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

by John W. Mefford

  But it didn’t feel right. He wasn’t a vindictive person. He was honorable and could deal with the asshole another way.

  Bam!

  The back door smacked the building again, but twice as hard as last time, and then it closed. The man heard shuffling steps.

  “Who the hell shuts down a bathroom for maintenance on a Saturday night?” a young man’s voice said, slurring his last couple of words.

  It was the voice he’d been waiting for. An off-duty police officer, actually the off-duty police officer. The man in the hoodie felt his pulse sprint. He had to dig his nails into the soft bark of the soaked tree just to keep himself from jostling around.

  He heard a zipper and then a stream of pee echoing off the metal dumpster.

  “Ahh, that’s more like it,” the officer said to himself.

  The man in the hoodie eased his neck forward and saw the athletic twenty-something officer with cropped hair and a red sweater turn back to the building. Creeping two quiet steps, the man lunged over the back of the younger person, immediately gripping him in a headlock. The officer gagged while flailing his arms. One of his thrashing hands snagged the man’s hood, pulling it over his face, momentarily blocking his vision.

  “You don’t know when to give up,” the man grunted.

  He rammed his knee into the officer’s kidney, and the officer’s body crumpled, his arms now swatting air. The man dragged him back under the cover of the trees, ensuring no one would interrupt this officer’s final few seconds of life. Knowing he probably had just a few moments before one of the officer’s buddies came out to check on him, the man in the hoodie set his feet, reestablished his grip, and then snapped the officer’s neck, killing him instantly.

  He let go and watched the dead body fall to the trashy pavement.

  “Officer Miller, I think your crew is going to have a hard time putting you back together. You and your do-gooder fudge buddies act like the Avengers, thinking you’re taking down all evil, but all you really do is let evil slip right through your fingers. Not anymore. I won’t take it.”

  The man looked over his shoulder before taking two steps toward his escape route through the other side of the trees. He stopped in his tracks and turned to glance at the dead officer. It had been too easy, not as fulfilling as he’d envisioned. Suddenly, a torrent of fury overtook his body, and he kicked the officer in the face, the toe of his metal-plated boot connecting with the cadaver’s chin and nose. He continued the relentless assault, moving down the body, slamming the officer’s ribs and back. Repeatedly, the man in the hoodie punished the lifeless body until he finally broke out in a sweat.

  Standing over his first victim, his breath pumped out smoke like an old-fashioned train. But he finally felt a sense of accomplishment.

  The journey to emancipation had begun—freeing his spirit from the shackled, misguided culture that surrounded him every day.

  2

  Leaping a good three feet off the ground, the fifteen-year-old soccer phenom headed the black and white ball away from his opponent. He chased the ball down, juked two defenders—nearly breaking their ankles—then unleashed a frozen rope toward the net.

  I would have been pumping my fist in the air had I not noticed Samantha, my curious six-year-old, meandering onto the field, chasing bubbles that she’d just blown into the air. Darting forward, I snatched her off the field just in front of a diving goalie. Thankfully, the hooking laser beam, coming off the foot of the best teenage soccer play I’d ever seen play in person, just missed Samantha and the outstretched arms of the goalie.

  I heard the ripple of twine behind me as I jogged off the playing field with Samantha hooked under my arm.

  “What’s the big deal, Daddy?” Samantha, her feet now standing on the grass, opened the purple bottle and blew out more bubbles, the breeze blowing the suds directly into my face.

  “Way to go, Bolt! Whoop, whoop!” My business partner and new date mate, Alisa, whirled her fist in the air, cheering on the kid who’d only been in the states for four months, but had already established a nice foundation of friends while also excelling in his favorite sport.

  I released a quick chuckle while swatting away the soapy bubbles and leaned down to my little girl. She was decked out in purple sweats and chomping purple bubble gum. I tried to be stern. “You could have gotten hurt out there. Those kids are big.”

