BOOKER Box Set #2 (A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense): Volumes 4-6

by John W. Mefford

  We all had a trail, even those who seemingly lived in obscurity, digital or otherwise. It was impossible to live on this earth, at least in a first-world country, and not leave a footprint. Sometimes it took a lot of digging, asking questions, validating answers, and piecing together information until the trail became traceable. Time and resources were key elements, however. The longer a person stayed invisible, the more evidence evaporated or became more difficult to obtain—which connects to resources. If four or five full-time detectives were assigned to the case, with access to local and federal information, the speed with which information was acquired could be mind-boggling.

  Alisa and I had very little of both—time and resources. I was hired to find Jade’s killer, and given what little we knew, we’d made the assumption that her death and Natalie’s disappearance were connected. Thus far, it remained only a possibility. While their lives were interconnected, we had no direct evidence, which led me to the second bucket—law enforcement. Once Alisa gave me the information about Natalie’s admirer, Zahi Kareem, I asked her to call Paco and submit a missing person’s report. The DPD wouldn’t likely assign the case to a detective until we could show some type of foul play, but I convinced Alisa it was better to go ahead and get her in the system. Who knew? Maybe a beat cop would stumble upon her through a regular traffic stop.

  Moving forward another few feet, a redheaded teenager jogged up to my door and opened it. He looked familiar.

  “Have I seen you before?” I said, lifting out of the car.

  Wearing a black vest and a white short-sleeve shirt, the kid opened his mouth as if he was about to reply, then he sneezed. He forgot to cover his mouth, and he doused the sleeve of my jacket with spit spray.

  “Oops. Sorry,” he said, swiping his arm across his face.

  With a pained expression on my face, I raised a finger at him. “Wait, you’re the valet from Marvel, right?”

  His face turned beet red, which showed me that his hair color was closer to orange. I recalled this same snot-nosed kid in the middle of the winter shooting a sneeze all over my window.

  “Mr. Bradley lets me take a few nights off when I can work a big event. Doesn’t get any bigger than this, Mr. Adams.”

  “You remembered my name. Call me Booker, by the way.”

  “I recall Mr. Bradley telling us to ‘never let the cheap Booker T. Adams get away without paying for his valet service.’ So, your name kind of stuck.”

  Nice. I looked down at my sleeve again. He quickly pulled a rag out of his pocket and wiped it off. Not effective, but he meant well. “Thanks.”

  Just then, another kid ran up and said, “Dude, I haven’t seen a car like this since my grandpa came to visit two years ago.”

  I turned back to Red and said, “It may not be much, but it’s all I got. Take care of it.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Adams.”

  I buttoned my jacket and stepped onto the curb, hoping my luck would be a little better than the last time I wore this tuxedo. Eva, my ex-fiancée, had insisted I buy the tux for our wedding six plus years earlier, saying I could treasure it like she would her dress. Turns out, I got cold feet—or had a premonition—and we never walked down the aisle.

  I’d learned a lot about myself and Eva since that day—most importantly, we’d made the right decision. She might say I made the decision for her. But she responded with a neutron bomb, hoarding our baby daughter, Samantha, to the point where my visits with her as a baby were limited.

  My relationship with Eva over the years had been as predictable as the stock market and just as volatile, full of bears and bulls. But we finally grew up and realized we couldn’t keep fooling ourselves that a roll in the proverbial hay could carry our relationship. A DPD cop herself, she’d recently started dating a guy who would have been my sergeant if I were still on the force.

  Another reason to appreciate riding the entrepreneurial wave as a PI.

  Joined by a cast of characters who’d just exited a limousine, we approached the front porch of the home built by the founder of the Dallas Morning News, circa 1890, if my memory served correct. I hung back, noticing a number of folks holding a cream-colored card—which was my problem.

