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

by John W. Mefford

  Shaken out of my focused gaze, I could feel the touch of her hand on top of mine, and I stopped pushing ahead. A moment later, she pressed her head against my chest.

  “Did you hear them? They said that Paco is lying in that church…”

  I rubbed my mouth and shook a fist.

  “They told me,” she said through sniffles, not looking up. Her fingers gripped my back, and I allowed my arms to wrap around her as my heart dribbled off her head. We both stood there, only the faint sound of shoes shuffling across the pavement. Her wild hair tickled my face, but I didn’t move it away.

  Rocking back and forth, I kissed the top of her head and noticed an arc of cops surrounding us. When they saw me looking at them, most turned and pretended to act busy.

  “I need to do this.” I gripped Alisa’s shoulders, looking her in the eye, a single tear seemingly frozen to her cheek.

  She nodded, then we both noticed Bolt approaching. “I’ll talk to him,” she said, patting my chest.

  I turned to the chief and Bobby and drew in a breath, my mood subdued. “Let’s talk.”

  The pair looked at each other, then motioned for me to the follow them. Ambling over to a patch of ankle-high weeds, I took in the view of the church. Made out of wood, I spotted countless boards bulging out of place, many cracked or even broken in two. Remnants of chipped tan paint speckled either side of the double front doors, both of which were wide open. I tried to peek inside, but besides officers and CSI techs milling about, I couldn’t make out the actual crime scene.

  “This is a tough one, Booker. I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now.”

  I turned and glared at the chief.

  “I think he’s trying to say, we’re damn sorry. This fucking blows.”

  “Thanks, Bobby.” My eyes shifted back to the front doors as I watched another CSI tech carrying a box walk through the opening, followed by another guy holding what looked like a body bag still in its packaging.

  I forced back another swell of emotion, then rubbed my face.

  “Who’s going to tell me what happened?”

  Bobby said, “Booker, I know this is your worst nightmare. Please know that I’m not playing the cop/civilian card on you. But you know the drill. When it’s one of your own, you can’t be involved. It’s not healthy, and we don’t want the investigation to be compromised because you have a grudge. A defense attorney would tear our case apart.”

  I glanced at Ligon, who curled his lips and forced a breath out of his oversized schnoz. “Detective, I think it’s okay if we give Booker access to the crime scene, share what we know.”

  Bobby fired a laser beam of wet tobacco at a waist-high, flowered weed ten feet away. “You heard the DA when he was here. He said to keep this by the book. No mistakes, no screw-ups on the investigation. None. He even called out Booker here, specifically. He knew Paco used to be his partner.”

  Ligon opened his mouth, but I beat him to it.

  “How would the DA know about me? I’m no one.” I wondered if I was being paranoid.

  Bobby shrugged his shoulders. “Beats the shit out of me.” He pulled a pouch out of his back pocket, tore off a pinch of tobacco, and stuffed it inside his mouth, a few strands falling into the brush.

  Ligon rolled his eyes.

  “Maybe he’d heard you’d been at all these crime scenes,” Bobby said. “Ask a few questions of the right person, and you’ll get your answers. In my book, it’s no big deal, but Newsome is a hard-ass. Everything by the book.”

  His response seemed plausible, but that didn’t mean I was walking away from this crime scene or this investigation, whether I was assigned by the US Attorney’s Office to find a cop/judge killer or not.

  I counted to five, waiting for Ligon to speak up. He finally grew some balls at the count of four.

  “Bobby, I think we’re good. Booker knows how to play by the rules. Right, Booker?”

  He was putting it back on me.

  “Sure,” I said with little conviction.

  Bobby didn’t agree. “Chief, did you hear that suit a few minutes ago? He barked to everyone here that he’d have our badges if we fucked this up. I’m sick and tired of dealing with psychotic killers, but I’ve got two years until I can retire early. Two more years. I don’t have the luxury to ignore him.”

  Ligon chuckled, just once. “Who the hell do you work for?” His neck jiggled like a water balloon.

