Vengeance: A Reece Culver Thriller - Book 1 (21 page)

Chapter Sixty-Five

R
eece lay in
bed with the ceiling heater vent blowing warmed air toward his face. His thoughts turned to Vinton Blackwell and the facts he’d learned while talking to Charlie Anders. Reece was certain Vinton Blackwell was the man he was after. He was the one who’d killed his father in 2009, and it made sense that Blackwell would take Owen Roberts’ life.

Reece had started a pot of coffee when the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Culver, I got Mobley here with me at the hotel. We’ll be over to your place in thirty minutes. If you got a girl loving you up, turn her loose. We’ve got work to do,” Haisley said.

“You’re in Denver?”

“Yeah, we flew in this morning. This whole damn thing is heating up, Culver. Cox is going one hundred miles an hour, and if we don’t get in the game, he’s going to screw this thing up again and we may never get Sam Shanks.”

“Who put you in charge?” Reece asked, not liking to take orders.

“Cox and his crew are in Colorado Springs chasing leads. Mobley talked to him this morning.”

“I hope that fat bastard kept his mouth shut,” Reece said, referring to Mobley.

“I’m buying breakfast,” Haisley said cheerfully, and Reece realized Mobley was listening to that end of the conversation. “We’ll go to that place you took me to, Pete’s on Colfax. We’ll be over to your apartment in a few minutes.”

Reece ran a comb through his hair and brushed his teeth. He started thinking about his mother and the last time they’d spoke. He needed to give her a call and see how she was doing. He had washed up and just pulled on his second Tony Lama boot when he heard what sounded like an army of feet tromping up the steel stairs out back of the apartment.

The pounding reminded him of Mobley, and how much he still didn’t trust the fat cop. Maybe he had some connections they could use.

Reece opened the door and saw a fat, red-faced man wearing a cowboy shirt and jeans panting as he fought to breathe in the mile-high atmosphere.

“You guys want to come in for a bit and rest?” Reece asked, watching the corners of Haisley’s mouth pull up into a smile.

“No, we’re good. You got any notes you want to bring to breakfast?”

Reece grabbed his notebook and locked the door to his apartment before following the two men down the stairs to a black Chevrolet Tahoe parked beside his GTO. He climbed in the backseat and the stale air inside the truck hit him. It made him feel like he’d entered a gymnasium. Haisley took the driver’s seat and was in gear before Mobley had gotten his door shut and his seatbelt fastened. Reece caught the tension between the two of them as Mobley gave him a hard look in the rearview mirror.

“So, Reece, where are you in the case? Have you uncovered anything new since we last spoke?” Haisley said, heading toward Pete’s.

“No big leads, just some more background,” he answered, lying through his teeth. He figured Mobley had teamed up with Haisley as a way to feed information back to Agent Cox and his team.

After breakfast, Reece put his suitcase into the back of the Tahoe and went back upstairs to lock up. Manchego sniffed at him and barked as if to say, what about me? Earlier he’d made a call to his landlord and arranged for Noi to take care of the dog. Reece had a flash of Charlie Anders’ dog and wondered if he should have left Manchego with him.

He climbed into the truck, and Haisley asked him, “What’s the best way to go?”

“If you stay on Colfax, you’ll see the exit for I-25 up ahead. We’ll take that north, then catch I-70 west.”

Haisley peeled out into traffic, and Reece smiled. The old man hadn’t lost his old policeman’s ways about commandeering the road.

“Mike, what’s the latest with the Task Force?” Reece asked, leaning forward over the bench seat until he caught the stench of Mobley’s smoke-laden breath.

“It’s been disbanded. The last I heard, Cox had a lead in Colorado Springs and was pursuing that.”

Reece caught Haisley eyeing him in the rearview mirror, and he nodded in return. He wasn’t trusting Mobley with a thing.

“So, how’s the case in St. Louis going? Did you guys ever figure out who shot the homeless guy at the Roberts house?” Reece asked, changing the subject.

“We’ve got some leads but no arrest yet,” Mobley answered, sounding annoyed that he’d brought it up.

