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

by John W. Mefford

  He arched an eyebrow to emphasize his heavy dose of sarcasm.

  Usually the one with the level head, Henry’s anxiety had caught me off guard.

  I sipped more of my non-alcoholic beverage, glancing at the game.

  “I’ve never seen Ligon so rattled. He seemed almost desperate,” I said, noticing Alisa’s watchful eye from across the bar. “And the fact he’d already reached out to you just hours after the second event tells me he’s not screwing around. Neither is the US Attorney.”

  Henry popped his fingers off my arm. “I know I took this job to put bad people behind bars. And from what Ligon told me, the guy who’s…you know…” His eyes shifted left and right, then back to me. “It doesn’t get much worse.”

  I nodded, thinking about all the questions swirling in my mind. But first I had to make sure Henry was right in the head.

  “Look, I can’t promise that once Newsome finds out, he won’t figure out a way to fire your ass. It’s how the real world works. I’ve learned that I can’t control the assholes. But I get to choose if I work with them.”

  Henry looked up at me, and he huffed out a smile. “Working in the private sector has been good for you.”

  “Damn straight it has. Be the man, don’t work for the man. I think that’s how the saying goes.”

  “The one from a fictional drug kingpin?” Henry chuckled.

  “Yeah, that one.” I slurped my drink, then held it up where Justin could see an empty glass. Using one hand as a shield, he shot me the finger with the other. “Prick.”

  “You must be talking about Justin.” Alisa had just sidled up next to me.

  “Who else? You know how he can get.”

  “One Nut’s man period? Believe me, I know,” Alisa said, patting my shoulder.

  Justin probably never envisioned that a helmet to his groin in the last college football game of his life would create such a lifelong opportunity for derision. It was obvious that Alisa enjoyed reminding him of his deficiency.

  “Hey, Henry, just know that I’ve got your back. And I know you’ve got mine.”

  His lips drew a straight line. “I know, but…”

  I knew the feeling, all wrapped up in the politics of the job, losing focus on the purpose of the job.

  “If something happens—” I started.

  “My mom and dad envisioned me being the district attorney someday. You can’t do that with even a minor blemish on your record.”

  “What does Henry want to do?” Alisa asked him, picking up my glass and downing one of my pieces of ice.

  We’d learned to share pretty well in the last few months.

  Henry looked at me and Alisa. “You guys seem pretty happy doing the PI thing. And you’re damn good at it. Maybe I’m destined to do my thing on the other side of the aisle.”

  “It’s contagious.”

  “What is?” Justin said, sticking his nose in while using his towel to wipe down a wet counter.

  “The One Nut disease,” Alisa said with a bit of attitude.

  “Really? How many times can you—”

  “Crack a nut?” Alisa snorted at her quick wit.

  Justin raised his towel, as if he might try to sling it at Alisa’s face, but he could feel eyes on him—paying customers—and he simply walked away.

  I watched Alisa circle the bar and refill my drink. I gave her a quick smile, then shifted my eyes to Henry. “You all in, or do I need to get Bolt to convince you?”

  “Hey, maybe we can steer him toward the lawyer profession…put some of those compelling argument skills to work in a courtroom. He might be able to save someone’s life.” Alisa arched an eyebrow.

  “Or win over an unsuspecting jury so his client can walk away with millions. I think his current desire of entering the entrepreneurial ranks is best for him.”

  “Don’t forget, not all lawyers are scum,” Henry said with a grin on his face. “Well, not until they turn into politicians.”

  It was a relief to see Henry engaged. “So, you’re not going to take a month-long vacation in Belize?”

  “Where have you been? I’m already thinking through our next steps,” Henry said.

  “Cool. Here’s my first question. Remember, I start with the most obvious ones, then work my way down.”

  Henry leaned forward, apparently eager to get the investigative ball rolling.

  I said, “Ligon is connecting the two murders because—”

  “From what he told me, the first one was initially ruled a suicide. Then, after further investigation, changed to a homicide.”

