by Bryan Koepke
“If you’re free today how about three-thirty?”
“That works for me,” Crystal said, sounding upbeat.
“Do you know where administrative building six is located?”
“Is that the tall red brick building with the fountain in front?”
“That’s the one, Ms. Thomas. I’m on the third floor in Room 3989. I look forward to meeting you.”
Later that day, Crystal got off the elevator on the third floor. She was wearing a conservative blue business suit and carrying a leather shoulder bag. She walked confidently toward Room 3989 at the end of the drab brown hallway. She stepped into a large waiting area with black bench seats and stacks of magazines.
“Good afternoon. I have a three-thirty with Ms. Welders,” Crystal said to the receptionist.
“Have a seat Ms. Thomas, and I’ll tell her you’re here.”
Crystal took an empty seat next to the magazines. She picked up woman’s fitness and began to page through the articles, thinking of how much better her body looked than the woman standing in leotards doing yoga. She was fully engrossed in an article about pomegranates when she heard someone call her name.
“Crystal Thomas,” the receptionist said. “Ms. Welders will see you now. She’s down this hallway third door on your left,” the woman said, holding the door to the hallway open.
Crystal walked down the hall and entered the third office on her left.
“Thanks for coming, Ms. Thomas. It’s good to see you,” Ms. Welders said, sounding a bit too cheery.
“It’s good to be here,” Crystal said.
“Okay then, if you’ll sign these forms resigning from your old position, we’ll get you set up for your new position with the Bureau of Land Management.”
Crystal pulled her favorite silver pen from her purse and signed where indicated.
“Ms. Thomas, this packet has information about the BLM, its policies, and charter. I think you’ll find it a great place to work. What day would you like to start?”
It was time to turn on the waterworks. “Ms. Welders, I was planning to start Monday morning, but I’ve had a change in plans. I got a call last night, and my father is very sick. I would like to take some Family Medical Leave Act time if that could be arranged, so I could go take care of him.”
The human resources woman seemed very receptive. “Oh yes, I can set that up for you. We encourage employees to take FMLA to take care of family members. How long would you like to take?”
“How about three months?”
Chapter Fifty-One
Sam Shanks sat on the patio behind his newly built Montevideo home. It felt like it was the first time he’d had a chance to relax in over a month. Things were all going much too fast. Especially now that Blackwell had taken out Owen and he had one less man to get things done. He could hear the chirp of crickets in the distance but little else. The nearest road was over a mile away and all the land in between his home and the road was his. It would be paid off in full as soon as he transported his artwork to the gallery and sold it off at auction.
He had his work cut out and he knew it. With his cellphone in hand he scrolled through a list of contacts until he saw the name Escodar. Shanks highlighted the number and pressed send.
“Mr. Shanks, what brings me the pleasure of receiving a call from you this evening?”
“What are you, drunk or something, Pablo? Cut the crap. You got everything we talked about put in place?”
The sunny voice quickly reverted to its usual criminal hardness. “Yeah, I got it, but I’ll need more money to put together the final parts of your plan.”
“More money? I thought we agreed on a price.”
“We did until you amended your plans.”
“How much more?” Shanks asked, sighing.
“Ten thousand dollars ought to do it. Those dollars of yours still speak very loudly here in Ecuador,” Pablo said. “I do have one question for you, though.”
“What’s that?” Shanks said, taking a sip of his Mojito.
“I wonder why you want to fly all those people down to Uruguay when you could set them up to take the fall for the crimes in Ecuador, and you could get away to Uruguay a free man.”
Shanks was intrigued. He should have thought of this himself. “What did you have in mind?”
“When the A-320 arrives in Guayaquil, it will have to be fueled and serviced,” Pablo said.
“Yeah, so what were you thinking?”
“It would be easy to require everyone to get off the aircraft for an hour or two while it’s serviced. They’d be sitting ducks there in the jet center,” Pablo said.
The proposed double-cross tickled him. “I like the way you think. The only problem is, the airplane will be full of my precious artwork.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
The last car pulled from the parking lot of the Murphy’s restaurant adjacent to the Executive Inn. The bank sign across the street flashed Thursday and alternated between 2:38 am and 43 degrees in big bold yellow numbers. A door of a maroon Ford Explorer opened and someone dressed in a black sweat suit, ski mask, and dark running shoes stepped out. The driver closed the trunk with a click and walked into the shadows of the parking lot.
He carried a small cloth satchel bag folded under one arm and a five-gallon gas can in the opposite hand. Stopping in the dark, he looked up at the rooms along the second floor. He took slow steps up the covered stairway of the three-story structure. Halfway down the second floor hallway, the lone figure stopped at a door labeled Maintenance in cheap stick on metal foil letters and set down the red plastic gas can. He pulled a black vinyl case about the size of a cigarette pack out of the satchel and went to work picking the lock.
The door soon opened, and the arsonist stepped inside, pulling it closed behind. He pulled out a flashlight and turned it on. A wooden table was revealed in the center of the room, covered with tools. The arsonist pulled a long tube from the satchel and unrolled it, exposing a set of floor plans. Room 237 was just on the other side of the maintenance room.
