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

by John W. Mefford

  Grinding her teeth so hard she could taste the bitter enamel, a rush of rage enveloped her core. Her body temperature must have shot above a hundred, as she felt her temples and neck throbbing with fury, her lungs sucking in air like a runaway train. Darkness rimmed her vision. She was about to lose her mind at any moment, a horrific, ear-piercing scream clinging to the edge of her crusty lips.

  Don’t let Tongue and Tex win. Your life is worth more than their hate.

  She repeated the phrase three times until she could feel herself take control of her breathing cadence, her mind once again thinking rationally.

  Wasting no more time, Natalie continued her slow trek toward the staircase, less than ten feet away. Focusing on the act of moving her knee up and shifting left, she was able to keep her pulse under one fifty.

  Finally, her left ankle bumped against concrete. Each step appeared two-feet high. She rubbed her eyes, then reassessed the task at hand. No railing for her to use, and really the steps were only slightly higher than normal, maybe just ten inches or so. She thought about dropping to her knees and crawling, but she’d lose eye contact with Veronica’s door. And once she hit the ground, who knows if she’d be able to push herself upright.

  Eventually, the muscles in her legs would fire, come to life, allowing her to move quickly. Right?

  She paused for a second and heard Tex snarling, as if he was feasting off his latest victim, ripping flesh from bone.

  She pushed the sickening thought aside and focused on Mount Everest.

  Desperate for more leverage, Natalie pressed her fingers against the wall and boosted her leg upward, then used every ounce of strength to will her body up to the first stair.

  Uggh!

  A grunt had escaped her body. She shut down her vocal cords, her body as still as an East Texas squirrel camouflaged against the bark of a tree in the Piney Woods. She only heard more snarling in the distance. Tex was too much in his element to notice her little squeal.

  Glancing at her right forefinger, a piece of shredded, blood-soaked duct tape stuck to the area normally dedicated to her fingernail. That had been yanked off by a pair of pliers her second night in captivity. Her punishment for spitting at Tongue during one of his revolting advances, she’d barely felt the pain when it occurred—she was higher than a kite. Later, once the drugs wore off, she cried like she’d never cried before, mixing in intermittent screams, the physical pain unbearable, and the mental anguish of knowing they would use any means available to control her every movement, even more agonizing.

  When she awoke a few hours later, she felt pressure against the top of her finger. The duct tape had stopped the bleeding, but it came with a stark warning from Tongue.

  “That was nothing more than a tap on the wrist. Misbehave again, and we’ll force you to gnaw off your own toe and eat it.” He hissed and disappeared into the black hole.

  Opting to use only three fingers and a thumb, Natalie heaved herself up another step. And another. She could feel her muscles showing signs of life, at least some of them. Her calves still felt tight as drums, which impacted her ability to truly push off her foot, or to run. But her quads felt stronger, giving her more stability, and even her shoulders had a renewed sense of vigor.

  Taking in another pocket of air, she surged up one more step. She repeated the breathe-and-boost process six more times, reaching a small landing. Instantly, she gripped the door handle, and it turned. She pulled, but it was blocked. She tugged again and again, but she only heard a metal rattle.

  Natalie glanced back down the hall. Still vacant. Turning her attention back to the fortress door, her heart sank.

  “Stupid shit,” she said under her breath.

  The frickin’ door had a keyed padlock. Of course it did. How else would they keep their chickens in the coop? She recalled hearing a key chain jingle when Tex had unlocked Veronica’s door.

  She had to get the key chain without Tex knowing. But it was in the room with him and the poor girl. How?

  Screw it. She didn’t fall into another internal debate; she just slumped to her ass and scooted down the stairs. The first couple of drops caught her off guard, and her teeth clapped together. The last several went smoother, and in no time, she found herself walking, not shimmying down the hall. She didn’t exactly look like runway material, her stiff legs reminding her of Herman Munster in a video game she’d once played.