  “Right. So, he’s basing his serial cop killer theory on two murders. I’m guessing the second one wasn’t made to look like a suicide?”

  “Nothing close. It was a brutal mugging behind some bar. The officer’s neck was broken.”

  I winced, reminded of the constant danger men and women in uniform lived with each and every day.

  I continued. “So the two officers were killed using completely different methods. In fact, it’s hard to fathom that the mental mindset of the killer would even be the same. Think about it—one is set up to look like a suicide; the other was more of a surprise attack.”

  “But it still sounds like the second one was planned,” Henry said, a couple of blue veins snaking across each temple. “To know you’re going after an officer, the killer had to know who it was ahead of time.”

  “Or maybe the killer just had a run-in with Miller in the bar? May not have even known he was a cop. Again, I think it’s too easy to assume that we’re dealing with a serial cop killer.”

  Henry nodded.

  A few seconds of silence had us gravitating back to the football game. The Jets were pounding the Patriots, 24-3, still in the second quarter.

  But my brain continued to churn in the background. “Which leads me back to my first thought. Why is Ligon so damn paranoid that he thinks sharing this information would turn the city upside down? Put aside the point that if it’s a serial cop killer, then sharing information would scare the killer off.”

  “Hmm. Maybe we’re overcomplicating it,” Henry said. “I hang around people who think their title means their opinions are fact. They’re put on a pedestal. They’re all about controlling the situation. I think it consumes them, because the alternative can really impact their lives.”

  “And career opportunities,” I said, nodding.

  “So, Ligon gets news that the first death is ruled a homicide, and the hair stands up on his neck. Then, the second killing last night. He’s blinded by two bright objects, both with cop and murder painted on them. In that position, it’s probably easy to make that connection. Worst-case scenario.”

  “So bad that he shuts down all communication on where the case is really going and then, essentially, goes outside the department to find someone to lead it?”

  “Sounds like he doesn’t trust anyone.”

  “But he trusts me, a guy who was essentially kicked off the force for not being a team player.”

  “If he was going outside of the department, hiring you was the right choice.”

  “I think he’s trying to avoid some type of racial explosion,” I said.

  Henry pulled his neck back. “Because of two white cops?”

  “He thinks it’s a possibility the perp might be some black guy who’s got a beef against cops. Or maybe just white cops. Or maybe cops who only go to church when their mother-in-law is in town.”

  We both chuckled, drawing the attention of a pair of guys off to my left. Bringing a hand to the side of my face, I turned the volume down.

  “Like I tell Alisa—”

  “Tell me what?” She snuck up behind me, leaning an elbow on my shoulder.

  “After we’re hired for a case, what’s our number one rule?”

  “Don’t rule out anyone, including the client.”

  “Isn’t that Detective 101?” Henry said, gulping the last of his gin and tonic.

  “In the public sector, yes…usually, anyw
ay. On this side, it can be easy to see the world through the lens of the person who’s paying your tab. Most of the time, there’s nothing there. But, on a rare occasion, people in our position are set up to be played.”

  Those words hung in the air for a few seconds.

  I suggested, “From now on, I think we need to be careful about meeting in public. Ligon’s paranoia might be reality. We don’t want to start a rumor and then have the leak point back to us.”

  “Good point,” Henry said. “That means no meetings at my office. Lots of nosy people there, starting with my boss, Newsome. I’ll have to figure out a way to funnel information to you without people reading anything into it.”

  “No emails either. At least not from your work account,” I added.

  Henry smirked. “Look at you. Did you go through CIA training in Langley?”

  I thought about Dad and his possible influence on me—the first in my life.

  “Is your cell work-issued, or do they just reimburse you?” I asked.

  “It’s reimbursed.”

  “Good. We should be okay on that front, although that doesn’t mean someone couldn’t tap your phone.”

  “You really think someone would do that?”