  She stopped what she was doing and rested her cute hand on my shoulder. I noticed her nails half-covered in chipped, pink polish. “Daddy, I know you might not be prepared for this yet, but I’m kind of growing up, you know. So, I know what’s around me. You don’t need to worry so much.”

  “Heads up!” someone yelled from the field, and I turned to see the ball whizzing over my shoulder.

  “I’ll get it.” Samantha darted away, chasing the ball through Edsall Park, just down the street from my condo off Bryan in North Dallas.

  Rising to my feet, I nudged Alisa. “Can you believe Eva wasting money on manicures with Samantha?”

  Just as a gust of wind lifted her blond curls, she made a fist and punched my shoulder joint. I think it was her way of flirting. “Come on, Booker. It’s one of those women bonding things that you just don’t question.”

  Extending my arms, I couldn’t help myself. “Samantha’s not a woman. She’s only a first-grader, for Christ’s sake,” I said with a bit of attitude.

  “Don’t look now, but your little girl is growing up fast. In case you haven’t noticed—”

  Wham!

  The soccer ball had just bounced off the back of my head. I heard an infectious giggle as I glanced over my shoulder.

  “Sorry, Daddy. I was trying to kick it over you. You’re just too tall,” she said, unable to corral her laughter.

  “Hey, Sammy, can you kick the ball over here? I need to set up a corner kick,” Bolt called out.

  Biting her lower lip, my not-so-little girl hopped once, then booted the ball as hard as she could.

  “You got air,” Alisa said, jogging over to high-five Samantha.

  “I got air,” Samantha responded, zooming over to the edge of the soccer field. She smacked hands with Bolt and then steered her airplane arms toward the swing set.

  Bolt was known as Sebasten when our lives first collided in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, a few months back. After barely surviving a cab ride from the airport into the city, I had stood on the sidewalk and watched a cabbie peel away from the curb with far too much of my money, considering the back door had flown off mid-ride and nearly took me with it.

  Sebasten must have thought I was a naïve tourist—who wouldn’t have, given my initial island experience?—and then engaged me in some type of pity story, just long enough for me to take my eyes off my duffel bag. The little shyster snatched my bag and took off running faster than I could say “Dominican Republic scam.” I chased after him and was fortunate to have the kid glance over his shoulder toward me just as a bellman crossed his path with a full load of luggage.

  With his ego bruised more than his body, the homeless, smooth-talking teenager made it his life’s mission to help me and someone very close to me take down a drug-smuggling killer and my ex-girlfriend, who was an even more dangerous killer hiding in plain sight on the Caribbean island.

  Given the speed in which Sebasten’s legs and mouth moved, it was natural for me to nickname him Bolt—as in “fast as a lightning bolt,” or better yet, Usain Bolt.

  In the end, I was unsure that Bolt would live to see his eighteenth birthday on that island, and I knew in my heart I couldn’t just leave him there. With the help of someone special, I became his legal guardian and he began the process of becoming a US citizen.

  “¡No te puedes quedar parado en el cuadro! ¡Tienes que jugar con defensa fuerte!,” Bolt pointed toward the middle of the field just before he kicked the ball.

  “What did he say?” Alisa whispered into my ear, her hands clutching my biceps. Her Spanish was worse than mine.

  “Som
ething about a box and strong.”

  “Ah.”

  The pick-up game, which included Bolt, a number of friends from his new school—North Dallas High School—and his club soccer team, moved to the opposite end of the field.

  With just a few spotty clouds dotting a blue sky on a cool Sunday morning, I scratched my goatee and took in the whole scene. I was a lucky guy. Our little private investigation firm, Booker & Associates, had just celebrated its one-year anniversary, and we were actually solvent and growing. We, of course, included Alisa, whose verve to dig in and sift through mounds of research had been the key cog in our little machine. We’d come a long way since we first met in Austin twelve years ago. But here in the last few months, we’d actually taken a step I never thought would happen. We were dating, although many of the dates usually turned into case discussions. Still, it had been easy, like the cool breeze blowing across the field. No strings and no pressure. Just my kind of relationship.

