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

by John W. Mefford

  “References?”

  “What?”

  “Did he give you any other references? People you could speak with to vouch for his legitimacy and how he’d made them money.”

  She leaned forward and riffled through stacks of papers. She licked her fingers, very slowly I might add, to get a better grip on the papers. Man, she was almost too much. I could feel my pulse quicken just a tad.

  “Got it.” She flipped the paper around on the counter and popped it with her forefinger.

  “I guess you called each person and they vouched for this Bradley character?”

  She scrunched her lips. I couldn’t help but release a light chuckle.

  “What? He was very convincing. He really understood the investment world, Wall Street, how the average person just can’t make any money off investments these days. He showed me all these charts and projections. It was good, but not too good.”

  Sounded like Bradley had likely figured out how to present his material to a certain target audience, possibly preying on those who’d recently experienced a spousal death. It wasn’t fact, but given the vibe I was getting from Jenna, it was a strong running theory, one that would stir up a mental dust storm. If I knew myself at all, I’d be able to distinguish meaningful evidence from the other garbage flying around me.

  Essentially, I was betting on my instincts.

  “I’ll need copies of all these papers. I’ll probably try to reach out to these references.”

  “Try?”

  “I question everything. I’m not convinced these references are real people. At least not real people with whom Bradley David has a working relationship as their financial consultant.”

  Jenna shifted her head toward the window above the sink, her blue eyes twinkling from the morning sun. I could sense a bit of self-regret.

  “Looking back on it, I feel like such an idiot. Like some grandmother who let one of those TV Bible bangers guilt them into emptying their bank accounts to save a farm of goats in Ethiopia.”

  Her eyes looked watery, and part of me wanted to walk around the counter, put my arm around her shoulder, console her. But I knew better. Keeping three feet of granite between us was better for everyone involved, especially my fledgling startup business.

  “There’s nothing to feel guilty about. We all have times when we’re a bit vulnerable. This Bradley character happened to catch you at a tough time.”

  She released a breath, gave me a sincere smile.

  “That’s the main reason I didn’t go to the cops. I didn’t want to become a laughingstock. Well, that and something told me the DPD had more important cases on their hands.”

  A quick image of the burning bus streaked through my mind, and then I recalled the ominous, in-your-face message called into precinct: We fight to safeguard the existence of our race, the purity of our blood and the sustenance of our children.

  The words gnawed at my gut and I could feel an emotional sting at the base of my skull. I still had my Samantha, but so many other parents lost their souls that day. What kind of sick, twisted maggot does that just to prove some political point? I heard myself breathe and I dug a fingernail into my palm to break me out of my funk.

  Jenna must have sensed my distance.

  “I understand you were there, saw the explosion, thought your daughter had been…killed.”

  “Yep.” I pressed my lips together.

  Jenna took two steps away from the sink, but she stopped, still on the other side of the granite barrier.

  “I guess it’s not something you want to relive.”

  “The sounds, the fragments of people’s lives scattered everywhere, the smell of…death, it’s not something I’ll ever forget. I’m trying like hell just to separate Samantha out of the recurring thoughts, nightmares. It’s still a work in progress.”

  I lowered my eyes back to the counter, catching Jenna nodding, swiping a wayward tear off her cheek when she thought I wasn’t looking.

  I turned the file around, studied a few of the papers, forcing my mind to hit another gear; Bradley David must have known Jenna’s husband had died and that she had money to burn. How, I had no idea. But first, I had to find this Bradley character, or at least a trail of the hustler.

  “I don’t see a copy of the check. Can you provide that for me? Following the breadcrumbs of the money will be essential in finding the perpetrator.” I still spoke too much like a cop.

  No words, but I did see Jenna’s chest heave, like she’d taken a tough breath.

  Again, she looked away, this time into the corner of the kitchen. I didn’t think she was inspecting for cracks.

  “What’s wrong? You can look it up online, or even call the bank to get a copy of the check, you know.”

