Vengeance: A Reece Culver Thriller - Book 1 Read online

  The steel clasp of the second padlock felt cold to his touch and he rattled the lock, trying to get it undone. Zimeratti heard Owen’s chains scraping on the wood floor inside.

  “You stupid son of a bitch. You still with us?” Zimeratti yelled as he pulled open the rusted door and stuck the barrel of the shotgun inside, tapping Owen’s foot.

  “Keeping me locked up like some goddamned animal, after all I done for you guys. Does that give you your jollies?” Owen snapped back.

  “You’re lucky Sam didn’t let Blackwell have his way with you last night. Hell you might have ended up laying next to that dealer Rocco in his deathbed. Wherever that is.”

  “All you got a do is unlock these chains and we can get out of here. We can start over somewhere’” Owen said, pleading with Zimeratti.

  “I brought you some food and a light bulb to give you a little warmth. I don’t know what lies ahead for you, Owen, but no need for you to freeze to death,” Zimeratti said as he set a cafeteria-style plastic tray down between Owen’s outstretched legs and stood up to screw a hundred-watt light bulb into the overhead socket. “There’s a switch for the light right here if you want it off.”

  Owen flinched at the sound of someone else banging on the side of the galvanized steel outbuilding, and he instantly rolled up onto his knees. Zimeratti pushed the rusted door open, bringing sunlight into the dim interior.

  “Just me. Michael, you got a minute?” Shanks said. Zimeratti slammed the door shut and clinched both padlocks before joining in with Shanks’ cadence, walking down a narrow path that led toward the woods. Tall clumps of grass scraped their boots as they walked and left streaks of moisture on their pant legs.

  “I got to tell you, it didn’t surprise me all that much to hear that Owen was working for the other side. Michael, we need to keep our eye on the ball. You and I both know Vinton is a troubled man. He always has been. I’m not saying Owen Roberts is the best of characters, but he would have done much better in life if he’d never crossed Blackwell’s path,” Shanks said. “We need Owen’s help packing the business, so I want you to do your best to control Blackwell.”

  “That’s like telling me to control a cobra,” Zimeratti said.

  “I’ve got a plan, Michael. In a few weeks we’ll be past all of this and living the good life in a place where no one can get to us. Your old man, Anthony, was there for me more than a few times. I made him a promise and I’ll stick to it.”

  “What sort of a plan are you talking about?”

  “Not now, Michael, just keep your eye on the ball.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Reece sat in Mike Mobley’s office on the fifth floor of the downtown St. Louis police building, waiting for his return. He’d visited the same floor once before when Haisley had an office there and he’d tagged along with his dad. The walls were still a dull brown, and he doubted much else had been changed since his last visit.

  He’d caught a lucky break when he recognized Officer Felps the night before and told him he was Al’s son. It turned out that Felps had called Mike Mobley, the chief of detectives, and Reece was soon freed from jail.

  He heard the heavy steps of someone coming, and Mike Mobley walked past and plopped down behind his prominent wooden desk. His cheeks were red and the tie he wore looked like it might be cutting off his breath. He smiled at Reece.

  “I just talked to the DA. You’re off the hook for now, but he still considers you a suspect,” Mobley said.

  “So what’s that mean for me?” Reece said, having an idea.

  “It means they may still have questions, but for now you’re free to go.”

  Reece promptly stood up and headed for the door.

  “Hey, if you have time, I’d like to buy you lunch,” Mobley said, looking like the kind of guy who was especially fond of lunches.

  “Sure, I got the time for a guy who sprung me out of jail.”

  The two men walked to the elevator, and they rode down a few floors in awkward silence. Just because they both knew Reece’s father didn’t mean they knew each other.

  “I made a call and got your rental out of impound. It’s parked right over there,” he said pointing to the blue Mazda. “Let’s take my truck, though.”