  Placing her hand against her partially open door, she could feel her heart pumping like a motor running with no oil. She had no idea how she’d secure the keys without being caught. Tex was a sick, reprehensible excuse of a human being. But after the verbal thrashing he took from his boss, Tex would undoubtedly use Natalie’s rebellious act to prove he was worthy of being a partner to Tongue. If he ever got started on her, death would be her easiest way out.

  Natalie shifted closer to Veronica’s room and peered through the small crack. All she could see were flickering shadows off the far wall, but a foul smell singed her nostrils. She pushed the door ajar another couple of inches and couldn’t believe her eyes.

  With his back to the door, Tex bounced up and down next to the cot, his hands in the air, chanting incomprehensible gibberish. He was naked, his flabby, hairy ass illuminated by the flames emanating over the cot. Some type of barbecue pit had been constructed and in it, an animal was being burned.

  A sacrifice.

  She guessed it was some type of bird. Possibly a bat? She hadn’t seen one of those since she visited Austin a year earlier. Being swarmed by a thousand bats had creeped her out, but watching Tex kill a bat for no other reason than fulfilling his demented desires was beyond sick. Taking a quiet step closer, she could see Veronica’s face, her eyes closed. She was either dead or heavily sedated. Wait. Was that blood smeared across her face? Another step and Natalie saw blood streaked across her nude body.

  For a quick moment, Natalie searched the room for a weapon, ideally one of those scalpels she knew Tex enjoyed. An elevated tray sat right next to him. She’d have to be a ninja warrior if she expected herself to snatch the instrument off the tray and inflict death on Tex before he could fling his tree trunk of an arm and swat her against the wall.

  The keys. She didn’t see them on the tray, but she did spot his oversized Wranglers.

  Down on her hands and knees, Natalie crawled closer to the scene. Suddenly, Tex shifted toward Veronica’s feet and began smearing more blood on her body. Natalie stopped for a second then kept moving, her fear temporarily blocked.

  A foot away from the jeans, she reached out a hand. She saw a jerky movement, and she froze. Lifting her sights, she saw two round eyes. Veronica was staring her down, then her eyes shifted back to Tex. In her periphery, Natalie watched Tex tinker with the pit. Veronica turned back her way, her eyes screaming at Natalie. She had no idea what Veronica was trying to tell her. Hell, she could be brainwashed and trying to get Natalie caught.

  Not possible. Not Veronica’s enormous, dark eyes. They spoke of fear, but also awareness. She wasn’t drugged.

  Natalie reached for the jeans, and Veronica flipped her head, her eyes shooting darts. Natalie had come too far not to take a final risk and attempt to steal the keys.

  She grabbed the jeans and searched the pockets. Nothing.

  Fuck!

  Wait. On other side of the cot, she spotted keys resting on the cold floor. She began to move toward the cot, then out of nowhere, Veronica released a crying wail. Tex shifted her way.

  “I told you not to disturb my service, bitch.”

  Crawling backward, Natalie heard a gagging sound. She couldn’t see what he was doing to her, but she feared for Veronica’s life. Retracing her crawl, Natalie’s foot reached the door just as Tex moved back to the pit. Natalie then noticed a piece of the bat sticking out of Veronica’s mouth. Tears flooded Veronica’s face as she peered at Natalie.

  Realizing Natalie would likely be spotted, it was obvious that Veronica had purposely deflected Tex’s attention.

&
nbsp; She had saved Natalie’s life.

  Natalie wanted to return the favor, but now wasn’t the time. She crawled out of the room and slid back into her own cot and attached the restraints.

  She’d live to fight another day. Thanks to Veronica.

  18

  I looked up just in time to see a pigeon crapping two feet above my head. The plastic shell that covered would-be passengers for the DART bus—Dallas’ answer to rapid transit—was coated in dollops of bird crap, a myriad of shapes that proved one thing to me: birds knew what they were targeting.

  The squatty woman wearing a hairnet standing next to me shifted her eyes from the wet stain back to something in front of her…or nothing at all. It was difficult to tell.