  I continued sifting through mounds of paperwork, some of it nothing more than marketing material and charts. I found four stapled pages that appeared to be an amortization chart, projecting the value of the initial investment each year, up to thirty years. On the row marked as twenty-five thousand dollars, I ran my forefinger across the chart horizontally, then back to the top. I worked my way down the paper to the intersection of both axes at ten years: forty-five thousand. Ten years later, the value read seventy-five thousand.

  Just believable enough.

  “Did he guarantee, verbally and in writing, that you couldn’t lose money, citing some crap about a law or a special type of investment?”

  Jenna moved her eyes back to me, then brought her hand to her face. She let out a shaky breath.

  “Did I say something that upset you?”

  She dropped her head and said, “I never wrote him a check.”

  “Can I ask how he has your twenty-five thousand dollars?”

  “I gave it to him in cash,” she said, her hands now moving fast and furious. “I know I was a fucking idiot. What can I say? He had the whole package, and I fell for it.”

  I think my chin just hit the granite counter. I felt numbness in my jaw set in, and I know I l closed my eyes for a few seconds. “More promises by Mr. Suit?”

  She took a glass, filled it from the sink, and swallowed until it spilled down her face. She dabbed her face using a kitchen towel, obviously trying to regain her composure.

  “Bradley was going to let me write a check. In fact, I started writing him a check. But then he said the initial five-percent upfront fee would be waived if I paid him in cash. He said he usually didn’t like to do business that way because some people might get the wrong impression. He seemed authentic, like he trusted me enough to offer this discount to me.”

  I had so much I could say, wanted to say, but a new filter had been lodged inside my mind—the one that couldn’t outwardly judge people if I wanted this new PI business to work.

  “Well, unless you had the bank prepare wads of cash in a black bag that would explode once opened, splattering ink all over Bradley Davis, that twenty-five thousand might be hard to trace.”

  I smiled, she giggled through a few tears, and the tension immediately dropped a few degrees.

  I was quickly realizing that playing the part of a PI meant sometimes being that person’s sounding board, a friend who doesn’t throw crap back in his client’s face. Besides, if it wasn’t for Jenna and her falling head over heels for the beguiling Bradley David, then I wouldn’t have my first paying gig.

  Come to think of it, that was one detail we’d yet to address: payment for services. I knew it would be a touchy subject. As a cop, I never had to woo clients and convince them to pay for my work, although I was offered a bribe more times than I have fingers, usually from a drunk driver begging me for mercy when I had none.

  I gathered the loose papers and began organizing them in the folder.

  “Feel free to take the originals,” she said.

  “Good. That makes it easier. I’ll make sure everything is returned once the case is closed.” I stood the papers upright and popped them off the counter, biding myself a few seconds to finalize a fee structure.

>   “So, before I leave I’d like for us to come to an agreement for my services.”

  “Look, Booker, you’re Justin’s best friend, have been for years. I remember you running around our dirt yard playing football, giggling every time one of you uttered a cuss word. Given what I experienced, I probably shouldn’t, but I trust you. I know you probably don’t have a private investigator’s license, at least not yet, and that’s fine. Whatever you want to charge, I’m good with it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m not homeless. While I’d love to get my money back, more than anything I want this gigolo to not steal from anyone else, especially anyone in my situation. That bastard,” she said. “Promise me.”

  “I’ll do my best. But given what you experienced, I think it’s best if we both got in the habit of putting something down on paper. From what one of my lawyer buddies tells me, a signed contract on the back of a napkin is still binding.”

  I removed a pen from my ten-year-old sports coat and clicked the cheap Bic. I searched the room for a blank piece of paper, even a white napkin, as numbers darted around in my head.

  “I’m thinking forty dollars an hour. I’ll send a weekly invoice of hours and a description of my work. You never know, I might have this wrapped up in a—”

  “Come with me.”

  Jenna took my hand in hers and walked me through the other side of the kitchen. Her touch was smooth, and her hand fit inside my massive mitt almost too easily.

