BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense)

by John W. Mefford

  I’d studied about Washington, read many of his inspiring speeches, and at one point, even considered attending Tuskegee University, which he’d helped found.

  But at this moment on this day, I couldn’t turn my cheek for anyone’s cause.

  With fire in my eyes, I lunged out of the chair, grabbing the edge of KY’s desk and lifting one end a foot off the ground. KY’s beady, black button eyes didn’t blink. He shoved his swivel chair back and reached for his holster. Knowing I’d scared the piss out of him, I released the desk and it landed with a thunderous boom. His nameplate and countless doodads dropped to the concrete floor.

  “Did I push one of your buttons...boy?”

  He was baiting me, hoping I’d blow up and assault him. It would help him make his case to Internal Affairs even more convincing, essentially ensuring a mandated suspension that would lead to termination in just a few weeks. I knew he held all the cards, if for no other reason than he sat on the right side of the desk.

  I kneed my chair out of my path, moving another foot closer and cleared my throat, prepared to make one final point.

  Suddenly, the office door burst open.

  “Sir, Sergeant Young, sir…”

  I paused for a second then found my chair, my heart still racing from the near-confrontation.

  “Can’t you see I’m busy? Haven’t I taught you—”

  “A call just came in. A man said he’s planted a bomb just two miles from here, and it’s set to go off in ten minutes.”

  I lunged out of my seat, moving two steps toward the exit, but KY pointed me away while he spoke to his assistant.

  “Have the bomb squad and SWAT been dispatched?”

  “Yes sir. I just thought you’d want to know.”

  KY gathered his hat and keys while I jumped in with, “What did the man say?”

  The kid, who looked no more than twenty years old, unfolded a piece of paper and read aloud: “We fight to safeguard the existence of our race, the purity of our blood, and the sustenance of our children.”

  “Holy shit. That sounds like Aryan Nation,” I said.

  “Damn straight it does,” KY said.

  “His last words were Heil Hitler.”

  “Holy Mother of Jesus.” I recited a phrase I’d heard my mother say countless times. “What’s the location?” I had roots extending all over the city.

  “The Boys & Girls Club,” the man-boy said.

  A jolt shot up my spine. “My daughter Samantha goes there after school.”

  I checked my digital watch.

  It read: 4:52 p.m.

  2

  My thirteen-year-old Impala had stalled out twice, once in front of St. Edward’s Catholic Church where Samantha’s mom and I were supposed to get married, and the other when I slammed my brakes to make the turn onto Worth Street in front of Samantha’s school, Ignacio Zaragoza Elementary. I hopped out of the hunk of fatigue-green metal a block from the Boys & Girls Club, where the command post had been set up, the engine still grumbling like a smoker choking out breaths. More flashing lights and blue-uniformed officers I’d seen since I attended a funeral of a fellow officer my rookie year.

  I didn’t follow protocol and keep my distance while waiting on instructions from my superior officer, Sergeant Kenny Young. I wasn’t even sure I still had a job, and frankly, I didn’t give a damn. I searched for the highest-ranking person. Rich Rodriguez, deputy chief of the Central Division, stood amongst a group of five or six officers, one of which had SWAT written on his back. I saw another that read Bomb Squad. I walked briskly in that direction as I took in the entire scene: yellow police tape outlined the small city of cops. I glanced toward the main building and saw heavily armed SWAT team members racing around like a controlled ant farm. Within seconds, I noticed kids of all ages running out of the building, a few grown-ups shuffling along side. They were a hundred yards away, but I could see fear in their movement, and sounds of young kids crying could be heard drawing closer. I wanted to hurdle the tape and race that way to find my Samantha, protect her, and get her away from this threat. I had to wait until the kids made it to our safe zone.

  “Deputy, is this everyone? Do we have everyone out?” I’d interrupted the deputy chief in mid-sentence, and he turned with a finger raised. But he paused when he saw my face, a look of sheer dread, I was certain.

  “Officer?”

  “Adams. Booker Adams, sir. My daughter is in there, and I’ve got to know she’s safe.”