  I had no ticket to the event for two very important reasons. First, I didn’t know I was going to attend until Alisa told me that she’d called Kareem’s office and used her persuasive skills to get an unsuspecting assistant to share his plans for the evening. Second, I didn’t have a spare grand lying around. If I did, I would have probably started Samantha’s college fund.

  Hoping to blend in with the masses during the entry process, I spotted a woman taking tickets at the front door. Dammit. My mind churned for a few seconds, as the line in front of me evaporated quicker than I’d hoped.

  “Sir, your card?” A matronly woman wearing a gown that clung to her body like plastic wrap smiled warmly, but she seemed to inch forward, providing a physical impediment to me entering the stately home.

  I nodded and confidently brought my hand to my inside coat pocket. With a look of shock, I tried the pocket on the other side.

  Shaking my head, I said, “I must have—”

  “He’s with me.” A female hand wearing a single ring curled around my bicep. Turning my head, I found Renee Dubois, former client, friend, and all-around supporter of mine.

  A black satin shawl gingerly draped around her shoulders and down her arms, the head of the Dallas Performing Arts gracefully handed her card to the woman serving as the front door bouncer. “He’s my plus one.”

  Renee then turned to me. “Booker, please continue educating me about the art of fly fishing,” she said as we waltzed in like every other couple.

  I couldn’t help but smile. “This city boy has never fished, but I will say you do look pretty fly tonight.”

  She playfully smacked my upper arm, as her lips turned upward. “Why, Booker T. Adams, are you trying to give me a compliment?”

  “I am your plus one, aren’t I? Let’s just say I’m doing my civic duty.”

  Giving her a subtle wink, the wake of her perfume invaded my senses, a soft vanilla, maybe a bit of fruit mixed in. It was intoxicating.

  “Do you like my perfume?” She moved her wrist closer.

  It felt like she had read my mind.

  “Don’t look so surprised. I could see your eyes close for a moment.”

  I wasn’t sure which shocked me more—Renee spotting me doing something I had no idea I did, or Renee caring that I noticed her perfume. In our first meeting a few months back, when she hired me to find out who murdered a talented young musical performer, Renee cut me very little slack. She addressed topics head-on and expected results. While her icy exterior melted when she brought up her ballet career—she’d once performed at the Palais Garnier in Paris in front of the French president—she quickly flipped that switch to return to her business-focused mindset.

  But since that first meeting, our paths crossed a few other times, mainly because she had provided glowing referrals about my services. Up until now, I would have probably called her more of an admirer than a friend.

  “By the way, it’s called a sillage.”

  I gave her a curious look. She’d pronounced the word with an extra bit of French flair.

  “The wake or trail of my perfume. It’s a French term. Just like my perfume. It was a gift.”

  I nodded, wondering if Renee’s planned date for the event couldn’t make it. She might be a decade older, but she had to be on Dallas’s top ten list for most eligible bachelorettes—if a guy was looking for the whole package.

  I wasn’t keen on attaching myself to anyone, although I had to admit having her on my arm did make my chest stick out a bit more.

  “I’m sure you saw that I didn’t have a ticket to the event. Why did you rescue me?” I asked as we continued our trek through the old part of the mansion, both of us nodding and smiling. With a majority of the attendees shorter than my six-three frame, I could see the gateway to the enormo
us, modern pavilion up ahead.

  “I’m not saying this to flatter you,” she squeezed my arm a little tighter, “but I’ve been around you enough to see how you operate. I understand your motivations and why you do…this.”

  I tried not to smile, but my lips parted and exposed my teeth as a bit of heat gathered at the collar of my shirt. “I’m not great with compliments, probably because I’m no saint.”

  My thoughts went to the unlikely partnership I’d entered with Vincent Sciafini, the Chicago crime boss. He’d saved my ass at least once, and I’d returned a favor. If anything kept me up at night, it was our odd business relationship. He practically owned David Bradley; a Texas-sized gambling debt basically made David an indentured servant to Sciafini for life. David’s partnership with Justin on the food truck business, at least tangentially, put my old friend two degrees of separation from a man I knew had cheated, bribed, and likely murdered to get where he was today.