  “One possible angle we haven’t discussed? A fellow government employee, another cop even.”

  “I guess so. Just who would think—?”

  “We can’t rule anyone out now. The net is wide. We just need to narrow down the school of fish to a small number of psychos.”

  Alisa whispered something in my ear. I turned and nodded. “I realize you only know part of the story. I’ll fill you in later. Basically, we’ve got some digging to do on two cops. Henry here is going to start feeding us data to analyze.”

  “That would be me,” he said, raising a hand, lifting from his chair, tossing a few bills on the bar. “By the way, you do know Newsome is running for mayor?”

  I paused for a brief second. “I forgot, or the countless political signs littering the sides of roads and public lawns have created a red and blue blur.”

  I let that nugget of information swirl in the moat of data consuming most of my brain cells.

  5

  He wasn’t sure which odor assaulted his senses the most—the noxious fumes lingering in the nighttime air from the nearby fire station or the countless piles of dog crap littering the grass at Williams Park.

  His chunky arm, tethered to a chain leash, yanked forward.

  “Whoa there, Bentley. Always in such a damn rush to get through your nightly walk. I thought I was supposed to lead the way.” The man spoke to his St. Bernard like it was his second best friend in the world. In fact, he probably was. A fixture in the Fischer home and yard in the Park Cities for almost twenty years, the floppy-eared dog had lost a step or two just like his owner, the aging, presiding judge for the Dallas County Court of Criminal Appeals. Hell, Richard Fischer hadn’t just lost a couple of steps. He’d spent so much time studying the law, researching case after case, he felt as if the last thirty-odd years had blown by. Sometimes he felt whipped through a time warp into the twenty-first century, like they used to portray on his favorite TV show, Star Trek. How many years had it been since the show last aired?

  “Beam me up, Bobby,” he said out loud, as Bentley forged ahead, dipping his nose at every tuft of poop.

  Swallowing, he could still taste his pre-walk double-malt scotch, one of his many nightly rituals. Perhaps that had contributed to his portly shape. But given the sacrifices he’d made for society, he was due at least a few indulgences at the ripe old age of seventy-eight.

  Sacrifice. That was a taboo word in the Fischer home. Bernice, his wife of fifty-one years, had faithfully stuck by his side for decades, even after he took the right fork in the road at age thirty-five. Left was a lucrative partnership at one of the most prestigious law firms in Dallas. What Richard decided was the “right” fork was the path into public service. He first served as the presiding judge over the Dallas County Criminal Court No. 1 at age thirty-five, then moved into his current job eight years later.

  Unlike a lot of his wife’s peers in the affluent community, Bernice didn’t obsess over their lack of material possessions. They’d lived in the same home since 1973, watching the North Dallas wealth blossom all around them. She’d told Richard countless times over the years that he was making a sacrifice and she’d stick with him, even if they couldn’t afford many of life’s luxuries. All she’d asked for in return was a comfortable retirement, the time when he’d finally set down the gavel, take off his robe for the last time, and join her to travel the globe. He knew that she longed to experience different cultures and food.

  “I want us to see things we couldn’t imagine in Dallas, Texas. I want to share one adventure after another with you, Ricky,” she’d say with a twinkle in her eye.

  His recollection of her sharing her desires with him brought a lump to his throat. She’d been his best friend since the day they met, swapping knowing glances at a dance hall in downtown decades earlier. She’d always had his eye. Even after they both passed the age of seventy, she took his breath away.

  But life hadn’t been a bed of roses. His marriage to his “other love” had created friction, even outright jealousy at times. He couldn’t help it. He not only loved the law, he appreciated every component of how it worked at the various levels of justice. Not just to decide who was guilty, but also to prove innocence.

  A waft of fresh crap pinched Richard’s nostrils, and he turned to see his overweight St. Bernard sniffing a fresh batch. Bentley turned back to the path and chugged onward, his panting breath sending plumes of smoke into the illuminated tree limbs over his head.