  “We’ve already extracted two other groups, and this is the final group from the—”

  I heard all I needed to hear. I raced toward the throng of running kids, ranging in age from four to fourteen. I bobbed up and down searching for the brown, wavy hair and dimpled cheeks of Samantha.

  “Has anyone seen Samantha?” I asked the question five times to kids and adults running by me like I was a stone figure. No answers and no sight of Samantha. I turned and followed the group past the police tape, around the corner next to a two-story apartment building. There must have been seventy people standing around, some hugging each other, a few huddled on the ground nestled together.

  “I’m looking for my daughter, Samantha. Has anyone seen her?” I weaved around everyone and observed relieved eyes and heads shaking, but no acknowledgment that anyone had seen my baby girl. “Samantha!” I cupped my hands and made sure everyone could hear me. “Samantha, are you here?”

  A fiftyish woman wearing a blue T-shirt with Boys & Girls Club in bold, white letters on the front approached me. “Are you Samantha’s father?”

  “Yes, do you know where she is?”

  “I haven’t seen her today, but there is one more group of kids still in the bus.” She pointed back to the building, where a white bus sat motionless under a portico. I could faintly see movement inside. My extremities tingled, and I wondered if all the blood had stopped pumping in my body.

  Walking away from the woman toward the command post, my eyes locked on the bus. A stiff breeze smacked my face, squeezing water from my eyes, but I never blinked. My jaw hung open. I couldn’t lose my Samantha. She’d been the one perfect thing in my life, had cracked my sarcastic exterior and given me a reason to push through the everyday drudgery—and bigotry. Her crackling laughter could elicit a smile from a mute. Samantha was pure joy, and she represented hope for everyone who interacted with her.

  Unaware of my surroundings, I ran right into the yellow tape, and two cops approached me. I snapped it over my head and ignored their pleas to stay clear of the command post. I marched back up to Rodriguez.

  “I thought you said that was the last group of kids.” I pointed in the direction of the group of kids who had escaped.

  “You left before I finished.” The man was serious, but he wasn’t blowing me off. I could see a sincere look of concern. He put his hand on my shoulder. “There’s group of kids on the bus. We think about fifteen kids and two adults.”

  “Why haven’t they evacuated like everyone else?”

  Just then, I noticed a person in a brown bubble protective suit waddling down the street toward the bus.

  “Look, Booker. We believe someone has a bomb attached to the bottom of the bus. We’re sending in the bomb squad to try to disarm it.”

  I looked at my watch. I’d set it on a ten-minute timer when I raced out of the police station. Ten minutes had passed. We were at 11:43 and counting. I pointed at my watch.

  “I know it’s beyond the time limit given by the caller.” Rodriguez nodded.

  I tried to think logical thoughts through the fog of fear.

  “Why hasn’t your team rushed them off the bus?” It seemed so obvious, I wondered what the hell everyone was thinking.

  “We can’t. This nut job chained the door shut. And we don’t know if the set of chains is wired.”

  “Back door?”

  “Same deal. Chains.”

  “Windows?”

  “We thought about it. It would be a tight squeeze, but now we’re worried ab
out shaking the bus and causing the bomb to go off. Also, could be weight sensitive. We can’t overlook any possibility.”

  I brought a fist to my chest and tried to breathe. Then I felt my phone vibrate in my front pocket.

  “Have you talked to anyone on the bus?”

  “Yes, talked to a Michael Scandrick. He’s doing his best to keep everyone calm.”

  “Where is the phone line you’ve opened with him? I need to check and see if my Samantha is on the bus.”

  Rodriguez flipped around and jogged to his left to a mobile command unit. I was right on his heels, but my eyes stayed with the brown figure moving closer to the bus.

  “Hey, Frank, one of our own, Booker here, might have a kid on board. Let me him talk to Scandrick.” The uniformed man walked toward me with the phone. Just as it touched my hand, I felt a wave of energy slam my left side. A ball of fire lit up the fall sky, dark smoke pumping upward. But it was the sound that etched a hole in my heart. The sound of shredding metal followed by gut-wrenching screams from onlookers, from the kids on the bus—maybe from my Samantha.

