Vengeance: A Reece Culver Thriller - Book 1

  VENGEANCE

  A Reece Culver Novel

  BRYAN KOEPKE

  The author is available for select readings and lectures. To inquire about a possible appearance, please contact Writers Cabin Press, Ltd.

  http://writerscabinpress.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events herein are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  VENGEANCE

  A Reece Culver Novel

  Copyright © 2014 by Bryan Koepke

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  Published in the United States by Writers Cabin Press, Denver, CO.

  www.bryankoepke.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9915824-0-2

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank my wife Ildy for her love and friendship.

  My thanks go out to my beta readers – Jean Scriven, Cyndie Burgess, and Patrisa McHone for spending the time to read an early draft of this work, and for giving me their honest feedback.

  Thanks to Suz Simone for that great author’s photo.

  I’d like to thank John Paine for his advice and council.

  I’d like to thank my mom and dad for teaching me about life, and instilling the love of learning and an appetite for adventure from a young age.

  Prologue

  July 9, 2009

  Al Culver welcomed the cool touch of the building’s stone exterior. An arid summer wind howled, whipping up loose bits of dirt and gravel in a driveway that seemed neglected. Hugging the wall, Al stayed in the shadows as he edged forward. Halfway down the structure he came to a small rectangular window chest high, perfect for snooping. He could hear what sounded like a boisterous party inside as he peered in from the bottom corner, doing his best to avoid detection. Inside, the walls were covered in lavish wallpaper, and a woman in a designer purple outfit sang to a piano on her left. Circular tables inhabited by men in tuxedos and women in the latest fashions stretched toward gambling tables near the center of the cavernous room. Along one wall a long dark antique bar held a line two and three deep of thirsty patrons. Fuel up before you lose everything you came with, he thought with a retired cop’s irritation.

  Al ducked as a man stood up from one of the tables and stared toward the window. He wanted to take a look to check, but he knew better. Keeping low, he instead passed beneath the window frame, thinking how clever it was to hide a casino in the carcass of a stone farm building this far out in the country. Yet it was still an easy drive west from St. Louis. Sidestepping toward the back of the building, he reflected back to his days as a detective. He would never have done a reconnaissance like this back then, with no backup or without a single soul knowing his whereabouts. But that was before he spent four hard years relying on a cane. All that time he had been searching for the men that beat him so badly. Al counted himself lucky for spotting them when he had. He owed it to himself to at least confirm that all the rats were in the same cage. Then he’d pull back to a pay phone and call in the others.

  At the far corner he peered around to view the back of the large property. No more than thirty yards distant he could see the glow of cherry-tipped cigarettes in the night as two men laughed.

  Suddenly, Al heard a noise, much too close, and whipped around.

  Cold steel pressed against his right temple, indenting the flesh. He slid his hand down toward the Smith & Wesson on his belt, only to be met by the firm grip of another man. Al thought about spinning to break loose and run, but that wasn’t happening. He tried to see their faces, yet as he stepped back, he felt the unmistakable snout of a gun barrel pressing into his back.

  A hand patted the left breast pocket of his sports coat, reached inside, and ripped out his wallet, nearly taking his nipple. The powerful white beam of a flashlight illuminated and he blinked at the flash of purple dots. Someone walked to his left, crunching gravel, and he wondered how many he was facing. He still had a snub-nose .38 clamped to his bum left ankle, so he knew he still had a chance.

  “Well, well, what do we have here? Al Culver, Private Investigator,” a man said in a thick southern drawl. He recognized the voice and felt a shiver part the tiny hairs of his spine.

  “Go on, start walking,” the voice commanded.

  He knew what happened last time he obeyed an order like that. He wanted to run, but knew his damaged legs wouldn’t permit more than a hobbling stumble. Fear seeped through him like a cancer. He thought about the voice, and the months he’d spent in the hospital after last hearing it. He cursed himself for going in alone knowing he should have waited.

  “Come on already, just shoot the stupid bastard,” said a second voice.

  “All right, I think I will.”

  Al squinted into the darkness and realized the large-caliber weapon this familiar person was holding had a suppressor screwed onto its barrel. He cringed, feeling trapped and vulnerable. Death was near.

  His thoughts sped up with a sudden burst of adrenaline, and he felt the urge to run. The man in front raised the gun, the muzzle flashed with flame, and Al Culver’s chest erupted in pain. His legs went weak and he fell backward into the cold, wet rock. As his vision narrowed he reached sideways, trying to somehow brace himself, but instead he sank to his knees, and felt the moist earth soak through his pants. He coughed and struggled for breath as the kind face of his wife came to him in a parting good-bye.

  Chapter One

  January 2011

  Reece stared out the large second-story window onto the prominent artery of East Colfax that divided Denver’s good neighborhoods from the bad. Two drunks, standing in a couple inches of snow, were pushing and shouting on the other side of the four-lane boulevard. Reece caught a streak out of the corner of his eye and wondered who’d be parallel-parking a red Mercedes convertible in this part of town.