  “If people would stop feeding birds all the crap they eat, then the birds won’t be crappin’ everywhere we stand. It’s that simple.” She paused, pulled out a tissue and blew her nose, then stuck it back in her purse. “But people can’t help themselves. No, sir. Some folks only want that instant gratification. Meanwhile, their leftover French fries will kill that bird faster than a shotgun blast to the gut. I ain’t lyin’.”

  “I hear ya.”

  A yellow and white bus roared in from the east, rocking to a stop in front of our station.

  “I just want someone to figure out a way to get rid of my hay fever.” She climbed onto the first step of the bus then turned back to me. “You comin’ or what? Someone’s gotta keep me company as I prepare to bite my tongue just so a preppy thirty-five-year-old lawyer can tip me a buck fifty.”

  I stared for a second too long.

  “This ain’t your personal limo, you know?”

  “Uh, sorry. I’m waiting on a friend.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Ha-chew!

  Two men deep in conversation sitting in the front row raised their elbows to shield their faces. The lady stepped into the aisle, apparently oblivious to her own germ warfare. Before she had a chance to sit, the driver zoomed away, leaving a plume of exhaust. It mixed nicely with the bird crap.

  Glancing to my right, I spotted a driver of a different kind leaning against his black Cadillac Escalade. He was clean cut, wore a dark suit, and was reading something on his tablet. I wondered if he doubled as a security guard. He was facing the Bank of America building, one of the crown jewels of the Dallas skyline at night. At just after ten in the morning, it was a bustling vertical city, people coming and going, and deliveries being made, everything from flowers to donuts. Only one other person I’d seen in the last two hours required a personal driver.

  Peering around the corner of the DART shell, I noticed the driver pull a phone out of his pocket, swipe his thumb across the bottom, and tap the screen. He gazed at the main entrance of the building for a moment, then opened the car door and tossed in his tablet. He resumed his position next to the SUV, his hands clasped in front.

  Perhaps he’d received the “go” signal.

  His signal was my signal, so I stood more upright, my eyes scanning the vast swath of stone and concrete for his boss, Zahi Kareem.

  A minute passed and the white clouds above splintered apart, allowing a warm sun to radiate off the concrete. The driver casually touched his temple, wiping away sweat, perhaps. Then he pulled out his phone and looked ahead. Zahi must be running late.

  I took in a breath and felt a yawn emerging from my gut. Last night had been a long one. I’d called Bucky Rivers while walking back to my car, giving a high-level debrief of what I’d just witnessed. When I told him about the tattoo ring around Jane Doe’s finger, and how the detective said it matched the one on Jade’s hand, I asked Bucky if he recalled seeing it before Jade was kidnapped.

  “Hmm,” he said out loud. “Nope, she didn’t have it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Hell yes, I’m sure. A couple of weeks before she…well, she helped me paint the kitchen. We laughed about how the blue paint splattered all over her, in her hair, everywhere. I helped her clean off, even washed her hands in paint thinner. It reminded me when she was young and we did stuff together.”

  Bucky let me go before he burst into tears.

  Minutes later, I dropped by Alisa’s place and personally gave her the news—the dead body was not her sister. Her immediate reaction was calm and controlled. She merely nodded and said, “Thank you for telling me in person.”

  A moment later, her chin quivered, and she collapsed into my arms as tears streamed down her face.

  “I don’t know why I’m crying. Maybe just relief that it wasn’t Natalie, but afraid as hell she could be next.”

  I just caressed her head and rubbed her back. She wasn’t looking for me to say a word.

  Once she calmed down, I went into her kitchen and poured her a glass of water.

  “Screw that. Give me the hard stuff,” she said through a stuffy nose. “It’s in the cabinet next to the fridge.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why the hell not?” She arched her back, giving me a vibe like I’d just taken away her right to vote.

  “We got work to do. Well, I need you and Josh to work in tandem.”

  She shook her head, then grabbed a napkin and blew her nose. “I’ve totally ignored him the last few days. He’s left me voicemails, sent me text messages, just asking if I needed anything, groceries or someone to talk to.”

  “Well, now you’ll get your chance to talk, while you work.”

