Vengeance: A Reece Culver Thriller - Book 1 (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

A
black stretch limousine
glided up in front of the Philbrook Museum of Art under a cloudless sky in Tulsa. The rear door of the car swung open, encouraged by a pomegranate colored Berluti loafer. The shoe retracted from the leather interior armrest followed by a man whose stature was less than average. He wore a long black wool overcoat topped with a scarf that matched his shoes, and provided warmth to the sides of his prominent hairless head. The limo driver stepped out to get the door, but the man waved him off as he reached for the pale outstretched hand of a young woman.

The man pulled out a tall brunette with quaffed hair, bright blue eyes, and well-toned legs. She wore a crushed black taffeta dress with short black sleeves. The man in the overcoat turned toward the limo driver.

“I’ll call you when the party’s over,” he said in a Chicago accent.

“Very good, sir. If anything changes, just use this number,” the driver said, handing him a business card. The passenger shoved the card into the breast pocket of his William Fioravanti suit and slid a hand under the woman’s right arm. They walked toward the entrance of the museum, where two doormen dressed in matching black and gold suits were positioned on either side of large double doors. Sam Shanks grabbed the ornate black steel of the stair railing with one hand and undid the buttons of his overcoat with the other as he and his date ascended the steps.

Shanks had always admired the look of Villa Philbrook, a structure originally constructed in 1927 as the home of oilman Waite Phillips. Shanks knew the story well. Phillips had hired Edward Buehler Delk, a Kansas City architect to design an Italian Renaissance villa on the twenty-three-acre plot as a place for their two children to entertain friends. In 1938, Phillips announced that he was giving the seventy-two-room mansion and surrounding grounds to the city of Tulsa as an art center.

Shanks had a dream of doing something similar someday at a place far from here. He led his twenty-something date through the museum lobby toward a group of patrons dressed in similar fashion. A gray-haired man dressed in a tuxedo took a close look at them and said.

“Mr. Shanks. Welcome, it’s good to see you. I trust you had a good flight.”

“Very good,” Shanks said, knowing he’d not been on an airplane in months.

“May I take your coats?” the man asked. Shanks slipped out of his overcoat, handing it to the man, and led his date across the yellow marble tiled foyer toward a room where the group had arranged to meet.

“Sam, I’m so glad you could make it,” a tall woman said, approaching the couple. She wore a dress of white silk with a bright yellow scarf draped over her right shoulder. “We’ve got a great group. Would you like a glass of champagne?” she said, snapping her right finger skyward.

“Do you know any of these people?” Shanks’ date said, biting her lip.

“I know everyone that’s anybody in the art world, my dear. It’s what I do,” Shanks said. A tuxedo-clad waiter appeared with a tray covered in glasses of sparkling wine. He helped himself to a glass and handed a second flute to his date before joining a large group of people who were milling around in the main area of the museum. The walls were lined with a collection of mid seventeenth-century Italian artwork.

Shanks spotted Dominic Vance and nudged the arm of his date. She turned toward the approaching man like a fine diamond being shown off by its proud owner. Shanks watched the man’s eyes take in the lovely piece of arm candy he’d brought, and for a moment it helped Sam feel superior to all of the other well-heeled gentlemen in the museum.

“Who do we have here?” Vance said, extending his hand.

“Dominic, I didn’t see you. You look well. Let me introduce you. This is Candice,” Shanks said, pushing the woman toward the Manhattan gallery owner. He took her right hand, kneading it like a piece of molding clay.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Candice. Do you have a last name?” Dominic said as the woman pulled her hand as if from a snake.

“Just Candice.”

“Very well, then. Sam, there are some collectors here I’d like to introduce you to. Come this way.”

Vance passed in front of the couple and led them toward a corner where a small group including the woman with the yellow scarf and two other couples dressed in drab business attire were admiring a large fresco.

“Excuse me, this is the man I was telling you about earlier,” Vance said as they approached the group. “Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, this is Mr. Shanks and his date, Candice.” They exchanged greetings and Vance introduced the second couple as Mr. and Mrs. Shimmer.

They headed as a group through the marble-floored rooms of the museum looking at fine art. Sam Shanks was looking over Mrs. Phillips—an obvious trophy—when he caught Melvin Phillips staring at him. The man’s wife was in her early forties with long blond hair, high cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes. Her husband was closer to sixty and walked with a noticeable limp. Phillips pulled two cigars from his inside breast pocket and nodded toward Shanks as if to say, do you want to join me? The two men left the group and walked out the side door toward the extensive gardens.