  “Coach move Bolt up to varsity yet?” Despite her lime green sunglasses, Alisa used her hand as a visor to block the sun, staring down the soccer field.

  “Just last week.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Another faux punch to the shoulder joint.

  “You’re getting frisky,” I said, turning slightly her way.

  “I’m not a horse.” She snorted out loud as soon as the words left her mouth, then shoved me as the laughter continued between both of us.

  This was the side of Alisa that jazzed me the most. Carefree, silly even, yet a heart of gold. Not to say she didn’t have an intensity about her…well, more like a don’t-fuck-with-me attitude. Frankly, it made her more attractive. I didn’t view her as a fragile little butterfly, and she never asked me to be her Mr. Perfect.

  Fortunately, she’d rolled with the punches when I returned from the Dominican Republic, instantly taking a liking to my multilingual sidekick. It wasn’t hard to do, given Bolt’s effervescent personality. She had joined Momma, Uncle Charlie, and other friends in the collective effort to care for and raise Bolt. And I soon realized I needed every one of them.

  Who would have thought that raising a fifteen-year-old boy would take so much effort? Well, probably any adult in the free world who was responsible for the well-being of a teenager. But most of them got there gradually. I made the giant leap in one day at the Federal Building in downtown Dallas. Not that I had any regrets. I just didn’t fully comprehend what it took to raise a teenage boy.

  My little Samantha hadn’t prepared me for the endless number of things that required my time and input. Outside of the countless rides to and from soccer practice and school events, the biggest and most important revolved around Bolt’s education. I had to work with school administrators and each of his seven teachers to ensure they had a solid plan to catch Bolt up with the rest of the kids his age. I knew once he caught up, he’d blow right by them, just like he was doing this morning on the soccer field. But that required a time-intensive effort to convince him it was a building-block process. He couldn’t master the fun stuff—which was, in his opinion, anything that got him closer to understanding how to run a business—until he mastered the basics. While he grudgingly accepted the concept, the execution of the plan became more like pulling a mule with a tattered rope…on a weekly basis.

  “Heads up!” I heard someone yell.

  I ducked without looking, pulling Alisa down with me.

  “That wasn’t a surface-to-air missile, you know?” She tugged at the knees of her jeans, damp and darkened from the patch of mud, a result of the overnight rain. She tilted her head, her lips drawing a straight line.

  “Oops. It was just instinct.” I gave her a half-smile and raised my hands as if her stare fired a lethal laser directly into my chest.

  Alisa rolled up her sleeves, curling her full lips together. With no warning, she jabbed her fingers into my ribcage, attempting to tickle me. Her hand lingered for a moment.

  “Damn, I forgot what good shape you are in,” she said, leaning closer while arching her eyebrows.

  “Eh. I guess I work at it, but I’ve been in better shape.”

  “Not with me.” She looked away for a brief second. “Did I just say that?”

  She was referring to my torrid relationship with Britney, the ex-girlfriend-turned-killer, who had the looks of an international model and the venom of a snake.

  “You did,” I said, watching Samantha and one of Bolt’s friends chase down the loose ball. Alisa and I hadn’t crossed that magical intimacy line, mostly because I knew it came with unspoken expectations. Hell, after watching Britney morph into Jack the Ripper, I knew my psyche had been scarred. Alisa, though, had grown on me, like a long-time friend. We could rib each other and still share a fun night out, ending it with a kiss.

  A few seconds of awkward silence was interrupted by a charging Samantha, who was running from Bolt’s female bestie, Rio.

  “I’m gonna get ya, Samantha,” the tomboy said with a smile, as Samantha whirled around my legs and headed toward Bolt.

  “My big brother will protect me.” Her giggle bounced to the cadence of each step.

  Samantha had insisted on calling Bolt her brother since day one of our new family arrangement. He only thought it was the coolest thing in the world.