  Even through his gray scruff, Bobby’s face lit up like a glowing lobster. He worked the tobacco like he was gnashing Ligon’s carotid artery.

  “Look, I ain’t stupid. There’s something going on here. Booker just shows up at the ME’s office when the judge is killed. Shows up again last night when that girl was thrown to her death.” Bobby waved a hand between the chief and me. “It’s probably above my paygrade and all, but I don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.”

  “He was one of us, Detective.” Ligon said in a measured way, his finger poking a weed. “When one of his goes down, we rally around him. Booker was Paco’s partner, his good friend. You don’t break those bonds just because you change uniforms.”

  “Was his partner. No offense, Booker,” Bobby said, turning away.

  A trench formed between Ligon’s bulging eyes.

  I broke up the bickering. “Did Newsome say anything about one of his own dying overnight?”

  The two looked at each other, then shook their heads.

  “He’s running for mayor, I think,” I said, verbalizing what everyone had to be thinking.

  Bobby shrugged, then leaned in to make a point. “Paco’s death is devastating to Booker, to everyone here. This is the third cop to die in the last two weeks. The press might start asking questions.”

  The chief’s eyes shifted my way for a split second. “Donley’s was an unfortunate suicide. The second, Miller, died behind a bar, a strangulation. This one is much different. You told me earlier you didn’t think they were connected.”

  If we were in court, I’d say Ligon was leading the witness.

  “No way they’re connected. But it’s a bad string of luck, that’s for damn sure,” Bobby said.

  Pinching the bridge of my nose, I closed my eyes briefly, thinking how Paco’s wife Reyna and their two kids would take the news. Devastation was the only feeling that came to mind. They adored that man, and so did I. Reyna was a tough, strong woman, but her world would crumble. After regaining her composure, she’d take me aside so that no one else could hear, and she’d tell me one thing. I can hear the words through her locked jaw. “Find the mother fucker who did this. And put them away.”

  Another surge of bile ran up my esophagus, but I had to keep my cool if I was going to be of any use.

  “Gentlemen. Let’s get moving on this investigation.” I extended an arm, allowing Bobby to lead the way.

  “I’ve got an appointment. Booker, keep me updated,” Ligon said, giving me a knowing wink like we were best pals.

  I openly shook my head.

  “Hey, did you get ahold of Henry?” I asked.

  “I called and left him a voicemail. I hear he’s dealing with his own loss right now,” the chief said, waving as he dipped his head into the backseat of his SUV.

  The same kid from the other day shut the chief’s door as if Ligon were royalty, then jumped into the front seat and drove away.

  “Hey, look out, man.” Bobby held up an arm, and I moved back two steps on the front porch.

  “This thing looks like a refurbished house,” I said, eyeing rotten wood above my head.

  “Yeah, not exactly a DIY special. Well, if it was, it was from about sixty years ago.”

  A string of folks exited the building, and one went in.

  “By the way, Booker. I got no beef with you tagging along, I think you know that. I was just reminding Ligon that I didn’t want to lose my job over a decision he was going to make.”

  “CYA. I get it.” I craned my neck, trying to peek through the pack of uniform
s inside.

  “Follow me. We’re bagging anything that we can move. We’ve got a tow truck showing up to take away an abandoned car on the side of the house and another van to carry two pieces of furniture that might be of use.”

  We walked through the door and paused in the vestibule. It smelled like urine.

  “Why was he at this…hell hole?” I asked.

  Someone had gone to town with cans of red and blue spray paint. Punched-out walls exposed old wood and loose wiring, and I spotted bird nests in the lighting fixtures.

  “I thought you might know.”

  “Only told me at the Halloween party last night that—”

  “So that’s why he’s dressed like a Latin pimp.”

  I tried to smile. “I think he secretly wanted to be a famous Mexican rapper. He loved his gold chains.” I had a quick thought. “Is he still wearing the chains?”

  “I know where you’re going. Nothing stolen from his person from what we can tell. Wallet, badge, sidearm, all on him.”

