Vengeance: A Reece Culver Thriller - Book 1 Page 8

  The old man was still bleeding from the contact he’d made earlier with the steel cylinder of Reece’s gun. He slouched on the half burned couch and sucked at his glass pipe. The stranger in the trench coat saw the orange glow cast light on the vagrant’s lips.

  He stood over Reece and shined the light down. The top of his scalp was painted red with blood from the blow he’d sustained. The stranger smiled, then pulled one of his boots back, avoiding the puddle that was forming from the blood dripping down Reece’s face. The stranger bent down and pulled Reece’s gun from his side holster. He squatted just to the left of Reece’s outstretched body, and laid the flashlight onto the floor with the beam shining toward the vagrant’s chest. The room smelled of burning meth, and was filling with a white cloud of smoke.

  The stranger grinned at the old man, watching him get high. The addict stared into the light like a deer staring into headlights. The stranger grabbed Reece’s outstretched right hand, peeled back his fingers and wrapped them into the .357 Magnum with his index finger on the trigger. The stranger stuck his gloved right finger into the trigger guard and aimed the gun at the old man’s chest. The stranger pulled back on Reece’s finger and fired twice.

  With a comical groan the bum dropped the pipe, and the smile faded off his face.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Inside the hotel bar Crystal spotted George Kendall sitting in the last booth. She walked toward him, checking her navy blue skirt and red silk blouse in the mirrored wall. I still got it, she thought to herself.

  “I’m glad you decided to join me. Did the headache go away?” he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

  Crystal sat down across from him. “The aspirin did the trick. I feel much better now. Would you like a martini?”

  “Yeah, that sounds great. Are you going to join me?” George asked.

  “Only if they have Grey Goose, It’s the only vodka I drink,” Crystal answered. A blond woman wearing a pressed white cotton shirt came to their table with two dinner menus and a wine list.

  “What can I get for you?”

  “Two Grey Goose dirty martini’s,” George said.

  “Make mine with blue cheese olives,” Crystal added.

  The waitress nodded, and turned back toward the bar.

  “So what did you think of the briefing today?” George asked.

  “Agent Cox sounds pretty confident that the raid will be successful, and he’ll take Shanks into custody. That wasn’t your plan, was it?” Crystal said, hoping he wouldn’t mention Owen Roberts.

  “No, it wasn’t my plan, but this is not over yet,” George said, biting his lower lip.

  “Good, I’m glad you’re not going to let them steal your case.”

  “I have to say, I got a little uneasy when they brought up the slide of Owen Roberts. I sat through that entire meeting trying to remember where I’d seen his name,” George said, staring at Crystal.

  She tensed, pressing the nail of her pinky finger under the tip of her thumb, mixing pain with the anxiety she felt coming back.

  “When I got back to my room, I went into the employment files, and I figured it out.”

  “You figured what out?”

  “Owen and Tracey Roberts are your parents. It’s a conflict of interest,” George said flatly. “You’re related to a member of Sam Shanks’ gang by blood.” He leaned forward, sliding his clenched fist along the tabletop.

  Crystal threw her napkin toward him and stood up in the booth. “Is that why you invited me down here?”

  “Hold it. What are you doing?” George demanded. He reached out and grabbed her right wrist.

  “Let me go,” Crystal cried.

  “Calm down. Let’s talk about this,” George shouted.

  “No!”

  “Leaving the table is not a good idea, Crystal.”

  She lifted her arm, breaking his grasp, and slid back into the booth. She forced some tears to her eyes, making herself look vulnerable.

  “It’s okay, Crystal. It’ll be our secret. The others don’t have a need to know,” George said. She knew he was lying, but that was okay. She wasn’t going to take him at his word, anyway.

  “I know your story, Crystal. I know your mother went missing and you were put into an orphanage. I know it’s been tough on you, and this job is your whole life,” George said in a low voice.

  Crystal offered a reason that she knew would make sense to him.

  “I’m not a violent person, but if I can track down that son of a bitch, Owen Roberts, I’d…”

  She let the words trail off. After a significant pause, she added, “That’s why.”

