Ghosts of the Past (9 page)

Ferguson recovered onto his feet quickly and picked up the softball bat laying on the shelf to his right. Just as Syron had reached the bottom step, the stiletto still firmly in his grip, Ferguson swung the bat backhanded and landed it squarely in Syron’s right rib cage. The force produced an exhale of breath followed by a spontaneous scream of agony, the knife and Syron both dropping to the ground.

Ferguson, however, was not about to wait around to assess the damage. Holding on to the bat, he turned from his attacker and ran out of the garage, down the driveway, and headed for the nearest neighbor with the lights on, which happened to be the Saunders. He didn’t bother to knock as he disappeared through their front door.

Jimmy Syron was on the verge of suffocating. The blood and swollen tissue from what once was his nose, and the stifling pain coming from the right side of his torso, was making it almost impossible to breath. He was virtually crawling down the driveway while dialing Nieron on the cell phone.

“You finished?” Nieron inquired as he punched the ‘Talk’ button.

“I’m fucked up man, get the car down here to…” Syron stopped to spit out a mouthful of blood, “get down to the end of the driveway… NOW!”

Nieron raced down the street and skidded to a halt. He opened the door and dragged Syron in over himself and onto the passenger seat. The piercing cry of anguish from Syron’s injuries could be heard through the window of the Saunder’s house, as the black
Trans
Am
sped away.

Officer Gil Brucker and his partner were wrapping up their report at the dining room table inside Ferguson’s house. Ferguson had been picking up the destruction for the better part of half an hour, while Brucker had been asking him all the pertinent questions as to the evening’s events. Additionally he was keeping a tally of all the items that appeared to be missing.

There had been a couple of watches, an envelope containing $350 in cash from his winnings in a recent golf tournament, everything that was a precious metal or jewel from his jewelry case, and his jade and ivory pen set Max had given him at graduation. However, nothing of any size. No electronics, his golf clubs were still there, and his Browning 12 gauge had not been discovered in the top shelf of his closet.

“Looks to me like you caught him in the act before he had time to pick you clean of the big stuff. Although, getting away in a car… they were not going to haul away anything too big. You got insurance don’t ya?

“Yeah, I’m covered.” Ferguson replied.

“Well, I think we’re about wrapped up here.” Brucker picked up the plastic zip lock bag lying on the table and examined the contents. “We’ll run this for prints, and if we score someone, we’ll have somebody get back to you. Thanks for your patience Mr. Ferguson.”

“No, thank you officer, I appreciate your help.”

“You gonna be alright here by yourself tonight? You got any relatives or friends you could stay with?”

“No, I’ll be fine. I do think I’ll bring my shotgun to bed with me though.”

“You do have a permit for that?” Brucker cocked his head in mock concern.

“Yes sir officer, I’m fully compliant.” Ferguson laughed in reply.

“Good! My guess is that whoever was here has no interest in coming back. That’s if he’s capable of even walking around. Goodnight Mr. Ferguson. We’ll be in touch.”

For the better part of the remaining evening, Ferguson tried to put everything that wasn’t broken back in it’s place, and everything that was, he put in a pile by the same back door that had helped him save his life earlier. The biggest problem he was having, however, was the half-angry, half-disgusted feeling of having been violated by some ‘shithead’ stranger that had just stolen his property… his stuff.

Dragging himself off to bed, he undressed and emptied his pockets and laid his wallet on the dresser. He retrieved his cell phone, the translation book and the copy of the map he had stacked by the phone in the kitchen. He set them down next to his wallet, right where he had left behind the other photocopy of the front of the letter… but it wasn’t there.

He didn’t notice it before. He had accounted for a lot of missing things, but not the letter, at least half of the letter. The other half, containing the map had been with him at dinner.

He scoured the floor, behind the dresser, in the garbage can, under the bed, and then stopped dead in his tracks. He stared blankly at the wall, while a small chill made it’s way up his spine.
He
was
here
for
the
letter.

Chapter
6
 

May
19,
2001.
Chicago,
Illinois.