  “He never had a chance to remove his pistol. Hmm,” I pondered.

  Bobby nodded as a rubber-gloved officer walked past us, holding two evidence bags. I could only see something white in one of the bags, maybe a towel of some kind.

  “With no apparent witnesses, we’re trying to piece together a timeline. You saw Paco at a Halloween party?”

  “Yeah, I sometimes bring him in to help me with security at my friend’s bar, The Jewel, off lower Greenville.”

  Bobby pulled out a pad and pen and scribbled a few notes. Talk about primitive. I wondered why he wasn’t using a device of some kind.

  “Did you catch what time he left?”

  “Think it was just before eleven. Said he had an off-duty gig working security at a haunted house.”

  Bobby glanced around, extending his arm while holding his pen like a weapon. I spotted callouses on his hand.

  “Haven’t seen any Halloween decorations yet.” The old school detective flipped a page on the pad, his thin, hazel eyes scanning the words that looked more like Chinese from my angle. “We’ll try to see if we can pick up his car on any cameras between The Jewel and this old church any time around eleven last night.”

  I nodded while biting my lip. “So how did it happen?”

  “Not sure of the exact weapon, but we’re fairly certain by what means.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “It was a crime of passion. He was stabbed multiple times with a long, sharp object.”

  “Jesus.” I could feel my heart pounding my chest. Paco and I had partnered countless times at crime scenes just like this. No two were the same, yet they all had a common theme: tragedy. As so-called third-party observers, we as cops learned to separate ourselves from the deep-seeded anguish experienced by friends and family members—and we saw plenty break down right before our eyes.

  But hanging around a homicide for more than a few minutes, especially in my first couple of years on the force, had also messed with my belief in humanity. A couple of times, I caught myself reliving the last few seconds, the final breaths of the victims, wondering what they were thinking, wondering if they thought about what was next. Finality, or some type of afterlife.

  And right now, I couldn’t help but wonder if Paco had seen his attacker, knew the end was near, or if he’d been completely caught off guard, killed before he could take another breath.

  My eyes tried to make out the gibberish sprawled on the walls. A few cuss words. I recognized gang symbols.

  “Do you think this was gang-related?”

  “Could be. We are in that type of area. And Paco is dressed like a—”

  “Mexican rapper,” I finished.

  I purposely stayed away from the serial cop-killer angle. Thus far, with my limited ability to process everything I’d heard, it was difficult to see any obvious connections between Paco’s death and the other murders: Donley’s, Miller’s, Judge Fischer’s. And now Henry’s coworker, Kim. I knew we—Alisa, Henry, and I—would have to dig through Paco’s record, cross-reference it with the others, looking for overlaps of any kind.

  Bobby dodged a couple of uniforms and led me down a hallway that ran parallel to the sanctuary. The place was gutted. I could see how this place would make a good haunted house location. Maybe Paco had thought the same thing when he took the gig. But what did he see when he arrived? Was it vacant, outside of a killer hiding in the building, or were there people everywhere, decorations? Could there have been some type of mobile Halloween rave, connected with some type of twisted, sadistic ritual?

  On Halloween, anything was possible.

  “He’s in this back office here,” Bobby said.

  Portable lights made it feel like a movie set, but I knew this was all too real. I got to the edge of the door, and Bobby stuck both hands into my chest. “I’m not stopping you, but realize this is disturbing. I wouldn’t want any family member to see this. I’m only doing this because, you know...”

  My pulse thumped my neck. “I know,” I said, brushing by him, then quickly rounding the corner into the office.

  I stopped three steps in. It was bad. Worse than what I could have imagined. Thankfully, Paco’s face was turned to the far wall, but there was blood. Enough blood to fill a blood bank. It was smeared all over the metal desk. I could see the imprint of Paco’s small but beefy fingers on the edge of the desk. Had he tried to pull himself up after being stabbed?

  My eyes followed the burgundy splattered all around his body, a spraying pattern arcing outward as if someone had tried to craft a piece of modern art. But the person who created this devastation was no Picasso or Dali. He was more of a Jeffrey Dahmer. A sick bastard.