  “Hell, we’re all in that boat,” Renee said through a chortle. “You going to share what led to you ending up on the front porch of the Belo Mansion?”

  “Renee!” A woman covered in diamonds split through two other couples and walked toward us, wagging her hand, the sparkles creating a disco-ball effect. I’d avoided answering Renee’s question, at least momentarily.

  The two ladies grabbed hands, then gave each other air kisses.

  “Booker, I’d like you to meet Elena. She serves on the DPA board and is one of our most dedicated supporters. The people of Dallas owe a lot to her.”

  I leaned in and shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. And thank you for supporting the arts, and Renee.”

  She returned the pleasantries then brought a hand to her mouth. “Why, Renee, you look absolutely stunning.”

  I took a step back and finally noticed Renee’s full outfit. A black and gray V-neck dress hugged just the right parts of her athletic, but feminine frame. The full-length number had a slit running down the side, and I could see just a sliver of a muscular calf. The sleeves were transparent, silky. Her hair was up, with a few wispy curls framing her neck, but my eyes were drawn to a silver necklace, a blue medallion on the end.

  She looked striking.

  “I’ve got an idea about how we can market this year’s holiday season. Let’s chat later.” Elena spotted another friend and fluttered away.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed an average-looking man standing near an entryway to an adjoining room. He was speaking out loud, but no one else was near him.

  A screaming saxophone then grabbed my attention. Listening closer, I could make out a jazzy tune being played in the pavilion.

  “Let’s check it out.” I glanced back at the doorway, and the man was gone.

  Stepping into a reception area, the place was buzzing. Two long lines of people wove through the vast space.

  “People buying their tickets at the door?” I asked Renee.

  “No, silly. This isn’t a baseball game where you pick up your tickets at the Will Call window. They’re donating money to the Cherish Our Kids Fund, which gives them playing chips.”

  Arching my back, I could see around the corner, the hallway into the ballroom lined with poker tables.

  “A casino night?”

  “I almost forgot. You just showed up hoping to crash the party.” Her eyebrows extended upward as she shot me a wry grin.

  I just noticed the black and gold banners affixed to giant walls, promoting the “Casino Royale” fundraiser.

  “I’d still like an answer to my question, but let’s get a drink first,” Renee said, taking my arm as she led me through the crowd toward one of the bars.

  The band was just inside the ballroom, so we had to shout our drink orders to the bartender. Renee asked for a glass of champagne while I ordered a Coke and Knob Creek, a new whiskey Justin had recently introduced me to.

  We stepped to the side of the bar, sipping our drinks. I could see Renee’s shoulders and hips grooving to the Big Band music.

  She leaned her shoulder against mine, but kept her gaze on the crowd, waving an occasional hand. “You ever going to tell me what compelled you to crash a party at the Belo?”

  I didn’t move for a second, realizing this wasn’t something I could shout over the band and party crowd. I flicked my head, rested my hand on her lower back, and led her across the reception area to a smaller side room. Eight or nine slot machines lined the wall. A few people hovered near a small table of hors d'oeuvres. I took her to one of the vacant standup tables, the music less deafening.

  Removing my phone from my pocket, I sidled up against Renee. She looked into my eyes and smiled. I think she wondered what I was doing. I gave her a straight-lipped smile, then held up the phone so that only she and I could view the small screen.

  “She’s a beauty. An All-American girl.”

  “She’s done some modeling, been in a few commercials apparently.”

  “Am I supposed to know who she is?”

  “My assistant, Alisa…that’s her sister Natalie.” I sighed.

  Renee nodded. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

  “She’s been missing for over a week.”

  She gave a single, slow nod, appeared to be chewing the inside of her cheek. “Missing as in you fear she’s been kidnapped or…” She peered into my eyes, not wanting to offer the alternative. “Then again, maybe she’s still a bit of a wild child who does what she pleases and doesn’t care to check in?”