Jason Allen had been perched on one of the bar stools that fronted the long mahogany and brass bar at Kitty O’Sheas on Michigan Avenue. His average height and build, along with indistinguishable features, made him a very ordinary man at the age 46. He had never stood out physically among the crowd, and he had never separated himself from his peers with his talents as an artist. His short and unremarkable career had led him early on into administrative work in the fine arts to help pay the bills, and he leveraged the contacts and connections he had made into a lucrative appraisal, authentication and brokerage business with an impeccable reputation. He had worked with Grayson Lewis for years and had never done anything to cause Lewis to question his intentions. However, alcohol, gambling, and several risky investments gone bad had taken their toll as of late and he had recently begun secretly associating with some rather unscrupulous characters, even resorting to capitalizing on several questionable opportunities that had presented themselves, in most cases at the expense of others.

He had visualized a golden opportunity when he heard from Lewis, and naturally had sworn the secrecy Lewis demanded. He had just the person in mind, when he was able to recover from the significance of the artwork that Grayson Lewis had discussed with his daughter.

The black stretch limousine pulled up to the curb, just in front of the Hilton’s cab line, outside the bar’s front door. Allen had been periodically eyeing the street and needed no prompting, immediately standing down, knocking back the remaining portion of his half-and-half, and depositing a ten-dollar bill next to the empty glass. He hurried outside into the cool, overcast evening, walked over to the chauffeur holding the rear door open, nodded and climbed in.

Guillermo Rocca was comfortably squeezed between two incredibly beautiful and scantily clad ladies of the evening. A half empty bottle of Perrier Jouet Champagne lay in an ice bucket, while all three had arms and legs entwined, and were sipping from one another’s glasses. Rocca peeled away from the emerging orgy and slipped into the seat next to Allen, holding his hand up in a gesture of patience to the two young girls.

“Jason, good to see you again.”

“Thank you Mr. Rocca, it’s always a pleasure to see you. You look as if you’re in good hands.”

“Yes, these are my friends Ginger and Sabrina. They come highly recommended.” Rocca looked at the two and winked, and quickly returned his attention to Allen. “You have some good news for me?’

“Well, good news and bad news I’m afraid.” said Allen somewhat nervously.

Rocca’s seemingly happy demeanor disappeared and he focused intently on Allen, his coal black eyes cutting into Allen’s soul. He sat back slowly in his seat and again held up his hand at the two giggling ladies, this time asking for quiet.

Guillermo Rocca, was a physically intimidating man. Tall, muscular, dark-skinned with jet-black hair and mustache, and at 57 years old, he was probably the wealthiest man in all of Ecuador. He had grown up dirt poor in an orphanage outside of Dastilla. However, as a young teen, through an incredibly fortunate set of circumstances, he obtained information that implicated some very influential people in the local government. He successfully blackmailed his way into ownership of some presumably worthless land that ironically turned out to provide one of the wealthiest gold strikes in Ecuador’s history.

His amassed fortune now included numerous commercial properties and developments around the world, three mining operations, and agricultural plantations throughout South America. However, well hidden and intensely protected in a Caribbean island mansion just south of Barbados, was one of the greatest accumulations of artwork the world never knew existed. It was Rocca’s greatest passion in life, and he had stopped at nothing to build and add to his impressive collection over the years.

Allen was aware of his reputation as a collector, and he was also aware of the unsubstantiated rumors that people’s lives had been ruined and lost when they got in the way of his obsession. He also had heard of the astonishingly generous compensation Rocca lavished on those that had helped him acquire the art he pursued.

“The works I mentioned to you may or may not still be in existence.” Allen continued.

“I don’t follow you Mr. Allen.”

“Let me try and explain.” Allen gave him as much of the story as he knew, which was lacking details and specifics, but in general was quite accurate.

“So this collection of Goering’s might have been destroyed in the initial crash. Or, if it survived, could have been ruined if it was never found. Or if it was found, may be in the possession of another owner. Or, might still be intact, even in relatively good or restorable condition, if it had been packaged properly before it was to be transported,” said Rocca, as he tried to digest the facts presented to him.