  The trail of blood went up the wall, and I wondered what type of struggle or effort by the killer would propel Paco’s blood fifteen feet away from his body.

  I took in a deep breath and instantly wished I hadn’t. The stench pinched my nose, which only reminded me it came from Paco.

  I could feel a swell of emotion engulf me. I couldn’t breathe hard enough to catch up with my pulse. It felt like I’d been transported to a mountain ten thousand feet above sea level.

  “Booker, you okay, man?”

  Lowering my head for a moment, I emptied my lungs. “I’m good, Bobby. Just give me a minute.”

  My heart rate slowed, and oxygen finally reached my brain.

  Lifting back up, I studied one of the CSI techs scraping blood into a vial, my eyes shifting back to Paco’s lifeless body.

  “Who found him?” My voice cracked.

  “Couple of homeless teens who said they were looking to sleep off their hangovers.”

  “Do you think they’re bullshitting you? Any cracks in their story?”

  “Nothing yet. We’ve split them up, but so far their stories corroborate.”

  A rumble of voices echoed from the hallway. I heard someone say, “Where did you put the body bag?”

  “Dude, we’ve got company.” Bobby’s reprimand was directed out to the hall.

  “Oh, sorry.” It was Dan, the assistant ME. I could sense he’d pulled up behind me.

  Bending down to a knee, I stared at the scene without blinking for at least twenty seconds. In Paco’s final breaths, what were his last thoughts?

  I’d never been on this side of a violent crime. Me getting shot, beaten up, or stabbed, I could deal with. But maybe it was when it was someone you knew, someone you’d worked with, someone you love, it was this hard.

  My little buddy, Paco. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t coming back. He was dead.

  And I was going to find the mother fucker who did this…and bury him.

  14

  He’d seen his boss grab his suit coat and storm out of the office earlier. That’s when he knew Black Widow had followed through on her plan.

  Almost three hours had clocked by, but his skin still felt like the dimpled cover to a football. The exhilaration was that hard to contain.

  Hunkered down in his cube,
he could hear hard-sole shoes walking this way and that, a few muffled conversations. His colleagues were on edge, moving quickly to complete a set of tasks, or to at least appear they were working on something important. All in anticipation of the return of their collective boss.

  While Dallas County District Attorney Rick Newsome ruled more like a Mussolini or Caesar—insensitivity and indifference were at the ceiling of his leadership skills, and that happened no more than a couple of times a year—he was a pure breed in the species of political animals. He first checked the wind direction before making a decision. And that wind could change after a phone call or email from a person of influence.

  Fuck that guy.

  His two-thousand-dollar suits and fancy nameplate were of no use to the man who’d had enough of the system. He’d been screwed by it, his entire family ripped apart. And in the last three years, he’d been reminded how many loopholes existed to allow a convicted felon to walk out a free man.

  After spending six weeks away to think, he had returned to his job three months ago with a refreshed attitude. Working out became a religion, which only made his focused mind that much sharper. And a plan began to formulate, one that would take the ultimate commitment. A sacrifice he was more than honored to give.

  For his brother, Dale.

  Twirling the phone between his fingers like a pinwheel, he flexed the muscles in his jaw, suppressing the unyielding pain that had nearly done him in. He had learned coping mechanisms, but there was nothing as therapeutic as taking action.

  He began to seek friendships with people with similar experiences. Slowly, through his own persuasive means, he began to form bonds. From there, trust was developed. Loyalty soon became another thread that sealed their relationship. They became his sheep. He weeded out a few who wouldn’t fully commit, which left him with the pair who had the most to gain from this affiliation.

  The Avengers. It had come to them in their first formal gathering. Their name seemed all too fitting, which only added to their developing culture. He’d read of people like Jim Jones and David Koresh, who had selfishly guided their flock of followers into a self-destructive path to death. But those people had no real purpose in life. He did. And it wasn’t related to some type of ambiguous high-and-mighty civil liberty.