  He sat down at his desk and tabbed through a bunch of e-mails he’d received the previous week on his laptop computer. Reece was concentrating on a message from his father’s old partner, Haisley Averton, when he heard a distant noise. Someone was walking across the worn linoleum floor that led from the stairwell out back to his office door. A tall figure appeared outside the etched glass that boasted the backward letters that spelled out his business name.

  A soft knock penetrated the quiet. Reece saw the silhouette of a female face. He came forward to turn the dead bolt lock and pulled the door open. In the door frame was a tall woman whose face was flushed in the January cold. Her long red hair framed large almond-shaped green eyes. She was a beautiful woman, the kind that would drive a red Mercedes. Reece pulled the door inward and motioned for her to enter.

  “Mr. Culver, I’m so glad I caught you,” she said, leaving a trail of perfume as she walked past. The tall woman quickly dropped into one of the armchairs before his desk. She wore a baby blue fleece, designer jeans, and a pair of knee-high leather boots flared like the three musketeers’.

  “What’s on your mind?” he asked, taking a seat at the desk. Reece noticed her watch and wondered if it was a real Rolex.

  “I need your help, Mr. Culver. It’s my mother,” the woman said. He was drawn to the soft skin of her cheeks, the comforting lilt of her voice. She noticed him staring and smiled.

  “What about your mother? Is she in some sort of trouble, miss?”

  “Oh, how rude of me
. I didn’t introduce myself,” she said, extending a pale hand. “I’m Crystal Thomas, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  He took her hand, gave it a gentle shake, but didn’t let go. She had long, slender fingers like a piano player. The citrus scent of her perfume filled his nostrils. He could definitely like having her as a client.

  “I was told you specialize in missing-person’s cases,” Crystal said, leaning forward a little, holding his attention.

  “Well, that depends on who’s missing.”

  “There are just some unresolved questions that I’d like to get answered.”

  He had handled all sorts of combinations, but not any cases of a daughter looking for her mother. “What sort of questions?”

  “It’s about my mother, Tracey. I want to locate her. I think she might have been kidnapped, or worse, ” she said, sounding somber.

  Why would she come to see a private investigator about that? “Have you contacted the police?”

  She gave an exaggerated look of unease. “No, it was a long time ago. I was young when it happened.”

  “How young?” he asked, noticing a small scar on the right side of her neck.

  “It was 1989. I guess I would have been eight,” she said, leaning back languorously. He wasn’t about to tell her that he’d bought the armchair at a garage sale.

  “When I was on a flight recently, I found an old newspaper in the seat back pocket. In it I read an article about a woman who went missing thirty years ago in Ohio. The case was reopened by the partner of a retired detective, and the woman, who’d run away from her abusive husband, was found alive and well in Texas. The newspaper article sparked off a desire in me, and I’ve been having dreams about my mother ever since. I know it probably sounds crazy to you, but I think she’s trying to reach me, and tell me something.”

  Reece had investigated some cold cases, but this was bordering on deep freeze. “I’ve got to tell you, Ms. Thomas, these kinds of cases can be quite intensive. Twenty-two years is a long time, and it could take months, if not years, to find your mother. There’s a good chance we won’t be able to solve this.”

  “Mr. Culver, I don’t care how expensive it is. I have the money and I want to find my mother if she’s alive, and if not, I want closure. I’ve lived too long with this hole in my heart not to take action.”

  She was singing the right tune for perennially cash-strapped Reece. “Well, I usually charge $700 a day, which includes all of my expenses, except airfare. I’d need $2,800 to start, and a full week’s retainer if it looks like it’ll take longer than a couple of days.”

  “That’s fine. This is very important to me,” she said, digging into the creamy blond leather of her Coach bag. She pulled out a red leather checkbook and a thick silver pen, and began writing. She recited his name out loud as she wrote it across the check. It sounded good rolling off her lips. It looked even better on paper.

  “Where was your mother living when she went missing?”

  “We were in Tulsa by then.”

  That was a start. “Tell me about it. Also, what’s your mother’s full name and how old would she be?” he said, glancing down, confirming that the amount $7,000 was written on her check. Nice, he thought. Very nice.

  Crystal’s voice took on a distance as she recalled her past. “I grew up in St. Louis near a highway and a park where we used to play. I remember the arch,” she said wistfully. “My mother’s name is Tracey Ann Roberts. The last time I saw her, she would have been twenty-seven. I remember from the candles on her birthday cake the month before I lost her.”

  “You said earlier you were in Tulsa when your mother went missing. Were you on a trip with your parents? Why were you in Tulsa?”

  “That was where our mom took us after she left our dad, Owen Roberts,” Crystal said, seeming uncomfortable as she mentioned his name.

  So, Owen had a motive for making his wife disappear. “I know you were young then, but do you remember why your mother took you away?”

  “They were having problems, and Daddy took it out on us kids. I remember my brothers teased me, calling me ratchet mouth. My dad was always telling me to be quiet. He said my voice hurt his ears,” Crystal recalled sadly.

  Reece decided to get right to the point. “Was your father abusive?”

