Vengeance: A Reece Culver Thriller - Book 1 (5 page)

Chapter Nine

A
bright yellow cab
pulled to the curb. George Kendall and Crystal stepped out from under the covered atrium outside the Omni Majestic Hotel in Saint Louis. Large drops of rain pelted George’s gray raincoat. He grabbed the door and waited for Crystal to go in. He followed her into the cab, and after slamming the door said:

“Take us to 2222 Market Street, please.”

The driver headed away from the curb with his windshield wipers working wildly to clear the rain.

“You two don’t look like G-men to me,” the driver, said looking at them in the rearview mirror.

“We’re worse than G-men. Now mind your damn business, and take us were we want to go,” Crystal said, smiling at George. The cab pulled up to the curb in front of the FBI building, and Crystal stepped out. George reached over the seat to pay and joined her on the curb.

“Are you having a bad day or something?” he asked, following Crystal into the lobby. She stopped, looking at the interior of the building. George caught up with her.

“I’m fine, I just hate this town. It’s either six hundred degrees outside or raining cats and dogs.”

“St. Louis is a fine town. Besides, a few days here will help you appreciate what we have back in Denver.”

They went to the counter and signed in. The clerk asked to see two forms of official identification. Crystal looked at the man and he pointed to a posting of acceptable credentials. She read the list - “US Passport, Birth Certificate, Voters Registration Card, US Government ID badge, Social Security Card”.

“Here use this,” George said sliding his Denver federal center Id badge and Social Security card toward the clerk. Crystal reached into her coat and found her badge and after a quick search located a Voters Registration card in her purse. The clerk signed them in and told them that Special agent Stephen Cox was waiting for them in the Dovetail conference room on the forth floor.

Crystal and George stepped off the elevator each wearing blue and white visitors badges. George recognized Cox’s secretary Rhonda, and they followed her into a large room with a conference table, and fourteen blue chairs. At one end there was a computer desk beside a gray steel file cabinet with a red and white magnet in the center of the top drawer that read, “Classified.” Crystal took a seat next to George, who sat across from a stocky man with bushy gray hair and thick glasses, reminding her of Theodore Roosevelt. At the head of the table sat Special Agent Cox, the District Commander of the St. Louis FBI Organized Crime Task Force. He had a blond buzz cut and a gaunt face that she knew was a artifact left over from his days as a long distance runner. On the opposite side of the table sat three other men.

“I’d like to thank everyone for coming to this meeting. I wanted to get all of you together so we all have the latest information. I’d like to go around the room and introduce everyone. On my right is St. Louis Chief Detective Mike Mobley,” Cox said referring to the man who resembled Teddy Roosevelt. “Across from him is George Kendall which all of you are acquainted with, and his assistant Crystal Thomas. Across from Crystal is Jim Messerman from the Tulsa branch of the FBI. Agent Messerman is an expert in illegal gambling operations, to his left we have Detective Ed Stevens from the Tulsa Police Department, and finally Nathan Hawk, our St. Louis–based federal prosecutor,” Agent Cox said.

Hawk and Stevens looked like garden variety businessmen dressed in inexpensive blue suits that might have come from Sears or Pennys. Agent Messerman had deep set black eyes, high cheek bones, and jet black hair that he wore parted to one side. His business suit had a sheen to it making it looker more expensive than the others.

“I brought you all here today to bring you up to speed on some new information we’ve obtained. During the past year Agent Messerman has infiltrated the operations of Sam Shanks, and we now have a dependable informant.”

His secretary Rhonda dimmed the lights, and the projector screen at one end of the room lit up with a photograph of an elderly man. Crystal looked over, and saw her boss sneering at agent Cox in the dark.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a picture of our latest asset, Owen Roberts,” Agent Cox said, motioning to Rhonda. The secretary carried in a large blue plastic tray covered in muffins, donuts, and tall cups of Starbucks coffee. Crystal smiled at Mike Mobley as his eyes followed the tray of food. Mobley seemed to notice the smile and gave a grin through his bushy mustache. With his lamb chop sideburns and bright red cheeks, he resembled a department store Santa Claus.