He searched through the satchel bag and pulled out a stethoscope. With the head of the instrument held up to the wall, the arsonist listened to the sounds of a television set, along with the low roar of the in room heater fan. The arsonist put the stethoscope back into the satchel bag, rolled up the floor plans, and put them into the bag before taking it over to the door.
The room filled with the smell of gasoline as the arsonist poured the contests of the five-gallon gas can onto the wall and floor, taking great care not to get any on his shoes. With the gas can set next to the center of the wall the arsonist walked over to the satchel, took out a road flare, pulled off the end, and stuck the cap against the tip of the flare, lighting it. The arsonist held the thin red cylinder upward, admiring its bright red glow, and felt a rush of adrenaline. He picked up the satchel bag, opened the door, pitched the flare toward the gasoline-soaked wall on the opposite side of Reece Culver’s hotel room, and left. That would take care of the annoying PI.
Chapter Fifty-Three
The morning sun streamed between the curtains hanging in the master bedroom of Crystal’s Denver loft. She sat on the floor with a cardboard box between her legging-clad thighs and pulled strips of tape off a dispenser. The cordless phone beside her rang several times.
“Hello,” she answered.
“Hey, Crystal. It’s Michael Zimeratti. I wanted to call and see how things are for you these days.”
She was glad to hear his voice. Whenever she came around, he always went out of his way to be nice to her. “Michael, it’s good to hear from you. Things are good. How about with you?”
“Yeah, they’re good here too. Hey, I was talking to Shanks and he mentioned you were having some difficulty with your boss. I was wondering if there’s any thing I could do to help.”
“Why would Shanks bring that up to you?” Crystal asked, not doing a very good job of covering up her annoyance. “What else did Shanks tell you, Michael?”
“Nothing really. Hey, I’m just down the street from you here in Denver. I was wondering if you’d like to join me for breakfast.”
“Breakfast? Well, I’m kind of busy packing up my loft right now. How about you come by and we can make something here?” Crystal asked, liking the idea of having a strong man around to help her pack up the last of her things.
“I’ve got a better idea. I’d imagine the last thing you want while your moving out is dirty dishes. I’ll get something to go and drop by your place. Are you in the mood for anything special?”
“How about you surprise me, Michael? I’ve heard you have great taste.”
Crystal ended the call, wondering why Michael Zimeratti had decided to be so friendly. She’d seen him around when she was with her stepfather, but had never found him too interested in socializing. Why would Sam Shanks tell Zimeratti about her job at the Federal Center? She hated the thought of Shanks meddling in her business. Crystal knew from her stepfather that Shanks would control the whole world if he could figure out a way to pull it off, and she hated control freaks.
She set her phone down beside her thigh and went back to taping boxes. After a bit she started thinking about her loft and how much she’d miss it. Crystal remembered all the times she’d walked into the restaurants and bars of downtown Denver. The location had been great for her social life. It was her place. She’d bought it with her own money. It was a badge of her independence and now it would be gone. It was tough letting it go, but she knew something better was waiting for her out on the horizon.
Crystal opened the mailbox to the right of the main door of her loft and scooped out a pile of letters hopeful the post office had processed her move notice and would begin forwarding all of her mail to her new P.O. box at the Minturn, Colorado, post office. She flipped through the junk mail and came to her electric bill. She ripped it open and was looking at the amount she owed when she spotted another of the letters from her mother. This one had a heart hand-drawn on the back where the envelope had been sealed. She tore it open and read the hand written letter.
Dear Crystal,
I hope this letter finds you well. I’d really like to reconnect with you. I miss you dear and there is so much I’d like to share with you.
If I knew I could trust you not to tell Vinton my whereabouts I’d meet you tomorrow, but I have many reasons to fear this man. I know deep down you must fear him as well dear. He took many things from me including you and your brothers. I know you probably blamed Owen for my disappearing from the bus station all those years ago in Tulsa, but it was Vinton who played upon that day. Owen did make a deal to retire his debts, but it was Vinton Blackwell who followed me and tormented me.
I’m not too far from you now, but I have to be careful or else risk loosing everything including you. I do this because of what Vinton did to me back when he found out I’d given my love to someone else.
I have to wrap this up now, but I promise I’ll write again.
I love you Crystal. Take care of yourself.
Love Mom
Long streams of tears flowed down Crystal’s cheeks. She dropped the letter to the floor and slid the fingernail of her ring finger under the nail of her right thumb. The pain felt good. She felt anger towards her mother knowing that she was alive and had failed to contact her for all of these years while she blamed everything on Vinton Blackwell.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Haisley and his wife Mavis sat on their couch reading separate sections of the Tulsa World and drinking coffee. The television was on in the background, so Mavis almost missed the report about the fire.
“Hey, isn’t that Reece’s motel?” she said.
Haisley saw a recorded picture of three fire engines hosing down the Executive Inn earlier that morning. “Holy shit,” he said, realizing rooms 237 and 238 had been gutted. “I think Reece told me he was in Room 237.”
Haisley picked up the phone and dialed.
“Reece Culver Investigations. How may I direct your call?”