“It’s a great day to be outdoors,” Phillips said, handing one of the Arturo Feunte cigars to Shanks and then holding up a torch-like stainless steel lighter.

“It is, Mr. Phillips. Thanks for the smoke,” Sam said, lighting his cigar and taking several puffs as the end started to glow. Sam held in one of the puffs, enjoying the flavor, as Mr. Phillips lit his own cigar.

“I’ve got to ask you, Phillips. Are you any relation to Waite Phillips?”

“No, I’m afraid not. All we share is the same last name and a fondness for beautiful things.”

“I’ve got to bring a camera next time I come here. I’m building a new home down south, and I could definitely take some cues from this place.” Shanks said.

“Down south. In Texas?” Melvin asked.

“No. The land I own is on a whole different continent,” Shanks said.

“Yes it’s always good to have multiple homes. We’ve got a few spread out across the country, and then there’s our villa in Tuscany,” Melvin said, sounding competitive. “So Mr. Shanks, are you a collector?”

“Very much so. How about you, Mr. Phillips?”

“Call me Melvin, and yes, my wife and I are very active.”

“Do you have a favorite artist?”

“It varies, but these days I’m looking for a Van Gogh.”

“Anything in particular?” Shanks said.

“Something small and priceless.”

Chapter Twelve

R
eece tried to
hold his breath, but his side hurt. The footsteps on the concrete went around him. He heard the sound of boxes being thrown and crashing down in the distance. The killer would soon be digging him out. His heart pounded in his chest, feeling helpless as he hid under the boxes pushing down on him. Yet whoever was stalking him apparently came to the conclusion that he must have already left before the shelf units came crashing down. Because he heard more steps. The person was walking away.

Reece didn’t budge. He felt the adrenaline pumping through his body and took slow calculated breaths, calming himself.

A heavy door slammed in the distance. He was reminded of the janitor and quickly came to the conclusion that he might still be alive. Using his shoulder to nudge the boxes aside, he soon was able to stand up among the wreckage of cardboard. He hugged the wall and came to the spot two aisles over where he’d seen the janitor. He was gone. There were drag marks where the Frisbee-sized puddle of blood had been smeared toward the center aisle. It was obvious that the killer had dragged the body away to hide his handiwork.

Reece took his time walking toward the back door. Seeing a green desk phone on the janitor’s desk, he lifted the receiver and dialed 911. He set it down just as the operator answered, knowing that the number alone would alert them to dispatch someone. With extreme caution he stepped out of the second door, looking both ways. The alley was empty.

His legs hurt like someone had hit it with a baseball bat. He felt a nagging pain in his right side that he worried might be more serious. Reece walked up the steps to the rental car, climbed in, and drove out of the parking lot, blending into traffic on Memorial Boulevard. He wanted nothing more than to put a few miles between himself and the crime scene he’d just departed.

Yet he’d accomplished what he’d come for. The folder he’d dug out of the records box was lying on the passenger’s seat beside him. As he stopped at a traffic light he glanced down and saw that Tracey Roberts had used her aunt, Mary Ann Fletcher, for her emergency contact. After pulling his cellphone out, Reece flipped it open and dialed the number Crystal had given him when they’d parted ways.

“Hello,” Crystal answered, sounding stressed.

“Crystal, it’s Reece Culver.”

“Oh, hi Reece, where are you?”

“I’m in Tulsa. How’s your business trip going?”

“Oh, it’s just the usual boring stuff,” she said. “How’s the investigation going, Reece? Have you found anything yet?” He thought about what had just happened, but thought better of telling her.

“Crystal, do you remember the street you lived on back in St. Louis, before Tracey took you and your brother’s to Tulsa?”

“Let me think. Calvert maybe?” Crystal said. “Yeah, that’s it. No, no, it’s Calvin Ave. Our house was on the left side of the street three houses down from the park with the big tree,” Crystal said. “I miss that place.”

“Okay, Calvin Avenue. Do you remember anything else about it?”

“No, not too much. It was a long time ago. Are you going there?”

“Yeah, I’ve got an errand to run first, but I’ll probably head there tonight. When are you planning to be back in Denver?”

“It depends how the meetings go, but I think I’ll probably be home Wednesday. I’d really like to see you, Reece,” she said. “That night in your apartment. The second time we met.”