Reece heard a ringtone and watched Haisley dig his cell phone out of his coat pocket.

“Hello?” he said, sounding like he didn’t recognize the incoming call.

“I’m in Tulsa, where are you?” Haisley said, sounding irritated and obviously lying.

“I’m working on something else right now. What kind of help do you need, Agent Cox?” Reece cringed at the name.

“What part of Colorado?” Haisley said, taking the exit off I-25 onto I-70 at the mousetrap section of the highway. Reece leaned toward the side of the truck as they took the curve going a little too fast.

“What makes you think they’re in mountains?” Haisley asked.

“Oh, I see. Well, I guess I could book a flight. Where are you guys staying?” Haisley said, merging onto I-70 heading west.

“Okay, the Hampton Inn. Sounds good. I’ll give you a call when I get to Denver.”

Chapter Sixty-Six

S
am Shanks rolled
out of bed and looked out across the valley of his Minturn home, thinking about his soon to be new home in Uruguay. He had a thought of Michael Zimeratti and wondered if he and Crystal had hit it off. Distracting her could only make their lives easier.

He was still not sure exactly how he would handle Vinton Blackwell, but very much liked the idea his friend Pablo had recommended when he was making arrangements in Ecuador. The hard part would be getting Blackwell to stay in Guayaquil while the broken A-320 was being repaired. He knew Vinton wasn’t good at sticking to the plan. He always wanted to do things his own way. Shanks needed to be in the rented Learjet halfway to his new home in Uruguay when the police arrived at the jet and took Blackwell into custody with an airplane full of what was left of the stolen art. Crystal and Michael Zimeratti would be with him in the corporate jet. The only thing he wondered was if the FBI would be satisfied with taking Blackwell into custody instead of himself. Maybe he’d stash a couple of kilos of heroin in the baggage compartment to make the capture a little sweeter.

Once Shanks was dressed, he walked into the kitchen and smiled at the smell of fresh toast and coffee.

“Hello, Mr. Shanks I was hungry, so I took the liberty of making something to eat,” Crystal said, smiling at him.

Vinton Blackwell looked up from the sports section of the
Denver Post
just long enough to frown. Shanks couldn’t get rid of him any sooner. He casually took a seat at the table across from the two of them.

“We’ve got that one last job you guys have been planning, and then we’ll box everything up and head down to South America like I told you,” Shanks announced. “Have you had a chance to fill Crystal in with the details of our trip, Vinton?”

“Yes, she knows all about it,” Blackwell said, not looking up.

“Is there anything good in the paper?” Shanks said turning over the front page to see the headline.

“Son of Chicago businessman dies in accidental fall from Vail chair lift.”

Alarmed, he saw the picture of Crystal Thomas kneeling in the snow next to the ski patrol sled with Zimeratti’s lifeless body wrapped inside. Her lipstick was smeared and long streams of mascara-colored tears had stained her red cheeks. Sam was ready to explode as he looked up from the article.

“What did you do to him?” he yelled, rising from the table with the newspaper in his hand like he was about to hit her with it.

Blackwell jumped up from his side of the table. “What are you talking about, Shanks?”

“This!” he said, plopping the paper down in front of Blackwell and storming from the kitchen.

“What happened, Crystal?” Vinton asked, quickly grasping the gist of the article. “We needed him for our last job. What’s wrong with you?”

“You should talk,” she said crossly. “He told me what you did to Owen. If anyone is a murderer in this kitchen, it’s you, Papa,” Crystal said, standing up from the table herself.

“The timing, Crystal. Why did you have to do this now?”

“He was plotting against you with Shanks, Papa. I did it for you.”

“What do you mean, plotting?”

She checked the doorway Shanks had exited through, then lowered her voice. “They know about the painting you stole from the Philips house. The one with the yellow poppy flowers in the vase. Shanks knows you took it. He thinks you’re up to something, Papa.”

“He does, does he?” Vinton said, waving his arms angrily and sending his coffee cup flying to the floor with a crash.

Sam Shanks came back through the door. “What’s wrong with you people? Are you both fucking mad?” He pointed his finger toward Crystal. “Michael Zimeratti was like a son to me. We grew up together back in Chicago.”