  They were listening to Garth Brooks and driving parallel to the Mississippi River when Mobley silenced the radio and turned toward Reece. “So, let me get this straight. A little over a year ago, you took a leave of absence from a high-paying job as an aerospace engineer to try your hand at investigative work.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And you’ve spent all that time trying to figure out who took your father’s life while surviving on private investigation wages.”

  “Yup, that’s about it,” Reece said.

  “Mind if I ask why you didn’t keep your old job and hire a seasoned investigator?”

  “Like you?”

  “Well, like me except someone who investigates cold case murders for a living.”

  “You want the truth?” Reece asked.

  “Give it to me.”

  “Because the St. Louis PD and the FBI both screwed up. I figured, what the hell, I’d give it a shot. I couldn’t do any worse than they did,” Reece said. “If I don’t do it, no one else will.”

  “But you’re in the prime of your life. You spent all those years going to school to get your education,” Mobley said. “Not just any education, but an engineering degree.”

  “That’s true, but once you have an education, it’s for life. Once I solve my father’s case I can go back to what I did before.”

  “So that’s your plan. You’re going to solve Al’s case and then go back to working for NASA?”

  “Something like that”

  Reece watched Mobley slow to peruse the parking lot and after realizing there weren’t any places pull his truck up to the sidewalk a few hundred yards past the restaurant. Reece followed him toward the diner. Once inside, he looked up at the textured plaster ceiling and noticed a juke box in the corner playing Patsy Cline. It tugged at Reece’s memory and took him back to a day he’d eaten lunch with his father in a similar place. He stared at the far wall in deep thought, picturing his father’s face and his kind voice. He’d spent his whole life trying to earn his acceptance.

  “I’ve been coming here for years. They got a great menu, and you can’t beat the prices,” Mobley said, sliding into an empty booth. “You okay, Culver?”

  Reece heard his name and came back to the present time, crawling into the booth across from him. Mobley picked up a newspaper that had been left behind by the previous patron.

  “This is what’s wrong with our god damned country,” he said. “If we could find some way to secure our borders and keep the drugs out, the crime rate in this country would no longer be a problem. It seems like every single case we get here in St. Louis has a connection to drugs.”

  “If I was in charge of this country, I’d make one change that would fix that,” Reece said.

  “Oh yeah, what would that be?”

  “Have you ever heard of a MOA?”

  “No, I can’t say I have. What’s that?” Mobley asked.

  “It’s a Military Operations Area. We have them all over the country. It’s where the military practices. There are lots of them out in the desert Southwest,” Reece said.

  “Okay, so what do MOA’s have to do with the drug war?”

  “We take twenty miles along each of our borders and make them Military Operations Areas. You post tanks, soldiers, and fighter jets in them 24/7. Anything that moves that’s not supposed to be there gets blown to bits. Drug war over,” Reece said watching Mobley shake his head.

  “Good idea. You got any more Culverisms?”

  A waitress came and dropped two red and white menus that looked like they were a relic of the 1960’s in front of them.

  “We already know what we want,” Mobley said. “He’ll have a number one special and I’ll have a number six.”

  Reec
e looked at the menu and quickly figured that the cheeseburger and fries special Mobley had ordered for him would do the trick. “I’ll have a Diet Coke too.”

  Once she had left, Mobley gave Reece a tight smile. “First off, I want to apologize for my over eager detectives. St. Louis is a much different place than the town you and your dad lived in. We have our hands full.”

  “They had me worried for a little while. I’m glad I recognized Officer Felps,” Reece said, beginning to relax for the first time since driving into St. Louis three days before.

  “Felps is a good guy. Your father and I used to go hunting with him along the river back in the day. Reece, speaking of your father, there’s something I need to tell you,” Mobley said.

  “Yeah, what’s that?” Reece said studying one of the waitresses as she served a group of college kids a couple of booths away.

  “The night your dad went to that casino out in the country, he called me for backup. I’ve carried this burden with me for years, Reece.”

  “What are trying to say, Mike?”

  “It was a Friday night. I remember it well because I had been chasing this gal Marci. Anyway, I finally convinced her to go out with me. It was my lucky night. We were back at my place and had polished off close to a fifth of bourbon,” Mobley said, staring past him like he was reliving the memory.