  I turned the face of the phone to rest on the table, but kept my lips close to Renee’s ear. “You pretty much wrapped up all the options right there. From what Alisa has told me and from what Natalie’s roommates have shared, she goes a hundred miles an hour all the time, driven to make it big in the entertainment world. It sounds like she’s addicted to the lure of anything that smells like money and fame.”

  “Silver-spooned by her parents?” Renee asked.

  “Doesn’t sound like it. Her parents were more on the receiving end of her manipulations. Alisa was as well for a while, but then she wised up and refused to be a pawn in Natalie’s game of fame chess.”

  “Renee,” a matronly woman walked by, sliding her hand down my date’s arm. “Let’s do lunch. Text me.”

  “You get that a lot, I bet,” I said.

  “It goes with the job. Although she’s someone extra special.”

  I turned my head.

  “The mayor’s wife. She has that kind of personality where she’s either with you or against you. So, she’s on my P-one list.”

  “Priority one,” I acknowledged and she nodded.

  A waiter approached us with a tray of snacks, and Renee and I each took one and ate it.

  “Umm,” I moaned out loud. “Best crackers I’ve had since…ever.”

  “Goat cheese crackers with red pepper jelly. Delightful.”

  She took her napkin and dabbed the edge of my facial scruff.

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling a bit conspicuous.

  Her soulful, cocoa eyes held their gaze for a few seconds. I could feel an extra flutter in my chest, which caught me by surprise. I glanced away, picked up my drink, and took a quick sip.

  “Booker, I don’t want to pry into your investigative work, but with this case touching your close friend, I want to offer my assistance if there’s anything I can do to help you find Natalie.”

  I took in a breath, then held up my index finger as I thumbed through my phone for more photos that Alisa had sent me.

  “This man, standing next to Natalie.”

  Renee brought a finger to her chin, which had a faint dimple. “Oh, I’ve seen the face, maybe even met him. I just can’t quite recall his name.”

  “Zahi Kareem.”

  “He’s in the oil business, from the Middle East. Saudi Arabia, I think?”

  “Good memory,” I said.

  “Creating bonds with people opens so many doors.”

  “And wallets?” I asked with an arched eyebrow.

/>   “That’s one of the benefits, yes. You expect to find Zahi here at this fundraiser?”

  “If I were to call his office and try to set up an appointment as a private investigator, he might blow me off. Apparently he travels a great deal, so I don’t want him flying off until I can find him and question him…to see if there’s anything he knows about Natalie’s disappearance, or other information that might help us find her.”

  Renee opened her sparkling silver clutch, removed her phone, and tapped an icon. Her red fingernail tapped the screen, punching letters and numbers.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Checking something. Give me a minute.”

  It only took about ten seconds.

  “Perfect,” she said.

  “Find what you were looking for?”

  “Zahi Kareem has been what we call a Bronze supporter at the DPA for the last two years, which means he’s donated at least a thousand dollars to support the arts, on top of the shows he’s attended. It will be a good discussion point.” She gave me a wry smile. “Time for a second drink. Then we’ll make our rounds.”

  “I’m game.”

  Taking my hand, she led us to the nearest bar and we refilled our drinks. We then snaked through hundreds of people, most of whom had brought their A-game of cheesy one-liners and raucous laughter.

  I heard one guy wearing a plaid tuxedo vest ask another wearing almost the same look and style, “What do you call the sound a dog makes when it’s choking on a piece of its owner’s fifty-thousand-dollar piece of jewelry?”

  The other guy scratched his boyish face, apparently not up to speed on fourth-grade humor. “Man, I don’t know. Tell me, come on. Don’t leave me hanging.” He put a hand on his buddy’s shoulder.

  The joker responded with, “A diamond in the ruff.”

  Gut-busting laughter broke out in their area. It became contagious, as their dates joined the laugh-in as well. If I were still a cop I would have considered issuing them a ticket for assaulting intelligence.