  *

  Later that evening, George and Crystal took the elevator to the third floor. On the ride up George apologized for his earlier comments in slurred speech. Crystal smiled to herself, knowing that the multiple rounds of martinis she’d ordered were to blame. The elevator lurched as it came to a stop, and he lost his balance, grabbing for the side rail. He had no idea that Crystal could drink any man under the table.

  She stepped off the elevator and walked ahead swinging her arms with George close behind. She was buzzed, but not to the extent that he was. With the key card pushed into the slot, she grabbed the door handle but it wouldn’t open. She pulled the card out, turned it over, and heard the click of the lock open. She turned back toward George.

  He had a lustful smile on his face but said, “I’m sorry, Crystal.”

  “Come on, you’re coming with me.” She pushed open the door, grabbed him by his necktie, and pulled him into her room, kicking the door shut.

  “Why don’t you show me how sorry you are, Mr. Kendall?” she said, wrapping her arms around him, putting her mouth on his, and French kissing him.

  “Whoa,” George said, pulling away and then moving toward her to kiss her back. They both dropped down onto the edge of the bed. She looked down at the gold wedding band on his left ring finger. That was her ticket out of the mess she’d made.

  She squeezed the flab-covered muscles of his upper back, disgusted. How long had it been since he’d set foot in a health club? Crystal slid her tongue back into his mouth and let him have it. She felt his hands slide down, cupping her ass. She tipped back, pulling him on top. She moaned for effect as they made out, and George, who had been way over served, forgot all about his wife and kids.

  “Why don’t you lose some of those clothes? I’ll be right back,” Crystal said, sliding out from under him. She walked to the mirror on the other side of the room and activated the video camera feature on her smart phone. She turned back and looked at her pathetic, flabby boss. He was bent over at the waist, struggling to untie his shoes. She walked into the bathroom, hiked up her skirt, and pulled her thong down to the floor before stepping out of it.

  Crystal took a seat on the toilet and began to choreograph what she wanted to capture on the video. She returned to the bed wearing only her open red silk blouse and black stiletto heels. She turned on the lamp for good lighting. George stared at her with a devious smile, wadded up his dress shirt, and tossed it across the room laughing.

  Crystal stopped a few feet away, reached into her blouse, and began to massage herself. George watched, then began fumbling madly with his belt.

  She put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him backward. He smiled up at her. She smiled at him, running her tongue over her lips. She knelt down between his legs, unzipped his fly, and grabbed the waistband of his trousers above both hips. Then she pulled off what remained of his clothing.

  *

  Crystal woke the next morning and climbed out from under her boss’s sweat-dried body. George grunted, blowing air from his nostrils like a whale breaching, and rolled back over with a hint of a smile on his face. Crystal heard a rattle from the dresser on the far side of the room, and realized it was the vibrating ring of her phone in silent mode. She saw that she’d missed the call.

  Crystal gathered up George’s clothes and set them in a wrinkled pile on top of his shoes. She went to
the closet and wrapped herself in a hotel robe. She looked down at George’s half covered body and listened to him snore. She thought how stupid a man could be when offered the naked flesh of a beautiful woman. She smiled, feeling in control again.

  She grabbed his shoulder and nudged him. He mumbled something and rolled over, still asleep. Crystal sat on the side of the bed and bent down toward his ear.

  “George, it’s time to get up,” she said, poking him in the stomach with the tip of her index finger.

  George blinked and opened his bloodshot eyes. He stared up at her with a sheepish grin, and both of his hands went down to his genitals, trying to cover himself up in a sudden moment of modesty.

  “Your clothes are on the chair. I’m going to take a shower. You better go before the maid comes,” Crystal said, getting up off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom. She turned on both handles of the shower and took a seat. George was grunting on the other side of the bathroom door, hurrying to get dressed. She heard the door close and was glad he’d gone.

  Crystal emerged from the bathroom, opened the door to her hotel room, and put the do not disturb sign on the door handle. She picked up her cell phone and dialed the number for the man she called Papa.