  “So, what’s this got to do with my old man?”

  “I remember Marci had taken my hand and was leading me down the hallway when the phone rang. I’d just made chief detective, so I had to answer it, but I wasn’t in any condition to drive. I wouldn’t have been any help to your dad that night.”

  “So what’s that got to do with the night my dad got gunned down?” Reece asked.

  “It was late—I’d say eleven or so—when I got the call from Al. He’d parked at a liquor store out in Malum. He’d been staked out all day at Anthony Zimeratti’s house, trying to get pictures of Zimeratti with one of his mistresses,” Mobley said. “Al was working for Mrs. Zimeratti’s divorce lawyer.”

  “There’s no way it was eleven at night when my father called you,” Reece said. “I have the pictures from his camera and it was just before dark when he took them.”

  “Okay, maybe it wasn’t that late. Like I said, I’d had a lot to drink.” Mobley said, pursing his lips. “Did your dad ever tell you about the incident on the rooftop in East St. Louis when he and Haisley were partners?”

  Reece wasn’t sure why the conversation had turned in this direction. “Yeah, he told me all about it one day in the garage a year or two before he died,” Reece said wondering where his story was going.

  “When your dad was at Zimeratti’s house, he spotted the guy that beat him to a pulp on that roof back in 05’. Your dad followed him that night, and the guy led him to the casino out in Malum. He’d turned into the liquor store parking lot across the street from the entrance to that place to call for some backup. I remember hearing him say he’d already tried Haisley but got no answer.”

  “So let me guess you blew him off that night for a piece of ass.”

  “I made the wrong choice, Reece. I was drunk and I—”

  Reece stood up, slapped a twenty down on the table, and walked away, leaving Mobley and his BS behind. He smiled grimly at the cashier on his way out the door, trying to reel in the anger that threatened to explode.

  He half expected Mike Mobley to chase after him, but then knew it would never happen. The fat bastard might miss scarfing down the rest of his French fries. That wouldn’t happen. Not today anyway.

  Reece thought about Crystal and his case. He needed a cab so he could get back to the Mazda rental car and head back to Tulsa. He thought about the streets they’d driven and remembered seeing a few cabs a couple of blocks over before they’d taken a left onto the street where the café was located.

  He felt the rattle of his phone in his front pants pocket, reached in to pull it out, and noticed he had several missed calls. He answered.

  “Yes.”

  “Reece, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, why?” Reece said, startled. It was like his mother had ESP.

  “Mike Mobley called me this past Thursday. The night you were supposed to take me to dinner,” Helen Culver said.

  “He did? What did he want?”

  “He said I should hire you a good lawyer. I should get Haisley involved if I needed to. He said you might have killed someone, Reece.”

  Her voice was edging toward hysteria, and he quickly corrected that notion. “He was wrong, Mom. It was all just a big misunderstanding.”

  “I don’t believe you, Reece. Where are you now?”

  “I’m on my way to get a taxi. I just had lunch with Mobley,” Reece said.

  “Reece, I hope you’re not in danger. I can’t afford to lose another member of our family. I don’t know what you’re involved in, but why don’t you drop it? Let the police handle it.”

  “That’s an idea,” Reece said irritably.

  “Are you coming back to Tulsa?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there later today. Why?”

  “Reece, honey. I don’t think you’re cut out for this investigation business you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  “Sometimes I wonder too,” Reece said, wanting to end the call, but not wanting to hang up on his mother.

  “Reece, if one of my boys was going to follow in his father’s footsteps, I’d have thought it would have been your brother. He’s the athletic one, the tough guy. Reece, you’re an engineer. You went to school and did so well. How many investigators do you know who have a college degree?”

  “Mom, most of them do.”

  “How about an expensive aerospace engineering degree?” Helen said. “Reece, you’re not cut out to be a private investigator.”