“Everyone, help yourself,” Cox said, grabbing the largest of two apple fritters. He bit into the concoction of apple, sugar, and dough, and seemed surprised when it broke in half, with one piece nearly missing his coffee cup. Agent Cox set the donut down, still chewing, and licked his fingers, then began talking with his mouth full.

“This photo of our confidential informant was taken in 2005, when he was brought in for questioning by the Tulsa PD.” Crystal studied the picture, and thought grudgingly that Owen looked good for his age. She pressed a fingernail under the bed of the adjacent finger and concentrated on the pain, feeling like she could break into a cold sweat at any moment. Having Owen Roberts’ picture on the screen at the front of the room was a little too close for comfort.

“Owen L. Roberts grew up in St. Louis, Missouri, and we speculate he first met Sam Shanks in the late 1970s after becoming a regular customer at one of Shanks’s gambling establishments,” Cox said, motioning for Rhonda to go to the next slide.

“Here’s a photo of Roberts playing poker with some as of yet unnamed companions.”

As Crystal studied the photo of her father, she fought to control the rumble in her stomach.
What if they found out?
She clenched her sphincter and prayed.
If I run for the bathroom they’ll know something.
She nibbled at the dry skin on the top of her bottom lip. Mike Mobley stared at her from across the table. She looked past him, trying not to make eye contact.

Agent Cox nodded his head, and Rhonda brought up the next slide. It was a family portrait in the front yard of a white house with green trim. The house Crystal grew up in with her parents Owen and Tracey Roberts. She stared at the picture wondering where her brothers Waylon and Julian were. It had been so long since she’d seen them. She felt like crying, but instead drifted into a daydream about the day they drug her away from her brothers. She’d later been told they went to a separate orphanage in the country south of Tulsa.

“This photo, taken in 1987, shows Owen Roberts, his wife Tracey, and their three children during happier times. His wife, Tracey took the kids and left in 1989,”

“Where was this taken?” George Kendall asked studying the photo. Crystal looked at her childlike visage in the picture and resisted the urge to bolt from the room. Her hair was dark red like her mother Tracey’s, but with her dyed blond locks and the pale blue contact lenses she regularly wore to the office, she hoped no one would make the connection.

“That was in St. Louis,” Cox said, gnawing on his second pastry, this one a Danish. He followed with a long sip of coffee, set down his coffee mug, and still swallowing started to speak. Crystal stared at Cox, wondering why he was in such a hurry to speak that he never finished chewing. That was what drove her so crazy when she was talking with the man she called Papa.

“Tracey Owens took her kids to the bus station on August 9, 1989. She left them by themselves supposedly to run an errand, and was never heard from again.”

“How do you know where she left?” Nathan Hawk asked.

“The oldest sibling, Waylon, told us what she said before leaving. Owen Roberts is still the prime suspect in her disappearance, but the crime was never solved,” Cox said wolfing down the last of his Danish in the dim light.

Crystal rocked forward in her seat. “Was she ever located?”

“No, Ms. Thomas. We didn’t receive notification until a few weeks after her disappearance, and by then the trail had gone cold. Are there any other questions?” Agent Cox asked.

Crystal sat back, fidgeting with her hands under the table. She pushed hard and felt the tip of her thumbnail lift. The pain was strong. If she continued, it would bleed. Yet the pain took her away from the fear. She remembered learning the habit in the orphanage.

“Over the past year we pieced together Owen’s story. He’s a compulsive gambler, and we think he became indebted to Shanks between the years 1980 to 1989. Shanks put together some kind of deal with Owen. There was one theory that his wife’s disappearance was the result of the deal. We’re still speculating on what happened to her, but sometime between 1980 and the present Owen went to work for Shanks,” Cox said, picking up his coffee mug.

“Next slide, please. Okay, here’s a series of aerial photographs showing the property that Shanks and his crew call home these days. We’ve got a man working for us down in Tulsa who’s observed the operation at night. Our Tulsa man is a regular at a Thursday night poker game.”

With the new subject Crystal felt relieved, but she still worried that her boss George Kendall would make the connection between her and Owen. She panned the faces of the men across the table and all eyes were on the detailed map of Shanks’ Tulsa casino. From the air it looked like a series of farm buildings about a half-mile in from a small two-lane road to the north. A small creek paralleled the property on the west and that area appeared heavily wooded. A neighborhood of houses abutted the plot on the east, about a mile or so from the main casino building. From what she could see in the pictures the large expanse of land seemed like the perfect place to hide a casino.