  It didn’t seem real. For a few brief seconds, something else directed my mind, convincing me it was fiction, possibly a nightmare. I shut my eyes and slapped my face, but I still saw the flames, the gutted bus, faces in complete shock, just staring at charred remnants of papers, backpacks, and clothes scattered all over the street. I thought I yelled out, but all airflow had ceased.

  My eyes burning from the inside out, I tossed the phone back in the mobile unit and ran like hell toward the burning bus.

  3

  Three steps, and I tripped over a pylon, tumbling to the concrete, scraping elbows and a shoulder. A German shepherd barked within a foot of my face, his jagged teeth ready to chew flesh. What was left of my heart skipped at least two beats. I popped my neck up and saw a man wearing a brown bomb squad jacket using all of his strength to hold the leash. I pushed myself up and ran, hurdling the yellow tape, then looking for any sign of Samantha, wanting to see her alive, trying to convince myself anyone could have survived. I first spotted a torn, pink backpack with Dora the Explorer on the front, most of it black or burned away. Then I came across a limb, the bottom portion of a child’s leg, a tennis shoe still attached. I would have hurled had I not been on a mission to find my daughter—alive.

  I ran up to the bomb squad man, his helmet torn open and half of his face literally blown away. I closed my eyes and tried to purge the horrific image.

  Now only twenty feet from what was left of the bus, I couldn’t take a step without standing on a piece of the bus, or part of someone. It was a fucking war zone. Afghanistan, Vietnam, you name it, couldn’t have been worse. But I just wanted to find my Samantha. My gut flipped inside out as I ran from item to item, searching for any clue of my daughter.

  I got to the bus and bile shot into the back of my throat. A man’s torso had been severed, a sharp piece of metal clinging to charred, bloody flesh. Two small fires burned inside, and the scent of burned rubber loomed heavy in the air.

  I don’t know why, but I called out for my daughter.

  “Samantha! Samantha! Please answer me. Are you alive? Samantha!” My voice cracked, from emotion and the sheer intensity and volume.

  I had to find Samantha. I could never live a day without her.

  I circled the bus and stepped on broken glass coating the pavement like a hailstorm. Looking right, I found the front windows of the building had been blown out. I spotted more personal belongings: a small purse that appeared to be green, a broken hair clip, a Texas Rangers ball cap, dozens of notebooks with flapping pages burning like someone was trying to start a fire in the woods, shoes of all sizes and colors, hundreds, maybe thousands of tiny pieces of ash and paper twisting in the wind like it was tickertape parade.

  My eyes locked in on every object, and I paused at each victim. Two boys who appeared to be in their lower teens were splayed on the concrete, all limbs attached, but their heads were twisted at awkward angles. One boy’s eyes were still open, like a snapshot of the moment his life ended.

  Other first responders were now darting around, searching for any signs of life. I scanned the crowd as I rounded the bus, looking for any hope or positive signals from the dozen or so police, fire, and paramedics scurrying about. Expletives accompanied more heads shaking, eyes dropping.

  Another body part. Another dead body. A killing field.

  I stood still and looked upward, noticing black smoke in the foreground of a perfect blue sky. My mind pushed aside the sirens and people hollering. It felt like my soul had escaped my body and I was now hovering over me and the entire gory scene. I’d found a momentary island of peace, like I had died and had begun the ascension to a better place. A quick thought entered my real mind…I sought an escape from blood and death, mostly the fear of losing my daughter.

  I licked my lips and tasted copper. I had bitten the side of my cheek until it bled. My child was somewhere in this mess. I couldn’t leave without her, something from her. I dropped to my knees, glass and debris tearing through my uniform pants, burrowing into my skin. I hardly noticed. My heart ached like I’d taken a bullet to the chest. A burning sensation settled in, followed by a mixture of utter sadness and waves of anger. I peered back into the sky, searching for…hope.