“Don’t you talk to my daughter that way,” Blackwell yelled.

Shanks charged at him, grabbing his arms and reaching for the pistol he’d stuffed in his pocket.

Blackwell seized the weapon and tossed it to the side. Enraged, Shanks grabbed Blackwell’s wrist and pulled him to the ground. Crystal ran to get the gun. The two men grunted, struggling as they wrestled on the floor. Shanks got Blackwell by the throat and the larger man began to choke and cough.

“Stop it. You’re going to kill him,” Crystal screamed, firing the gun into the wall.

Shanks looked over at her but held his grip on Blackwell’s throat. Crystal, realizing she couldn’t shoot him, instead dropped the gun on the table and jumped onto Shanks’ back, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Sam Shanks was smaller than Blackwell but well muscled for his size, and was no stranger to a wrestling mat. He tossed Crystal aside like a horse shaking off a fly. Blackwell started making choking noises and fought for air.

Satisfied he had made his point, Shanks let go of his throat and stood up.

“Enough of this. You will behave now, or…”

“Or what?” Blackwell said sarcastically, rubbing his throat. “Or you’ll kill me?”

Chapter Sixty-Seven

R
eece had taken
the wheel, driving the Tahoe toward the Vail/ Eagle County Airport. Mobley sat in the backseat, smoking a cigarette with the cold mountain air pulling at the ash. Haisley was in front, poking the buttons of a hand-held GPS receiver.

“I think I’m going to take a rain check on this flight if you guys don’t mind. I hate small planes,” Mobley said, flipping his cigarette out the window.

“That’s fine, Mike. Reece and I got it covered,” Haisley said distractedly.

“Weren’t you going to check in with that detective you know on the Vail PD?” Reece asked, figuring Mobley had to be good for something other than smoking, eating, and smelling up the truck.

“I’ll take the truck and go pay him a visit while you guys take your joy ride,” Mobley said.

Whatever, Reece wanted to say, as long as you’re not with us. He pulled up at the fixed based operators hangar on the south side of the airport, and he and Haisley jumped out. Mobley waved and drove away.

“You want to fill me in on what Cox was telling you a while back when he called?” Reece said.

“They’re at the Federal Center in Golden. He’s been working with another federal agency, and they think Shanks is somewhere in the mountains west of Denver. He told me to fly into Denver to help out.”

“So, it sounds like we’re a few steps ahead of Cox for now.”

“It seems that way. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Mobley, but it sounds like Cox is hell bent on catching up with Vinton Blackwell. He wants to offer him immunity in exchange for his testimony against Sam Shanks,” Haisley said, walking across the blacktop toward a high-winged Cessna airplane.

“Cox wants to give that psychopathic murderer immunity? You just got to love the way the FBI does business,” Reece said.

“I hear you, Culver. If we get to him first, maybe that won’t happen.”

“There’s no maybe about it,” Reece said, opening the right-side door of the Cessna 172. “Have a seat and I’ll get the preflight done.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, it will go faster if I just do it alone.” Reece walked around to the left wing of the airplane and started his inspection. On his way around the plane he noted a spot on the end of the elevator where someone had used a generous helping of silver duct tape to keep the plastic end cap on. He wasn’t worried since the fiberglass was merely decoration, and if it did decide to come off in flight, it would depart in the slipstream of the airplane and not harm anything.

Reece climbed into the airplane and, after fastening his seatbelt and ensuring Haisley had done the same, he pulled the red mixture knob all the way out and then screwed it in three turns. He pulled the black throttle knob out, then using the first digit of his index finger as a gauge, pushed the knob back in about a quarter of an inch. Reece flipped a switch and heard the whine of the fuel pump and studied the fuel pressure gauge priming the fuel injected Lycoming engine. With the switch flipped off the whine ceased. Reece turned the ignition key with his left hand while pushing in the throttle with his right. The engine caught and chugged a few times before roaring to life with a pleasing spurt. Reece let the engine warm and eyed the oil temperature guage as the small white needle climbed into the green.