“Have you confirmed that this is indeed an illegal gambling establishment?” George Kendall asked.

“Yes, like I said earlier, Agent Messerman has a man that’s been a regular at the property for the past three months. Agent Messerman, would you like to add to that?” Cox said as he slid the laser pointer across the table.

“Here’s a map we’ve made of the property. This brick building here is the main casino, and the other buildings service a working farm on the property,” Messerman said, aiming the red laser pointer at the screen.

“The last time we met with the CI, Owen Roberts, he told us Shanks is pulling the plug on the place. He’s got a big party planned for Saturday night, February 5. We’re going in two days before this coming Thursday night. It’s the night of their weekly poker tournament, and the place will be a zoo. It’s the perfect time to blend in and pull this off,” Cox said running a hand through his short buzz cut. “Okay, the raid will go like this.”

Chapter Ten

O
nce inside the
archives, Reece walked down the first aisle. The shelves were filled with stacked cardboard records boxes with large labels listing a range of names housed inside. He could see that most of the boxes were arranged alphabetically, so when he got to the end he made his way toward the “R’s”. The section that was labeled with a large green “Q” was narrower than the one before it, which seemed logical.

Reece walked down the next row looking for a name that started with “Roberts”, but by the time he’d gotten to the end he’d only found “Reynolds”. He turned the corner and was in the “S’s”. Turning back he looked up toward the top of the shelving where he could just make out a box with the name “Roans” midway down from the very top shelf. It was a long way up and he wondered if he could climb the tall metal shelving to reach the top shelf. Reece took hold of a steel beam that supported the next row of shelves just above his head, and began to pull him self up. Just then a door slammed on the other side of the cavernous warehouse, and he thought better of the idea. He didn’t want anyone looking at him like a cat burglar.

He stepped down, walked out into the aisle, and searched for a way to reach the top. Down toward the end he saw a tall steel staircase ladder with two wheels on the backside, and rubber feet on the front. He sprinted to the ladder, tipped it back onto the wheels, and rolled it back into the aisle. He looked up at the area of the top shelf guessing it contained Tracey Robert’s employment file, and positioned the ladder. Stepping down on a bar that ran parallel to the wheels, he locked the brake and started upward.

The ladder held his 195-pound frame with ease. He searched for the box he’d seen earlier labeled “Roans.” He found it straight above and started to climb toward it. On the way up he got a sense of just how high he was. He’d never liked heights, at least not since falling out of the top of a tree in the backyard of his St. Louis home at the age of nine. That stunt had cost him his run for the spelling bee championship and resulted in a blue cast that at least won him lots of sympathy and signatures from his classmates.

Reece rolled until he saw a box labeled “Roberts – Rogolan.” He stood on the top step of the ladder and reached out toward the box, but was a couple of feet shy. A door slammed in the distance, and he wondered if the janitor had left for lunch. Reece looked back over his shoulder and could see all the way to the other side of the room. He was alone.

The shelving lacked much to hold onto. He stuck his right foot into the angle brace, hoisted himself up off of the ladder, and onto the top shelf. The structure wiggled in a wide, unnerving manner. He knelt down on top of a box, crunching his knee through its cardboard lid, and waited for the shelving unit to settle.

In the distance a loud voice broke the silence. Reece froze, ducking down until almost lying flat on the tops of the boxes. He thought he heard the familiar voice of the janitor. It sounded like he was arguing with someone. The second voice sounded deeper with a thick southern drawl. Reece lay there trying to discern what the two men were yelling about.

“You don’t belong here,” he heard the janitor yell. Reece had no idea who he was yelling at, but he didn’t want to linger and let the intruder discover him. Reaching into the records box he’d seen earlier, he sorted through the names, but kept low to avoid detection. He found a manila envelope with a green tab labeled “Roberts.” Reece pulled it out and flipped the thick file open. He saw the name “Nester Roberts” and dropped it to his side. The next file folder had a similar green tab with the same name.

Reece heard the voices coming closer and froze, hoping they wouldn’t see the ladder. The janitor let out a loud scream—“No, don’t you—” that echoed off the ceiling above.