“Correct!” Allen was beginning to relax since Rocca’s well-known short temper had not exploded.

Rocca reached over the two pair of long, gorgeous legs stretched out in front of the television cabinet and picked up the cell phone lying in an open tray. He punched through several menu options, and finally selected a stored entry.

“Juan? Yes, it’s me. I need you to be on the plane in thirty minutes. I need you in Louisville, Kentucky. I want you to keep an eye on a young lady there by the name of Courtney Lewis.” Rocca looked at Allen, as if to confirm the accuracy of the name. “Yes. Hang on.” Rocca lowered the phone and spoke to Allen. “I need a physical description, work and home addresses, make of automobile, and anything else that will help.” He raised the phone back to his ear. “I’ll contact you again in flight with everything you need. Please be very discreet! No contact unless I say so. We just want to keep tabs on her whereabouts at all times. Understood? Thanks, I’ll phone you shortly.”

Allen had already pulled out his business cards and was busy writing down the details Rocca wanted on the backs of four cards. While he was completing the information, Rocca had repositioned himself back between his amorous companions and was giving instructions to the driver through the slight crack in the privacy windows.

Fifteen minutes later, they were back in front of Kitty O’Sheas and the rear door on the limo once again had been opened. Rocca whispered into the ear of the blonder of the two blonds and she shifted her gaze from the floor to Allen. After an exchange of kisses, Ginger smiled deviously at Allen and moved from her position in the back seat, to the side of Allen’s arm.

“Thank you for the information Mr. Allen, I am very grateful to you for having thought of me. Ginger is your reward for the evening. Let us call it a good faith gesture on my part. If anything comes of this enterprise, I can assure you that you will have enough money to buy thousands of Gingers. I will be in touch.”

“Thank you Mr. Rocca!” Allen could hardly contain his enthusiasm. “Your generosity is much appreciated. I look forward to working with you!”

Ginger escorted Allen from the car, and the two of them headed north on the sidewalk and disappeared into the front door of the Hilton as Rocca’s limousine pulled into traffic on Michigan Avenue and headed north into the city.

Chapter
7
 

May
20,
2001.
Louisville,
Kentucky.

The doorbell startled Dr. Karl. He had just sat down at his kitchen table to consume a toasted bagel with cream cheese, and relax with a nice cup of coffee and the morning paper. He certainly wasn’t expecting any visitors at 8:28 a.m., looking up at the clock on the microwave. The bell rang again impatiently.

He reached the front door as the bell rang for the third time, and opened it up with a jerk. “Would you mind not ringing the doorbell again please!”

Standing side-by-side on the front porch were Jimmy Syron and Jay Nieron. Syron’s face had a crisscross bandage around the nose, leaving the purple tip exposed, and he leaned at an angle on a cane in his right hand. Nieron appeared to be supporting him as well.

“Are you John Karl?” Syron said with a snarl.

“Johann Karl.” Karl replied.

“Close enough!” Nieron chimed in as he helped lead Syron through the door and into the small foyer.

“Excuse me, but who in the hell do you think you are barging into my home?”

“We have a package for you, special delivery. I believe it’s a letter you’re looking for.” Syron continued.

“Ah, yes! Yes, please come in.” This was sooner than Karl had expected the letter to surface, and the messengers left a lot to be desired. Nevertheless, this was a welcome intrusion.

Nieron offered the envelope and Karl took it. He pointed to the tapestry couch in the adjacent living room, “Please have a seat”, while he sat in the striped wingback chair across from the coffee table separating them. He tore open the envelope and removed the single sheet of paper.

After turning it back and forth twice and then checking the envelope again, he looked up at the pair. “This is a photocopy, and where’s the rest?”

The two wretches looked at each other and then back at Karl. “What do you mean the rest?”

“This is only the front of the letter. There is a back that contains the map. The map is what I need.” Karl was growing uneasy and irritated. What have you done with the map?”