  “What did Mom give you to eat today, Bentley? Uggh,” he said, holding his nose.

  Without warning, he quickly dodged a low-hanging branch…and then another.

  “Bentley, when’s the last time we saw anyone pruning the trees here in the park? I’ll tell you when. Too damn long,” Richard said with a quick chuckle, his arm jostling back and forth as the dog plowed ahead.

  Rounding the corner of the pond, Richard noticed the upcoming canopy of trees void of any lights. Squirrels must have eaten right through the wiring. They’d done as much in the Fischer yard, time after time, even with Bentley back there to chase them off—at least when he could find them. Not only were those squirrels quicker than spit, they operated like covert field operatives, quietly carrying out their missions without alerting the burly St. Bernard.

  Ambling through the cloak of shadowed darkness, Richard heard the croak of a bullfrog emanating somewhere down the bank near the water. “Come on, Bentley, go get ’em. Come on, boy, go get your dessert,” Richard said, yanking the chain to the right. Bentley, though, was far too busy angling every ounce of his hundred-pound girth forward, his sniffer grazing the leaves and grass.

  Just then, Richard caught a quick waft of another smell, something hyper-sweet. It almost made his eyes water. It reminded him of the cheap cologne some of the cheesy lawyers would pour all over themselves before entering his courtroom. Their smells could be so pungent, he’d almost given out fines on a few occasions.

  Bentley raised his head and let out two quick barks.

  “What’s up, Bentley? You see a squirrel?”

  The dog returned to sniffing and pulling. Richard found himself panting as much as the dog.

  “Damn, I’ve got to get into shape,” he said.

  Bernice had been waiting for thirteen years for him to finally retire. Every year, she’d ask Richard if now was the time.

  “I can’t leave in the middle of this important case. Another three months, four months on the top side. That should give me enough time to complete my research and give my ruling. I can’t take the easy way out. We’re talking about a man’s life here. Twenty years in prison or set him free. That could impact generations of his family. I have an obligation that I can’t ignore.”

  He’d repeated similar stories over the pas
t twelve years. The last couple of times, she almost started laughing before he could finish. Then, a few months ago, she pointed out that the state mandated he couldn’t hold his job any longer than age seventy-nine.

  “I guess I need a kick in the butt,” he’d said to her with an apologetic tone. He recalled hearing the grandfather clock tapping each second away as Bernice just stood there, staring into his eyes. He knew what she was thinking. How could he have been so self-absorbed to not care about her needs…especially when she only wanted to feel his love and camaraderie? He’d made her wait thirteen more years than necessary. It would soon be fourteen. Most women would have left a long time ago. Most women would have responded to his comment by smacking his face.

  Bernice’s eyes etched a hole in his heart. She didn’t say a word. Finally, he began to feel a bit of her pain and sorrow.

  “I guess I don’t like change, especially when there’s so much work to be done. Life and death work.”

  Her chin didn’t quiver, and her gaze remained steadfast.

  “It’s time for me to truly accept the next phase of my life. And I will. With you. If you’ll still have me as your travel buddy. I’m sorry.”

  She’d leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “You old goat. That’s all I wanted to hear. I’ll make plans for our first trip. We’ll leave the day after you retire. It will be a surprise.”

  Dammit, he would enjoy it. It was time to experience a different life, one that he’d truly share with his partner in crime, his dear Bernice.

  Stopping in his tracks, Bentley waggled his head, his jiggling jowls breaking the silence. Richard followed suit, but his extra fold of skin around his neck wasn’t as noisy.

  “What was that, Bentley?” he said, spinning around while moving the leash from one hand to the other. He could only see the outline of distant figures, a parked car, a water fountain, and what appeared to be a bicycle. A bicycle? “Best we get on home. I’ve had enough exercise for the night.”

  He’d just figured out his new routine. He’d walk a little bit farther every night. By the time he retired in seven months, he’d be ready to take on the Great Wall of China. That would make Bernice happy.