“Yeah,” he said, not sure where she was leading, but wanting to find out.

“For a while there it seemed like something was happening,” she said.

“Yeah?” Reece said, letting her talk.

“Reece, I know you felt it too. Something was happening between us.”

“Like some kind of connection?” Reece said.

“More than that.”

That purr she got in her voice was back again, and Reece couldn’t help feel stimulated, even though the phone. The entire mess he’d just been through slipped from his mind as he waited to hear more of that purr. But it didn’t take him long to realize she’d already hung up.

Chapter Thirteen

C
rystal Thomas stepped
from the curb into the cab, thankful the rain had stopped. George Kendall had let her skip their afternoon meetings with the Missouri federal attorney. He’d told her he would call when he returned to the hotel, so they could have dinner together.

The inside of the taxi had the faint smell of cherry pipe tobacco. Crystal ran her hand over the smooth black vinyl back seat. She noticed the driver’s hair was gray on the sides and thinning with wisps of white on top. She wondered if her father Owen’s hair might look the same. He would be sixty or so about now, so he would have lost the thick brown hair she had patted with her small hand as a child. After the meeting today she felt conflicted, having hated him all these years for what she’d imagined he’d done to her mother.

His compulsive gambling most likely ruined the marriage. The family as well. She thought of her brothers Julian and Wayne, and wondered where they were. Soon enough, though, her mind turned to more immediate circumstances. She had to watch out that someone in the investigation might connect her to her father, and suspect she was trying to sabotage the investigation.

She felt the cab slow and come to a stop. They had arrived in front of her hotel. She smiled at the driver, handed him a fifty and said, “Keep the change.” The driver got out and opened her door.

“If you need any more rides during your stay, here’s my card. You can reach me on my cell twenty-four hours a day.” Crystal took the card, looked at the name, and said. “Thanks, Charlie. You never know what I’ll need.”

“Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll be here. I can take you anywhere you need to go,” the cab driver yelled as she walked toward the front entrance.

The lobby was paneled in fine wood and a large clock on the wall near the entrance to a bar told her how much time she had to prepare for the sting she was planning. She took the elevator up to the third floor, and once she was inside her room she tossed off her long gray raincoat, and plopped down on the bed. She ran the back of her hand across the cold cotton pillow. The cool cloth felt good and reminded her of her mother’s soft skin. She remembered her mother holding her against her shoulder when she used to iron Owen’s dress shirts. Her mother was so kind and loving. Crystal had kept the letters she’d been receiving the past couple of weeks in her purse.

The first taupe envelope she’d received looked like a wedding invitation. None of the letters had a return address and the postmark was always from a different city. Tears welled up in her eyes as she grabbed her purse and pulled the latest letter she’d received from the person she assumed was her mother. She wanted to be reunited with her more than anything. They had so much to catch up on.

Crystal got up off the bed and went to the closet, wondering what to wear for dinner. She paged through the hangers, stopping to examine each piece of clothing. She passed by a green wool sweater, a pair of khaki slacks, a dark gray hooded sweatshirt, a beige collared satin top, and a short blue skirt. The satin top was a definite possibility.
Was it conservative enough?

Crystal reached into her suitcase and dug out her new Samsung smart phone. She scrolled through the numbers, found the one she was looking for, and pressed send. The phone rang twice and went to voicemail.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Papa, but I need to talk,” Crystal said in a soft voice. She ended the call and, holding the phone, she remembered the starring role it was going to play tonight. She pressed the blue applications icon on the display. Scrolling through four pages of icons, she came to the one for the camera. With her index finger she tapped the tiny camera button and the viewfinder opened up, displaying the hotel room’s brown shag carpeting. Crystal held the phone sideways, aiming at the dresser mirror across from the bed. The image was clear and, with a little light, would be perfect. She pressed the gray camera symbol on the top right, and the mode changed to video.

That’s what she wanted: a recording of her married boss engaged in sex with another woman.

Crystal set the camera on the dresser across from the bed. To stabilize it, she propped it up with the Bible behind, and a
Cosmopolitan
magazine in front. She clicked the red button, and the phone chimed. The counter on the top right of the screen counted the seconds of video. Using her finger, she stopped the recording and played it back. Crystal tapped one of the four buttons on the bottom, put the phone into silent mode, and left it sitting sideways on the dresser. It was all ready for the fireworks display.