  I explained the two paths we needed to pursue, researching the possible symbolism of the ring tattoo, as well as hacking into Natalie’s phone again—Josh’s specialty. I was hoping Natalie would have her bank app on her phone, and given some creative ingenuity, or by digging around the apartment that she shared with Sarah and Dominique, they would gain access to her account to identify all her deposits in the last six months.

  Alisa wasted no time in calling Josh, and they both committed to working all night.

  Glancing up, I saw the driver begin to move. That was my cue. Curling out of the DART shell, holding my phone with two hands like I was watching an important program, I casually walked down the sidewalk. At just under fifty feet, I spotted Zahi marching toward the SUV. I hoped he wouldn’t recognize me.

  At just under twenty feet, I slowed down, moved behind a gray-haired man who was cleaning his glasses and walking. I had to time this perfectly. Peering over the man’s shoulder, I saw the driver open the door and Zahi curl his body into the seat. Just as the driver started shutting the door, I moved quickly around the older man. The driver turned his back as I got to the rear bumper. I then hopped off the curb to the driver’s side, opened the back door, and slid in the back seat before the driver knew what had happened.

  “Morning, Zahi. Did you get a chance to see last night’s top ten plays on SportsCenter?” I held out my phone, my forehead crumpled.

  Zahi’s expression was priceless. He jerked his head in my direction, held up a hand, and froze.

  The driver reached for my door, but I smacked my hand on the lock. He popped the handle a couple of times then peered through the window. He must have seen my single-finger salute. Not two seconds later, he jumped in the front seat while pulling something from his coat.

  My Sig Sauer P226 X-Five was already propped on the tan, plush leather seat.

  “If this were Dallas a hundred fifty years ago, you’d be dead.”

  Mr. Clean pursed his lips, locking eyes first with Zahi then with me.

  “Zahi, don’t tell me he thinks you’re going to overpower me while I have my Sig aimed at his eye socket?”

  “Booker, put the gun down. I’m sure we can work this out without acting like wild heathens,” Zahi said, his limbs still suspended in the air.

  “I’m here to cut through all your bullshit, and I can’t do that until we’re on even ground. Clean-cut, give up the gun. Now.”

  The man paused, his face turning red.

  “Hey, aren’t you that guy from the gala the other night? Zahi’s top-notch security detail?”<
br />
  He nodded.

  “Cool. So you know the routine. Hand me the gun through the opening next to the seat. Grip side toward me.”

  He did as I said, although his jaw muscles flexed the entire time. “Show-off,” I said, taking his gun and slipping it under my leg.

  “What?” He looked perplexed.

  “Nothing.”

  “Are we going to talk or continue playing cowboys and Indians?” Zahi asked while moving his hands slowly to his knees.

  “I’m good. You good, Mr. Clean?”

  “Good,” he said monotone, rolling his eyes.

  “Zahi, do you want Mr. Clean standing outside or inside the car? Your choice. I don’t care, but I don’t want his presence to keep you from sharing everything with me. And I mean everything.”

  “No worries. I’m late for an appointment. Curt can drive while we talk…like civilized human beings.”

  I eyed Curt, a.k.a. Mr. Clean. “Okay, I’m jiggy with it. Mr. Clean, you drive.”

  He twisted in the seat, shut his car door, and secured his seatbelt.

  “Two things before we leave. Promise me you have no other weapons in this car.”

  Mr. Clean looked in the rearview mirror, leaning forward so he could eye Zahi, who nodded.

  “Do you have to ask him when to take a piss? Give me all your weapons.”

  “It’s under my seat. I’m reaching down to get it now.”

  I pressed the barrel of my Sig against the back of his head to make sure he didn’t think he had a chance.

  He handed me a smaller pistol, a three-inch barrel, grip first.

  “Carrying permits for these?”

  “Well…”

  “Save it.” That was someone else’s job, but it also told me the character of the folks Zahi employed.

  Mr. Clean cranked the engine.

  “One more thing. You need to speak into your lapel and tell whoever is listening that I don’t want to see any of your butt buddies swarming this car while we’re having our…civilized conversation.”