  “Crystal, how are things in St. Louis?”

  “Better now, but there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Yeah, Diane and I were just talking about you. We were wondering if you’d like to come down and spend the weekend with us?”

  “Oh, Papa, that sounds like fun. Let me see if I can catch a flight out tomorrow morning.”

  “Crystal, there’s one more thing. Would you mind coming to a dinner party with me Friday night? It’s black tie.”

  “That sounds great. What’s the occasion?”

  He ignored that question, instead posing one of his own. “So, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

  “I was in a meeting for work yesterday, and they told us that Owen Roberts is an informant for the FBI. Papa, they’re planning a raid on the casino.”

  *

  The flight back to Denver on the government jet was nothing if not awkward. Crystal wore a dull green pantsuit with a choker collar. George sat catty corner from her with his nose firmly buried in the screen of his laptop computer. She congratulated herself on how clever she’d been. George wouldn’t be doing any talking now.

  The flight touched down on a snow-covered runway at Centennial Airport, and after Crystal emerged from the plane, she took her bag from the co-pilot and started rolling it toward her car.

  “Crystal, wait one minute,” George yelled. She was standing at the back of her car with the trunk open. Crystal saw George’s panic stricken face as he hurried toward her.

  “What’s the matter, George?”

  “About last night. You can’t tell anyone. I have a family, and—” George stopped talking. The co-pilot approached carrying the bag he’d left behind in his haste to catch her.

  “Here’s your bag sir,” the co-pilot said, setting it next to Crystal’s car.

  “Thank you,” George said.

  Crystal watched the co-pilot walk back into the hangar.

  “George, it sounds to me like we both have secrets to keep.”

  Chapter Twenty

  In a small room near the rear of his casino Sam Shanks was counting twenty-dollar bills. The table was covered on one end with paper sacks of money and on the other with neat stacks of bills. Owen Roberts sat across from Shanks, wrapping a stack of five-dollar bills in a rubber band. Michael Zimeratti was at a desk in the corner of the room in a cream-colored suit, working numbers in an Excel spreadsheet, and with his dark complexion he looked the part of a mob money manager. He had the kind of complex facial structure that was handsome from one angle and devious from another.

  “You got any idea what Blackwell did with Rocco?” Shanks asked.

  “Whatever he did I can assure you it wasn’t good. I seen him stuffing something that could have been a body into the back of the van the other morning,” Owen said, looking up from his stack of money.

  “That fucking psychopath better get a handle on himself or he’ll screw things up here just like he did back in St. Louis,” Shanks said, slamming his fist against the tabletop. “Michael, you got any idea what that cock sucker did with our dealer?”

  “I saw him hosing out the back of the van last night, so I’d guess your dealer made a mess.”

  *

  Vinton Blackwell drove into the casino property, still thinking about his call from Crystal earlier in the day. He’d always suspected Owen Roberts of being a problem, and he wondered why Shanks had gone to such trouble to keep him around. Blackwell pulled up behind the casino and spotted the cars of Shanks and Zimeratti parked alongside the white Ford van. He walked in the back door and down the hallway toward the big room where the bar was located. Vinton heard voices coming from the money counting room and stopped short. He patted the inside right pocket of his suit coat, confirming he’d brought along his favorite firearm. He could hear Shanks, Roberts, and Zimeratti on the other side of the door talking loudly. As the door opened, he jumped back against the wall and froze.

  Michael Zimeratti walked out of the counting room, still looking back toward the occupants inside, and never noticed the large man standing in the dim light a few feet behind him. Zimeratti pulled the door closed and walked down the hall.

  Vinton Blackwell watched Zimeratti walk away and waited, still listening to the voices emanating from behind the closed door. He could hear Owen Roberts talking trash about him to their boss, Sam Shanks. Blackwell felt rage bubbling up beneath his skin. He had an impulse to pull his gun and barge into the room. Owen was telling Shanks about what a great guy the dealer Rocco was. “The problems aren’t with the people we have working the tables. The problems are with Vinton Blackwell. He’s a goddamned psychopath.”