  She opened the garage door, then walked to the far side where a vehicle was covered in a large cloth.

  “This was Benny’s pride and joy.” She tapped the top of the hood.

  “He rebuilt it from the ground up?”

  “No. Benny wasn’t much of a mechanic. It was just his fun car.”

  “Cool.”

  “Look, I saw you drive up in your…car.”

  I think my face went flush, if she could tell on my light brown skin, and I shuffled my feet, one hand stuck in my pocket.

  Jenna grabbed the red cloth and flung it off like a Spanish bullfighter.

  “Damn.”

  Ten minutes later, I was backing out of Jenna’s driveway, the proud owner of my new used car, certain this ride wasn’t a temporary transition. It marked the beginning of my revamped life as a small business owner: Booker, Private Investigations.

  9

  It had been a few years since I’d driven a stick shift. Taking off from the first stop sign in Jenna’s neighborhood reminded me how long. Easing my heavy boot off the clutch, I gently pressed the gas pedal. And then my spotless, silver, five-year-old sedan with less than forty thousand miles on it lurched and sputtered to a clumsy halt. I glanced left, and an attractive woman wearing a tennis skort, who was walking her white poodle down the tree-lined road, shrugged her shoulders and smiled like she was looking at a rookie teenage driver.

  Smooth and debonair, I was not—at least not while at the helm of my new five-speed Saab 9-3. I’d essentially bartered the services for my first case, trading my private investigative work for a used set of wheels, the classiest set I’d ever owned. Just before we consummated the deal on the back of a health food store receipt, I’d paused, hearing Eva’s voice in the back of my conscious: “Does the car have four doors, allowing Samantha to ride safely in the back seat?” I smiled, signing next to the X I’d sketched, then reminded myself that drawing up a PI services contract had to be on my short list of things to get done—which, of course, assumed I would have another client.

  One of my best friends in the world practiced law and had saved my ass from dropping out of the University of Texas. I thumbed the words “call Henry” on my phone and sent the text to myself, then carefully re-attempted my takeoff. The car surged liked a graceful gazelle as I released the clutch at the perfect moment and shifted into second gear. I felt more like a lightweight tap dancer than a former football player with a size fourteen clodhopper.

  I patted the dash. “Good boy.” It wouldn’t take me long before I’d think of a catchy nickname for the…Gray Goose? I think that’s a vodka company, so that one wouldn’t work. Maybe I’d ask Samantha, since kids seem to have the most straight-forward, yet creative minds around—at least mine did. I chuckled, thinking about all the names I’d bestowed upon my former cars: Green Goblin, Impotent Impala, The Ooze.

  I’d considered myself lucky. Jenna’s offer came just at the right time for my old Impala, which might be releasing colored fluid as this very moment. I’d get the piece of shit towed later, sell off the parts, and hopefully stash enough away to cover my new, upgraded insurance bill.

  Some might say I was winging it, but I’d like to think I was taking advantage of an opportunity when I saw one. And, for the sake of my new business, that opportunity didn’t include sleeping with Justin’s older sister. All these years Alisa and I had kept our little secret to ourselves. Justin would give us hell if he found out about Alisa and me, and would probably lather on a nice coat of guilt. But if he found out I’d slept with Jenna, he’d lose it on me. Initially, he might first try to stick up for his sister, like there was anything to protect, and then he’d swear me out of his life. I didn’t want to have to deal with either scenario. Justin was a good friend. We’d had each other’s backs for years. You can’t ask any more from a friend. Certainly not out of our neighborhood, where every third or fourth person seemed to succumb to the temptations all around us—drugs, crime, or both.

  Sitting at a light, facing the gradual rise of buildings from the northeast side of Dallas, I dialed an old buddy from the force, a guy who’d recently moved from Central, my division, to the Southeast Division. “Yo, Tyrone. It’s Booker. What’s hanging, my man?”