He reached up to the stack and tuned the communications radio to frequency 135.575 for the Automated Terminal Information Service. A recorded voice read off the weather conditions, winds, and other information and at the end of the recording announced, “You have information Romeo.” Reece turned the radio frequency to 121.8, pressed down on a small black button on the front of the control yoke and started speaking: “Eagle ground, this is Cessna 5484 Kilo with information Romeo. We’re at Bronson FBO and would like to taxi to the active for takeoff .”

“Cessna 5484 Kilo taxi to runway 27 and hold short. Contact Eagle tower at 119.8, good day.”

They taxied toward the west, and he listened to the radio chatter on his green David Clark headphones.

“You ready to go flying?” Reece asked as he pressed down on one of the rudder pedals and swung the tail end of the Cessna around so they were facing into the wind. Reece ran through his preflight checklist and gave Haisley a thumbs up, “Eagle tower, this Cessna 5484 Kilo ready at 27 with Romeo for takeoff.”

“Cessna 5484 Kilo, you are cleared for takeoff on runway 27. Winds 220 at 13,” the eagle airport air traffic controller said. Reece looked over at Haisley with a smile, taxied onto the runway, and pressed the black throttle knob all the way into the dashboard. The one hundred and sixty horse powered engine spooled up, and the Cessna roared down the nine thousand-foot runway.

Once airborne, Reece headed east toward the town of Vail. As the mountains passed below, he scanned the ground for the type of house he figured Shanks might inhabit. He turned to look at Haisley, and saw his bald black head moistening with beads of sweat.

“Is there any way to get some ventilation in here?” Haisley asked. Reece reached over and turned the vent near the top of the door on the right side of the airplane and felt a blast of crisp cold air.

“The best time to fly is early in the morning or late at night. I’m afraid it will be bumpy like this for most of our flight,” Reece said, rolling the plane right into a bank and looking down at the tree-covered terrain below them. He glanced back toward the folded map on his thigh.

“That looks like Line Shack Road there. You see that big house with a rock wall around it at the end of that road there on the left? Looks like the sort of place Shanks might use to hide out.”

Down on the ground several men were standing next to a black SUV that was parked next to two semi tractor-trailers, and other men were unloading one of the large trucks. The plane rocked sideways, hitting some bumps, and Reece pulled the throttle out, lessening the engine’s RPM and causing the airplane to begin a descent.

“Feels like we’re dropping,” Haisley said, looking over worriedly at Reece.

“We’re not dropping. We’re descending so we can get a better look.”

“Is that safe?” Haisley said. “I mean, is it okay if we go this low while we’re over the mountains?”

“I can handle it. Just sit back and enjoy the ride, Averton,” Reece said. “Looks like they’re either moving in or out.”

“My guess is they’re moving out if those guys are who we’re looking for.”

Reece rolled the plane right again and added power, taking them north away from the large estate.

“That’s the Vail ski area down there,” Reece said as they overflew snow-covered trails carved into a forest-covered mountain. “There’s another big property over this way,” Reece noted, flying toward a large white-fenced property with a main log cabin and several smaller buildings. “I’m thinking we should head back over that first house with the moving trucks.”

They flew close to the first place they’d spotted, and he saw a group of men near the front of a black Range Rover. “Haisley, can you get our current position on your handheld GPS?”

“Already got it, Culver.”

Their mission accomplished, Reece called the tower on the radio and got clearance to land. Three miles off the end of the runway and a couple of thousand feet above pattern altitude, Reece dropped the left wing and pushed down on the opposite rudder, putting the Cessna into a forward slip and losing altitude at an alarming rate. A hundred feet above the approaching runway, he eased up and squeaked the wheels onto the runway in a smooth landing.

“Now I see why your nephew calls you the flying cowboy. That was one cool landing, Culver.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

After taxing back to the parking spot in front of the FBO, Reece started to tie down the airplane.

“Hey, take a look at this,” Haisley said, pointing at a hole punched through the left wing of the airplane about a foot from the tip. Reece bent down and looked up through the hole. There was blue sky on the other side.

“Looks like a bullet hole.”

“I’d say we found the hideout.”