  That was enough. Blackwell squeezed the doorknob in his hand and swung the door open, almost tearing it loose of its hinges. Sam Shanks, who was seated on the opposite side of the table, looked stunned. Blackwell began shouting. “So, here you are taking shit about me with this scum-sucking bastard. That’s just great, Shanks. I guess you might like to know Roberts here has been talking to the FBI. In fact, he’s been working for them all along as their informant.”

  *

  Owen looked at Shanks, who was snarling at him like a jackal. Owen pulled an eight-inch filet knife from his waist and lunged at Blackwell, catching him off guard. Shoving inside the killer’s large black handgun, he brought the filet knife to Blackwell’s neck.

  Shanks yelled, “Stop!” but neither man did. Owen had his right hand on Blackwell’s gun, trying to keep it out of his face. He pressed into Blackwell’s throat and yelled, “Drop the gun or I’ll slit you like a fucking cantaloupe.”

  Blackwell abruptly stopped resisting and tossed his gun onto the money-covered table in front of them. A small trickle of blood seeped from the half-inch slit in the middle of Blackwell’s throat.

  “You’ve been trying to ruin me your whole life, Blackwell,” Owen yelled. “It was you that talked me into borrowing money from Sam up in St. Louis. It was you that got me in debt so bad that I couldn’t afford to gamble anymore.” Owen pulled Blackwell’s hand down toward his side while still holding the knife to his neck. He twisted the man’s wrist, ensuring he had control. Blood from the slit in Vinton Blackwell’s neck stained the collar of his white dress shirt.

  “You ruined my life, kidnapped my wife Tracey, and caused my children to be put into orphanages,” Owen said, shaking his right hand like he might slit Blackwell’s throat ear to ear at any minute.

  “Get a hold of yourself, Owen. It’s not going to do you any good to murder Vinton. If you are a snitch for the FBI, you won’t last long,” Shanks said.

  *

  Michael Zimeratti had heard Owen shouting from the counting room. He went behind the long wooden bar and pulled the sawed-off twelve gauge shotgun from the bungee cords that
held it in position next to the cash register. Zimeratti pumped the stock, racking a slug into the chamber of the Remington 870, and walked down the hallway toward the commotion. He saw Owen’s back facing the open doorway and figured it was a knife he was holding to Vinton’s neck.

  “You’ve gone too far, Blackwell. Now it’s my turn. I can’t wait to feel your blood on my hands,” Owen yelled.

  Zimeratti leveled the gun at Owen’s spine and took a step forward, stabbing him with the snout of the shotgun’s barrel.

  “Drop the knife, Owen. This little episode is over,” Zimeratti said calmly. Owen’s mouth opened with a gasp, and the bloodlust fled from his face. Zimeratti looked down at Sam Shanks and gave him a wink. Shanks stood from the table and produced a small silver-single shot pistol from his vest.

  “Do what Michael says, Owen. Drop the knife.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Reece Culver sat at a cold stainless steel table staring into a two-way mirror. He’d been in an interview room before, but he didn’t know where he was on this particular day. His head was throbbing, and when he looked down at the date window of his watch he wondered how he’d gotten from sniffing a urine-soaked floor on Wednesday to sitting in somebody’s interrogation room on Friday. It didn’t make sense. What the hell is going on?

  The door sprang open and two men dressed in dark blue suits with police shields clipped to their lapels stepped in.

  “Culver, you’re awake. You feel like filling us in on what you’ve been up to?” One of the men asked in a deep raspy voice. He was short with deep-set black eyes, and a square chin. Reece, eyeing his grey buzz cut, wondered if they’d loosened the height requirements the day this guy had signed up to be a cop. Isley, he read on the badge.

  Reece kept silent. He wasn’t going to say a word until they told him where he was and why his right hand was cuffed to the stainless steel chair his butt occupied. The tall cop, equally ugly, had a dent in the left side of his head that made his thick brown hair set funny on his noggin. He took a seat in front of Reece. This one was Leftwich.