  “Not to me, I guess, but he did manhandle my brothers. The abuse was more emotional for me. One weekend, when my mother was studying for her college exams, he had us kids help him build a room under the staircase in the basement. It was a fun project until he told me to go in, and he locked the door.” The corners of her eyes began to well with tears.

  “That must have been pretty scary for a little girl your age,” he said, wanting to console her, but not really knowing what to say.

  “That incident was what led to my mother taking us away. That afternoon my mother came home early from work. I remember hearing her yell out my name, looking all over the house for me. She came down into the basement and heard me crying through the locked door. My mom went berserk and got my older brothers, Julian and Wayne. They pried the lock off the door and got me out,” Crystal said in a small childlike voice.

  He handed her a Kleenex and wondered if her father had caught up with the mother in Tulsa and done something. Crystal dabbed her eyes, and Reece realized he couldn’t press her, not when she was so vulnerable.

  “I’d like to set up a time with you to get further background,” Reece said, tucking the check into his shirt pocket.

  “I have a work trip tomorrow,” she said with her lips pursed like she wanted to meet, but couldn’t get out of the trip.

  “I can get started on things,” he offered, “and we can meet when it works for your schedule.”

  “I could do something later tonight if that works,” Crystal said coyly.

  “That could work.”

  “How about I drop by around six? We can take my car, dinner’s my treat, and you can get all the background you want.”

  He wasn’t sure of his new client’s intent, but he did know that $7,000 was a good reason to be agreeable. “Then that’s what we should do.”

  Chapter Two

  Reece got up from the desk and walked over to the tall corner window to watch his new client walk away. The sun was peeking from the clouds, warming the glass. Crystal jumped into her hot red car and roared off. Down the street a jet black Range Rover parked on the opposite side caught his attention. He figured it must be one of the local drug dealers collecting the proceeds from their weekend deals.

  Reece returned to his desk, thinking about Crystal. He logged on to the laptop, wondering where she lived. A few minutes of searching the Denver county property records turned up the page for Crystal Thomas. She lived in a downtown Denver loft, which she’d purchased four years earlier for $550,000. Impressed, Reece continued his search and found a newspaper article announcing the death of her husband Nathan in a skiing accident at Vail the previous winter.

  He read the article, wondering what other secrets Crystal Thomas had to hide. Why had she really come to visit? Could she really want to find her mother after all these years?

  Reece caught himself staring at the wall and came back to reality. His checkbook and a pen sat to the right of his laptop computer. He pulled a big pile of bills out of the desk drawer. The balance column on the ledger page read $127.63. He wrote $7,000.00 in the deposit column with a nice big flourish.

  He pulled the first envelope off the stack of bills, peeling it open. It was a stern note from the credit card company threatening to turn the bill over to a collection agency. Reece worked his way through the stack, and by the time he got to the bottom he knew he needed to devote all of his time to Crystal’s case.

  Reece had a few more things to do before his big date, including the duty of walking his dog. After locking up his office, he climbed the circular staircase up to his third-floor apartment. When he popped his head through the floor he found Manchego sprawled out on the couch watching TV. R
eece grabbed his brown leather bomber jacket from the hook on the door and pulled out the leash. Taking his cue, the blond Labrador retriever leaped off the couch, pushing it back against the window, and trotted toward him. He raised his finger as if pointing to the ceiling, and Manchego dropped into a sit. The dog’s head was warm under Reece’s hand. As soon as he’d clipped the leash onto his collar, Manchego was up, tail wagging like a fierce metronome against Reece’s leg, eager to get out of the apartment.

  Reece snatched his gray cowboy hat from its resting place inside the original bottom half of the box it came in from the mall. He’d figured the top of the refrigerator was as good a place as any to store it. A few years back he’d splurged and paid close to $600 for the Stetson SILVERBELLY 30X Fur Felt hat with a four-inch brim. From that day on it had found a permanent place in his wardrobe.

  As he and his dog stepped out onto the cleated steel stairway, Reece guessed the temperature to be in the low twenties. The sky was a bright Colorado blue, and on the way down the steps, distracted by the sky’s brilliance, he slipped on a patch of snow-covered ice and almost fell. Manchego stopped, and Reece smiled at him, thankful he hadn’t been pulled further off balance. His dog sniffed the air with his blond snout, holding his head up. Reece followed suit and detected the faint odor of burning pine from some distant fireplace. The smell warmed his heart before he located the reason: it reminded him of a camping trip he’d gone on with his father.

  He reminisced about those few days while he weaved his way through the streets of the city. By the time he was winding up the dog’s outing, the brief glow from his time together with his father had hardened into a frown. Reece was one of those younger brothers waiting hopefully in the shadow cast by the superstar son, Raymond. His brother had settled in the small town of Parker, south of Denver, and the walls of his den were lined with an assortment of sports trophies. His brother had been the captain of both the baseball and football teams at their Saint Louis high school and after being scouted had played football for the University of Kansas until impregnating his girlfriend Gwen and blowing out his right knee in his sophomore year of college.