  “About twelve inches, a little to the left.”

  The guy’s ego was as big as his…well, everything about him, from what I’d been told, including his brain. Cops’ form of camaraderie often scraped the bottom of the barrel, and razzing between the boys, and even the girls, was like a high school athletic locker room—immature and unforgiving. But ultimately, we all knew it was how we dealt with the daily stress of putting our lives at risk, and most of my cohorts—soon-to-be ex-colleagues—knew where to the draw the line.

  Most.

  A highlight reel of images flashed before my eyes: Sims cracking George’s skull, my sac feeling the impact of Sims’ thick boot, and my right fist bludgeoning his pockmarked, ugly nose. Asshole.

  “You not on patrol today?” Tyrone asked.

  Good, the news hadn’t traveled across divisions. Not yet. The brotherhood among cops ran deep, but I knew that once my forced resignation became official in four weeks, if not sooner, asking favors would likely go unanswered, even if I had known Tyrone since we both went through the academy eight years ago.

  “Got a day off. Running around, doing my thing.”

  “Hey, dude, everything cool with your little girl?” He sounded sincere, just as I’d expected.

  “Yeah, Tyrone. Thanks for asking.” The slick phone slid off my shoulder just as I’d downshifted into second while turning left. I snapped my elbow upward, bounced the phone off my forearm, snatched it inside the webbing of my thumb and forefinger, and then smoothly pushed the stick into third. I was heading south on Abrams, about five miles north of downtown, feeling more confident in my juggling and driving skills.

  “Hey, you there, Booker? What the hell’s going on? Sounded like you crashed and burned.”

  “I got it under control. Is your boy still rewriting the record books on his Pee Wee football team? The Broncos, right?”

  “Nah, man, Chargers.”

  Oops.

  “He’s the next L.T.” You could feel Tyrone’s pride for his son a mile away.

  “Right, all the moves, like number twenty-one.” The phone nearly slipped away again, a sting shooting through my shoulder, reminding me for the umpteenth that any farfetched dreams I still had at being invited to an NFL training camp were just that, dreams. “Speaking of numbers,
they still got you crunching numbers for the forgery unit?”

  Tyrone’s memory was flawless, and he was almost a savant with numbers. But he had never strived to climb the often-political management ladder and, more surprisingly, avoided the path toward a detective’s job.

  “Oh yeah. They say they can’t find anyone to do what I do. I’m working a couple of counterfeit cases right now, alongside the Secret Service.”

  Tyrone was as genuine of a guy as I knew, so he didn’t understand that he’d just teased my career senses. In my former life, I’d toyed with the idea of joining the CIA, FBI, even the Secret Service. But after a little research and careful thought in my mid-twenties, I concluded that a formal union with a branch of Homeland Security wouldn’t work—they had far too many rules, and I carried too much of an attitude. A former academy buddy of mine had made the leap into the CIA, but it took almost three years of his life, and he couldn’t tell a soul about his real gig. I knew myself, and I simply didn’t have the patience.

  The more I thought about it, my personality and approach to life was probably better suited to going solo, on the private side.

  “Can you do me a quick favor?”

  “Anything for the Central Division’s baddest motherfucker working the streets.” Tyrone’s voice cracked from his laughter, and I could picture his pudgy eyelids shutting at that moment.

  For Tyrone, my reputation as a straight-shooting, take-no-shit-from-anyone, blunt but honest cop was probably a bit overblown. Then I thought about my scuffle with Sims, and I cringed a bit, hoping Sims wouldn’t purposely divide the force based on skin color, especially mine.

  For the most part, the city was a patchwork quilt of shades and races. Even if I was leaving the force, I didn’t want to leave with racial divide among the rank and file, or a noose of guilt tied around my neck. Knowing Sims, he’d take great satisfaction in being the one who found the strongest tree branch and kicked the chair out from under me. Was I over thinking this? Perhaps, but if I ever ran into Sims again, my defensive nature and stature would be on high alert.