“Holy crap. It’s good to hear your voice.”
“What’s going on? Is everything all right?” Reece said.
“It is now.”
Reece was puzzled, not sure where this was going. “What’s up, buddy?”
“Mavis and I were watching the tube and it looks like someone tried to take you out last night.”
“Take me out? What are you talking about?” Reece said.
“There was a fire at the Executive Inn, and rooms 237 and 238 are fried to a crisp.”
“Whoa, that’s heavy news,” Reece said. “I’m glad I decided to fly back to Denver yesterday.”
“Do me a favor, Culver,” Haisley said. “Watch yourself. Someone is gunning for you.”
Reece hung up the phone, mystified by this turn of events. His trip to Tulsa had for the most part been a dead end, so how did he become a target? The arsonist was most likely the same person that used the .45 caliber semi-auto that killed both his father and Owen Roberts. That person was linked to Sam Shanks, or could be Shanks himself. He knew Crystal was tied to Shanks too, since she was the only person he could think of that would have told Shanks and his crew that Owen was working for the task force as an informant.
Reece pulled his cellphone out and dialed the number for the Jeffco sheriff.
“Jefferson County Sheriffs Office, how may I help you?” the receptionist asked.
“Yes, this is Reece Culver. Could you connect me with Natalie Gleason?”
“One minute, Mr. Culver.”
As he waited, he kept retracing his steps in Tulsa, trying to decipher when he would have tripped a wire.
“Reece, how’s the hunt for that missing person going?” Natalie asked. Reece could hear shuffling papers in the background. “When are you coming back to Denver?”
“I’m back.”
“Good, did you find anything?”
“Well, I found some stuff, but not what I was looking for,” Reece said. “Hey I was wondering if you got a chance to look into the favor I asked for.”
“I did. You got any plans tonight?” Natalie said.
“No, I guess not. What’d you have in mind?”
“I was thinking we could do that dinner you promised, and I’d bring what I found on your girl Crystal.”
Reece wanted to get one thing straight. “The dinner part sounds good, but Crystal’s not my girl. I think she might be trying to kill me,” he said, annoyed.
“You’re right, doesn’t sound like much of a girlfriend,” she said breezily. “Tell you want. I’ll make a reservation. How about you drop by my place at six?”
“See you then.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Tracey Roberts made excellent time in her Maserati, driving from the airport in Broomfield back to her log cabin above Blackhawk, Colorado. She was excited to show Sam what she’d come up with for transporting the laundered money they’d successfully smuggled out of her work safe. Shanks sat quietly next to her, having just arrived himself from South America.
“You’ll be so pleased, Sam,” she said as she led him down the stairs to the basement. She stopped on the bottom step and reached up, taking his head into her hands. He kissed her.
“Your eyes look bloodshot. Are you feeling all right?” Tracey asked.
“I guess I’m still a little jetlagged. I’ve been going nonstop trying to get everything in place.” Seeing the concern on her face, he added in a brighter voice, “I can’t wait to take you down to our new retirement home in Uruguay. You’ll love it.” He smiled as he recalled how much he’d enjoyed it. “Do you remember the time you showed me that kitchen you liked in a copy of Architectural Digest?”
It was her turn to be excited. “Don’t tell me. You copied that kitchen in the new house.”
“All of it,” he said.
“You are something else. You really know how to spoil a girl, don’t you?” she said as she led him into what looked like a bedroom down in the basement.
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br /> “You didn’t tell me you were a golfer,” Shanks said, looking around.
“I’m not, but I think you’re going to like what I’ve come up with,” Tracey said, leading him over to a workbench. “Check this out.”
“Looks like the back of a golf cart,” Shanks said, pointing toward a molded plastic piece.
“It is. The guy I had make these customized cart-mounted golf bags gave me this to store them on during the winter months.” Shanks eyed a black and green men’s golf bag and a pink and white women’s bag propped up against the wall.
“Can you do me a favor and bring the men’s bag over here to the workbench? Just lie it down on its side,” she said. “Okay, watch how this opens up. You’re going to love this feature.”
Tracey picked up a red cordless screwdriver and went to work on the golf bag, taking out four Phillips head screws. Two came out of the top plate that held the carry handle, and the other two came out from behind a zippered ball bag lower down.
“Okay, now grab a hold of the putter and pull it out like you’re taking a golf club out of the bag.”
Shanks followed her directions and was surprised when all of the clubs came out the top. All eleven clubs pulled out of the bag along with a circular black plastic section that held the false clubs in place. Each club had been cut off at varying lengths so that when the piece was secured into the top of the golf bag the clubs stuck out the top and looked normal.
“Okay, now reach down into the golf bag and pull on the black strap,” Tracey said.
Shanks reached down inside the bag and pulled out the nylon strap handle that was hooked onto an oval molded plastic case. He set it down on top of the bench beside the gutted golf bag.
“The combo is 7-9-23-12,” she said.
Intrigued, Shanks dialed the numbers in and pressed the tab sideways. The case popped open and he stepped back.
“Cool.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say. It holds $1.4 million dollars.
Sam scooped up the stacks of hundred dollar bills held inside the case.