  “We gonna play soccer or patty cake?” another boy asked from inside the goal box.

  As opposed to kicking the ball over to Bolt, who was standing at the corner of the field, Rio ran the ball over and handed it to him, as if it were a personal gift. She jostled his hair that nearly covered his eyes, then shot him a wink before running back into position on the field.

  I felt an elbow jab my ribcage, and I turned toward my partner. “You really like beating me up, don’t you?”

  As usual, she ignored me. “Do you think Rio likes Bolt…you know, as more than just a friend?”

  Suddenly, a Bruno Mars song filled the air. “Bolt’s been playing with my phone,” I said, as I pulled it out of my pocket and viewed the screen. “Not on my contact list.”

  “Get it. Might be a new client,” Alisa said.

  I nodded. “This is Booker,” I said, hoping it wasn’t another random solicitation call from Pocatello, Idaho.

  “Booker, Scott Ligon.”

  Covering the phone, I whispered, “Ligon, DPD Police Chief” to Alisa, then turned away from the game.

  Scratching the back of my head, I could only think of two reasons why I would receive a phone call from the top dog at the Dallas Police Department. Either I’d pissed off one of his star detectives on a case I was working and he wanted to warn me to stay clear of his treasured employees, or he called to let me know someone I’d known when I worked on the force had died.

  “Scott,” I said, refusing to address him with a formal title. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need your services, Booker. I want to hire you.”

  3

  Downshifting my Saab into second gear, I motored up the fourth-floor ramp in a parking garage at the corner of North Akard and Ross. Being Sunday, I wasn’t surprised to see the entire level empty. As instructed by the chief, I coasted to the southwest corner and turned the car into the second spot from the end. I sat there with my engine running, contemplating why he would want to hire me, someone who’d been excommunicated from the rank and file, all because of the incident.

  While working as a DPD beat officer a little more than a year ago, my partner Paco and I responded to a call around midnight behind a bar off lower Greenville. What ensued over the next half hour altered the course of my life. I witnessed a fellow cop abuse a homeless guy for no reason. When I stepped in to stop it and learn more information, the veteran officer, a smart-mouthed redneck shaped like a bulldozer, sucker-punched me, then attempted to kill me and the homeless guy. Somehow, I was able to fight and claw my way out of the conflict.

  The next day had felt like an even worse beating. I sat in the office of my superior officer, Sergeant Kenny You
ng, and listened to him try to convince me that my interpretation of the events was simply a misplaced opinion. In what appeared to be nothing more than protecting some bullshit good ol’ boy code, he was essentially treating it like Ernie Sims had merely called me a name on the elementary school playground.

  I couldn’t let it pass, even after KY—Young’s nickname—first tried to bait me by offering a future promotion to detective. After that failed to turn me, he then threatened to take away my badge. In the end, I didn’t give him the satisfaction. I quit.

  But as one door closed, another opened, and thus, the birth of Booker & Associates, and along with it, a freedom to pursue my dream in a way I’d never envisioned, as a private investigator.

  Checking the rearview mirror, I chewed the inside of my cheek, recalling that sense of “me against the world” and the irony of Ligon now soliciting my services.

  Moments later, a white SUV with extra-dark tinted windows backed into the space three spots over. The driver’s window slid down, and a young guy in uniform nodded, his eyes shifting toward the back seat. I took that as my cue, and I got out of my car and opened the SUV’s back door. Ligon sat on the far side.

  “Booker, thank you for meeting me here. Please come in. James, you can take a walk.”

  The kid left the engine running and did as his boss asked, with no response.

  Ligon, in khakis and a blue sweater that zipped in the front, angled his body toward me. In his early sixties, he had a chiseled chin, but my eyes gravitated to his oversized schnoz. I’d never met him in person, but he looked like he’d put on a few pounds since I last saw him on TV.

  Maintaining an even gaze, I let him initiate our discussion.