  Reece held the phone out and stared at the end button. How dare she say that to him? “You know, Mom, I’ve sacrificed a lot for you, for this family. You’d think you’d be on my side for once. Maybe you could work at appreciating what I’m trying to do here.”

  He hung up after that, burning inside. First, Mobley confesses he was drunk the night of, and now his mother wanted to belittle him again. Why doesn’t everyone just leave me alone? he thought bitterly. Then I’ll solve the damn case.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Vinton Blackwell puffed on his cigar as he stood in the second-story window of the old barn. Below, Michael Zimeratti climbed into the passenger’s seat of Sam Shanks’ white Porsche and slammed the door. Vinton gnawed his lower lip, jealous of the increased amount of time he’d noticed Shanks spending with Zimeratti.

  He walked down the creaking stairway, still mulling over what Zimeratti had told him about their needing Owen’s help dismantling the casino over the next couple of days. He flipped his cigar forward into the air and watched the red cherry tip break off and slide into a pile of damp leaves. Vinton pulled his handgun from the breast pocket of his suit coat, pulled out the magazine, and ran his thumb across the copper-jacketed ammunition.

  It was a short walk to the shed where they’d been keeping Owen, and on the way Vinton began to smile. He unlocked both locks and found his prey sitting down in a folding chair.

  “You look like you could use some exercise. Let’s take a walk. I need your help with something,” Vinton said, unlocking the padlock that shackled Owens’ leg to the steel U-bolt on the floor.

  “What kind of help do you need?” Owen asked, acting like he was trying to stay on Vinton’s good side.

  “You’ll see,” he said as they walked abreast toward the casino. “You feel like driving? I got something I have to pick up. It’s not far.”

  The two men climbed into the bench seat of a yellow cab over truck. Blackwell handed Owen the keys and pointed toward the dirt road that led out of the property. Owen started the truck and it zoomed loudly.

  “You nervous or something?” Blackwell said, watching Owen’s right knee shake as he took his foot off the accelerator pedal and shifted into drive. The
truck crept forward, picking up speed.

  “See them trees over there on the left side? That’s where we’re headed,” Blackwell said. He leaned forward and slid a pair of stainless handcuffs from his back pocket. Owen stared out the windshield, focused on the uneven ground. Blackwell opened one end of the cuffs wide and came down on Owen’s left wrist in a quick movement. The truck skidded to a stop.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Owen demanded.

  Not replying, Blackwell picked up his foot and jammed it down on top of Owen’s, mashing the gas pedal and sending the truck barreling into the tall vegetation toward a row of trees. After fifty yards the wheels of the truck started to spin in the rugged terrain.

  “This is good. Shut if off,” Vinton said, taking his foot off of Owen’s. “Roll down your window and sit tight.”

  Owen stared over at Blackwell as he exited the truck.

  “Do it,” Blackwell said, pointing the gun at him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Reece held up a black plastic magnifier, eyeing one of the photos he’d been studying earlier. He was in a hotel room with two queen-sized beds. The book of matches in the cheap black plastic ashtray on the nightstand read “Executive Inn.” In the photo, three men were standing on the porch of a large red-brick ranch in one of St. Louis’s finer neighborhoods. The lawn was well kept with what looked like professional landscaping. Vintage muscle cars were parked single file in the long asphalt driveway. Large trees in front of the house were in full bloom, and he squinted trying to make out the faces of the men through the foreground of leaves.

  One of the guys had long black hair pulled back over his forehead the way Pat Riley had when he coached the L.A. Lakers. He wore gold-rimmed glasses and had a diamond stud in his right ear lobe. Reece moved the magnifier to examine a squatty round-headed man with board shoulders who was pointing a finger at the first guy. He wondered if this fireplug showing attitude might be the boss.

  The third man was tall and had thick blond hair with broad shoulders. In the next photo Reece saw the profile of the man’s face with his Nordic features and light eyes. He held the magnifier up, but the foliage was blocking a head-on view of this guy’s face. Reece wondered why his father had taken the photos. What was he investigating? Then he thought about what Mobley had told him back at the diner.