  A distant child’s voice echoed off the surrounding buildings. I ignored it and re-established my spiraling agony and misery. The voice got closer, and my face twitched back to life. I felt the re-emergence of my heart pounding my core. I was mentally alive, and the organ was still pumping blood into my brain.

  “Daddy! Daddy!”

  I jerked my head left, my eyes praying I wouldn’t see a mirage. Out of the cluster of people and debris, a little girl holding her ragged, brown stuffed animal named Woofies was thirty yards away, running as fast she could, right for me. I blinked to make sure it was her. Jumping off my knees, I ran even faster toward her, and she leaped into my arms, her head and arms locked around my neck harder than she’d ever hugged me.

  I had my Samantha. She was alive. Somehow, she was alive and well. I hadn’t cried since the day she was born, and then it was only a single tear of joy. Now water flushed out of my eyes, and an uncontrollable surge of emotion overtook me. She cried too.

  “I love you, Daddy. I love you!”

  Hope had returned.

  4

  “One more, Daddy, and then I can go to sleep.” My little girl touched a finger to her dimpled cheek and turned her head.

  I kissed her cheek and then the top of her head, my eyes closing for a brief moment. I made sure Woofies was tucked under the sheet, nestled against Samantha’s ear.

  “Love you, Daddy.” She settled in and closed her chestnut-brown eyes as I walked to her door.

  “Love you, mittens.” I’d given her that nickname when she was just a baby, her chubby little hands reminding me of hand-sewn mittens, for some reason.

  I entered the kitchen, and Eva was holding up a glass of something.

  “Jack Daniels?” Samantha’s mom, my ex-fiancée, ex-girlfriend, was showing her appreciation for me in her own way.

  “Uh, yeah, thanks.” I took a sip, paused, then followed with a bigger gulp, wiping my sleeve across my mouth. “That should help.” The burn in my belly, along with the heart-warming bedtime good night with my daughter, had calmed my emotions just a tad.

  My body ached from head to toe. I noted torn fabric on my arms and legs, dried blood staining holey knees, and my right shoulder felt like it had popped out of joint—a possible recurrence from one of my plethora of never-ending football injuries. How did I manage that? Maybe when I tripped, racing for the burning bus? I stretched my back and released a breath, forcing out as much tension as I could muster.

  We both sat at Eva’s 1950s dinner table, each of us toying with our glasses on the red veneer tabletop. She fit into her tight jeans perfectly, and wore a simple, green V-neck sweater—if anything could look simple on her Latin curves. She
ran her fingers through her mane of thick, brown hair, waves of it sloping down her back and across her chest, falling into her face. I took notice of the beauty mole on her right cheek. It helped set her apart in a crowd, as if her sheer beauty and drop-dead body wasn’t already enough.

  “So, how was your day?” Lame, I know, but I had to break the silence somehow.

  She shook her head, but a smile crossed her lips.

  “Booker. Jesus. I can’t imagine what you were thinking, feeling.”

  I swallowed back tears as she stared right at me, her eyes hot chocolate with flecks of gold that made them appear to have an inner fire.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything for what seemed like a few minutes, but was probably just seconds. “Your eyes. That’s how we got into this…this situation.”

  She winked at me as she splayed her arms wide.

  This situation was code for us co-parenting Samantha while never being married. I’d gotten cold feet just five hours before the ceremony, as doubts about everything I could think of steamrolled through my mind. I figured out later it was more of a doubt in myself, but when I broke the news to Eva, she wasn’t too keen about my self-awareness. She was eight months pregnant and wondered if I’d already cheated on her, then she told me to go to hell…quickly.

  We didn’t speak until her sister called on the way to the hospital. That night, I held my daughter for the first time and realized what love was all about. But my time around Samantha was brief when she was a baby. Eva hoarded our little girl, and I only got brief moments with her. Eva’s resentment was only eclipsed by her sharp tongue. To make matters more volatile, I wasn’t exactly subdued. I was sarcastic, a bit cocky, and didn’t like being put in my place—even if I deserved it.

  “You never told me. Why wasn’t Samantha at the club?”

  “I ended my shift early, picked her up, and we both got our nails done. Girls day out.”