A long bout of silence followed. Reece didn’t like the sound of that. He listened intently, wondering what was going on below. He couldn’t see much from his vantage point, so he knelt up and looked over the top of the boxes to his right. The janitor was lying haphazardly on the cement floor a couple of rows over. A small puddle of blood was forming near his face.
What the hell is going on?

A mechanical noise erupted down on the floor behind him. He heard a “clang” and recognized the noise from when he’d stepped down on the brake of the ladder he’d used to climb the shelving unit. Reece heard the squeal of a wheel bearing. He crawled closer to the edge and looked down. Someone was dragging the ladder around the corner at the end of the aisle. He was trapped.

Reece warily climbed back toward the other side. As he spotted the janitor lying on the floor, he saw someone jogging in his peripheral vision. A figure in a dark gray hoodie passed the next shelving unit before running out of sight. It looked like a man, but he couldn’t be sure. He had no time to waste. He had to finish up and get out of there before the guy that stole the ladder found him.

Reece tore into the box flipping through records. At last he spied the name “Tracey Roberts” on an orange tab and pulled it out. He opened the folder and saw the date August 19
,
1989. It had to be the right one. Reece folded it in half and shoved it into his pocket. He heard a low, growling electro-mechanical sound, like a piece of industrial equipment. Standing slowly, he braced himself on the top of the shelving unit. He stepped forward a little too aggressively and felt the shelves buckle.

The mechanical noise was drawing closer, changing tone in a Doppler effect. It was moving along the ceiling with the low musical grind of a large electric motor.
What the hell is that?
He took a couple of steps forward, trying to see past a pile of boxes that were taller than the rest on the adjacent shelf. He felt the swaying movement beneath his feet and knew he had to take slow steps or risk toppling the shelving unit. Finally, he saw the source of the mechanical noise. It was a large yellow bridge crane spanning across the ceiling. The center had red numbers painted on it that said “50 Ton.” He looked down toward the door through which he’d entered and saw the guy in the hoodie. He was holding a yellow box at the end of a pendant that ran up to the crane. It was the control box.

The crane was gaining speed, getting closer by the second. The carriage for the crane was moving sideways. It looked to be a mere forty feet away. He saw a big gray steel hook hanging down. Reece took hold of the shelf, grabbing the steel braces with his hands in an attempt to climb down. His weight made the unit wobble. He swung down to the next row of shelves, and lost his grip, slamming down sideways into a pile of cardboard boxes.

The crane was getting close and sounded like it was traveling at full speed. He wondered who the man in the hoodie was.
Did he kill the janitor and why? What did he want?
Reece reached to his waist for his gun and realized he’d left it in the car. He slid his foot into the brace under the shelf and looked down at the concrete floor forty feet below. He was high enough that if he lost his footing and fell, he’d be severely injured if not killed. The crane was getting closer. He had to hurry if he was going to get down.

Reece climbed down the green steel shelving. He grabbed the edge and felt for a cross brace underneath, but there wasn’t one. He leaned over the side of the shelf, looking down. The space between the shelves was a good ten feet. He grabbed the shelf with both hands and lowered himself.

With a forceful whack the crane collided with the top of the shelving unit. His feet swung out away from the next shelf at a forty-five-degree angle. Squeezing his hands, he tightened his grip. He looked up at the ceiling and could see the entire shelving unit tipping over toward him.
I’ll be smashed
.

Reece let go. Time slowed as he fell. He hit something hard and felt an explosion of pain in his side. The blow knocked the wind out of him and he fought to breathe. A mountain of boxes crashed down. He heard the steel shelving unit crash to the concrete floor and cringed, hoping it wouldn’t hit him. He lay still, listening to the sound of boxes smashing dully to the floor all around him.

When the bombardment was over, Reece opened his eyes and found himself blinking at darkness. He was lying underneath the mountain of boxes he’d been climbing among earlier. He lay silent, thinking about the crane. He took deep breaths, forcing away the pain he felt in his side. He thought about the man with the control box. He had to climb out of this mess and get out of here before the guy came after him. He heard a box sliding to the floor a few feet away. Someone was walking toward him.

The only thing he could do was ready himself to launch a surprise attack if the wrong boxes were flung aside.