under the edge and slit it sideways, tearing open the thick paper. The inside was occupied by a single piece of stationary folded in thirds. Crystal unfolded it and began to read. It was like all the rest she’d received, except this time it mentioned going to dinner with a sophisticated gentleman. Crystal hurled the letter toward the center island. She didn’t have time for it. Where was Tracey Roberts and why was she writing these stupid letters with no return address, especially after all of this time? Tears ran down Crystal’s face.
In the kitchen, she set the remains of her phone on the center island before swinging open the refrigerator, where she found an ice-cold bottle of vodka. With the blue cork cap pulled, Crystal raised it to her lips. It smelled chemical and burned as she poured the liquid down her throat, waiting for it to calm her racing mind. With both hands she pushed the bottle away from her mouth, gulping to catch her breath. Her mind eased and her eyes felt funny. She returned it to her mouth and chugged some more.
After a long pull she set the Grey Goose on the counter. The alcohol was definitely entering her bloodstream. Wanting more, she reached for the bottle, but her unsteady hand back knocked the vodka over. She watched open mouthed as the frosted glass bottle rolled across the granite counter and stopped against the pile of mail. The small amount of vodka that remained was well below the neck and none spilled. She stepped back, wobbled, and gained her balance, reaching up to run both hands through her long hair.
From a kitchen drawer she pulled out an old copy of the yellow pages. She stared at the thick book, forgetting for a moment what she was searching for, then turned the pages until she found “Computers.” She stopped on a listing for someone with an address on Broadway, picked up the phone, and staring past, watched the floor spin. Why won’t it stop? She leaned over and felt like puking. Yet Crystal gained her composure and dialed.
“Lane’s Phone Service,” a man said.
“Doooo yoooo fiixxx smott phowns,” Crystal slurred.
“All kinds. What kind of problem are you having, miss?”
“How late errr you opem?” Crystal asked.
“I’ll be here all night”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The black Range Rover exited off Highway 24 just south of where I-70 runs through the city of Vail, Colorado. A thin veil of cloud cover approached from the west. The air was crisp and with the sun falling toward the horizon, the season’s night chill had arrived.
“Hello, “ Vinton Blackwell said, answering his cell phone. “Yeah, I’m just a few minutes away. I made good time,” he said to the caller. He drove the truck fast, shooting gravel from his tires as he accelerated around a corner.
“If that’s what you want, Sam, but I got to tell you, I don’t care for Michael the same way I cared for his father, Anthony. He’s careless. He punched one of the westerns through the trailer hitch of the van.” Blackwell followed the road left at the Y and after a few turns entered a series of seven steep switchbacks that descended down the mountain.
“Okay then, I’ll let it go,” Blackwell said, ending the call. Annoyed as hell, he jammed his foot down on the brake, skidding across the crushed gravel road, and slammed his clenched fist on the dashboard. “Mother Fucker, after all these years of doing Shanks’ business.”
Something had changed about Shanks, and now Blackwell was the odd man out. That was fine, he thought. He’d always hated the prick for taking too large a share of the winnings. What Shanks didn’t know was that the Van Gogh would pay back for all those years of playing follow the leader.
Blackwell pulled left down a long paved driveway. A ten-foot wall rose out of the field on both sides of the pavement. The land was well manicured with tall pine trees and short mountain grass, devoid of the usual pine needle carpeting. The truck rolled up to a tall decorative gate fashioned into a scene of running horses cut into black steel plate. A short, stocky man in a blue blazer, looking like Shanks’ twin, appeared from somewhere behind the wall and approached the Range Rover.
“You back here for good?” the guard asked.
“Yeah. Anything new going on around here since my last visit?”
“No, nothing but cold days and lots of snow,” the guard grumbled, then went back into his shack. The decorative steel gate opened, cutting the frieze in half. Blackwell eased the truck down the driveway and parked in front of a large multi-roofed mansion sheathed with the same rock that made up the exterior wall.
He parked in a spot next to a second building, detached from the main house. Vinton opened the briefcase and eyed his prize. It was time to put it in a safe place that his boss would never find.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Haisley Averton stood to the side as a group of men in white full-body clean suits loaded the corpse onto a gurney and zipped up the black body bag to the midpoint of the torso. Another man in a white suit was photographing the inside of the truck, and a woman with blond hair tucked under a cap was making a white mold of the truck tracks. Yellow crime-scene tape cordoned off the area, and several crime-scene vehicles were parked nearby.
The afternoon sun had climbed above the houses to the east and the air was still. A second photographer approached the gurney and took a series of photos. Haisley was trying to guess who the man in the body bag was. A fingerprint technician squatted near the open side door of the Penske truck, collecting evidence.
“Averton,” a brown-haired man called. Haisley didn’t need to see the detective’s nametag. He recognized Dave Wheeler from his days in Homicide.
“So tell me again what you were doing here this morning?” Wheeler asked, pulling out a notebook.
“We’ve been working a case here,” Haisley said, knowing it was all part of the drill, but wishing someone else had been sent to question him.
“We? I don’t see anyone else here, Mr. Averton.”
“I’m working for Special Agent Stephen Cox of the St. Louis Organized Crime Task Force,” Haisley said, idly studying a patch of stubble Wheeler had missed when he’d shaved.
“So let me get this straight. You were here, all alone, working for the FBI?” Wheeler said mockingly.
“You got it. Cox has been working this case for years, and I was doing recon for a raid,” Haisley said. “Listen, I haven’t even had my breakfast yet. Can this wait? I’ll drop by—”
“No, Averton. It can’t,” Wheeler interrupted. “This is a crime scene, and until I figure out what happened, you’re not going anywhere,” he added, pointing his finger toward Haisley’s chest. Haisley stared at the detective and felt his temper flare. He wanted to punch him. He’d been one of the first black detectives to join the department, and while most of his colleagues had grown to accept him, Wheeler had always been a prick.
&
nbsp; “Okay, get your pen ready. This is what happened. I was hired by the FBI to do surveillance on this property. I came here to fill in some blanks this morning. Here’s Agent Cox’s card. You can call him yourself. He’ll vouch for me,” Haisley said, slamming his palm against Wheeler’s chest like he was killing a fly, and letting Cox’s card tumble to the ground.
Wheeler braced himself, pulling his hand into a fist. Haisley held his ground a few feet away and stared at the balding man, hoping Wheeler would loose his cool and take the first punch.
“So tell me, Averton, where’s your fucking car?” Wheeler asked, breaking eye contact and looking back toward the buildings.
“I had my wife Mavis drop me at the corner early this morning,” Haisley said, not wanting to bring up Reece’s name.
“Your wife? Is she working for the FBI too?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Back at his hotel, Reece smiled when he walked into the lobby and heard the clerk call his name. Crystal had wired the $7,000 she’d promised, and once again he was back on track financially.
“Do you know what time that bank across the street closes?”
“Five o’clock, Mr. Culver.” Reece thanked the clerk and headed up the stairs to his room on the second floor. On the way up the breeze he was making reminded him just how bad he needed a shower. He was still sweating out the Scotch he’d had the night before with Haisley.
He felt the buzz of his cellphone and reached into his front pocket.
“Culver.”
“Reece, I’m glad I caught you,” his mother said.
“Yeah.”
“Mike Mobley called and told me you’re working with Haisley.”
“Yeah, so what’s he the National Enquirer?”