“We’re the number one spot in Dallas for Asian Fusion. Critics have already put us in the top ten of restaurants in the country.” He smirked.
I finally took in the ambiance. It was comical, literally. Unlike the outside, the interior architecture was straight out of a comic book—odd-angled walls, huge curves and spikes, shades of purple in one area, red, white and blue in another. I looked closer and realized there were themed areas of the restaurant, each one honoring a superhero from the land of Marvel comics.
“Did I step into Disney World?”
“Excuse me?”
He didn’t care for that comment.
I shuffled left, moving within a couple of feet of what I guessed was a statue of Hulk. I reached a finger toward a lifelike shoulder.
“Uh, please don’t touch the artwork, sir. They are one-of-a-kind pieces. I assure you, each piece is worth more money than you make in a year.”
I just lost my comedic appetite. But I also realized getting into hand-to-hand combat with the JCPenney cover boy would only distract me further from why I was there.
I ignored him and his smugness. “I’d like to speak with David Bradley.”
I watched his eyes. I thought I noticed a slight twitch. He walked back behind his little lectern.
“Mr. Bradley is busy with the staff in the back, preparing for tonight’s dinner crowd,” he said while pretending to scan a book of reservations, I guessed.
I glanced around the themed areas, each one at a different level, a few steps up or down. Ingenious.
“I can wait. How long will he be?”
The theme to recent Iron Man movies sounded off just behind the maître d’, who turned and picked up a sleek black phone. “Good evening, Marvel restaurant, this is Dax.”
Dax adjusted those fake glasses again while looking right at me, acting like he was finally able to move on to important business.
Drowning him out momentarily, I decided to browse a bit. I spotted patrons at two tables, both situated in the Wolverine section, so I walked left into the Captain America section. Red, white, and blue costumes hung from the ceiling, the signature shield on the backs of all the leather chairs. I shook my head, nearly in awe how this guy was able to pull off a five-star adult restaurant with a kid theme.
Maybe the food was that good…or bat good. I chuckled at my own pun, then spun around to find the sharp-dressed boy standing an inch from my chest.
“You can’t just roam the restaurant. This isn’t a tourist attraction.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Not a free one.”
I sauntered back to the front with my bodyguard nestled to my side. “How much would a nice dinner at Marvel cost me and my date?”
He eyed my wardrobe, head to toe. I thought I had a cool vibe working, but the only time I’d stepped into Neiman Marcus was to take a piss on my way out of NorthPark Center.
“Do you really want to know?”
Another adjustment of his glasses.
“Sure. Hit me.”
I held up two fingers.
He shook his head.
Three fingers.
Another shake.
Four fingers.
“Nope,” he said, then turned to open the menu.
An authentic question came to mind. “How does Mr. Bradley own this without infringing on the copyright of the comic book characters?”
“We have an arrangement,” Dax said through squinting eyes.
I think I mouthed the word “an arrangement,” wondering what the hell that really meant. “Don’t forget, I’m still waiting on Mr. Bradley.”
He released an annoyed breath.
“Okay. Fine. Stay here.” He held out a finger. If it had been any closer, I would have been tempted to snap it in two. But I restrained.
Walking through the fantasy worlds of Iron Man, Spiderman, and Hulk, Dax finally reached the bar area. He leaned into the ear of a person cinching an apron around his waist. They both looked my way. I waved like I was addressing two little girls. Perhaps Dax thought I was about to break out a can of paint and scrawl graffiti all over the Hulk statue.
The person in the apron walked by twice, nodding politely. Ten minutes later, Dax finally scooted in behind the lectern.
“Can you tell me the nature of your business?”
He adjusted those damn glasses again, his go-to move for every response, it seemed. Too predictable.
“The nature of my business is that I need to speak with him.”
I could feel heat invade my neck. But I couldn’t be too pushy until I knew David Bradley was indeed the fake Harvey Specter and likely the fake investment consultant.
“I assure you Mr. Bradley is quite busy. How about I make you an appointment for some time next week when his focus is not on preparing our kitchen? You do know he is executive chef?”
I looked over at Hulk’s green skin and tattered trousers, and self-doubt crept into my thoughts.
“I don’t need much of his time. Five minutes,” I said with a nicer tone.
Pressing his lips together as if he was contemplating calling the cops, Dax picked up his cell phone and turned away. A few hushed words, his hand somewhat animated, he then turned back around and set the phone down. “He’ll be right out.”
“Thanks.” That was easy. Maybe the low-key, nice approach worked, but only after he’d seen my more assertive nature. Whatever, it worked.
Not thirty seconds later, David Bradley rounded the corner from the bar and walked the obstacle course that was his restaurant. Almost immediately, even from a distance, I was in observation mode. He walked in short steps, his toes lifting his body on each and every stride. He really put his whole body into the walking routine—his arms swayed extra high and his head rocked from shoulder to shoulder. Wearing the traditional all-white chefs’ garb, David strolled up like he hadn’t a care in the world.
My first up-close, visual impression was mixed, at best. His hair was more blond than brown, parted in the middle, feathered back. He was a little more height-challenged than I expected, and he wore a gold hoop earring. Jenna never mentioned an earring.
He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. Not very firm, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Thank you for giving me a few minutes,” I said.
“Sure,” he said happily, hands resting comfortably on his hips.
“So, how is business?” I got straight to the point, without stating my exact purpose.
“Oh, well, we’re doing quite well.” Sounding a bit nasal, he acted like he had nothing to hide. “Hey, Dax, we’re booked for the night, six o’clock on, right?”
Dax appeared a bit nervous but responded anyway. “Yes sir. Booked on Friday night as usual.”
I wanted to keep Dax out of this, so I shifted left a couple of steps, and David followed my eyes.
“If you’re doing so well, can you tell me why you need a side business as an investment consultant?” I flipped out the card, and he fluttered his eyes.
“What are you talking about?” David turned back to Dax, rocking side to side like the waddle of another comic character that came to mind, the Penguin. Come to think of it, they had a similar appearance. Frankly, I couldn’t imagine this dude as a lady killer. Perhaps, when he’s talking numbers, his pheromones send women into a sexual frenzy.
“Sir, you don’t need to look at Dax. I’m asking you the question.”
Dax’s eyes glanced at me, and I returned the glare.
“Who are you?” David asked me directly.
I wondered when their inquisition would truly begin. “I’m Booker Adams. I represent Jenna Parsons, who believes you’ve stolen a large sum of her money.” I flapped the business card, then watched David’s face contort like he was receiving a rectal exam.
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t stolen a penny from anyone, and I resent your accusations.” His hands were now planted firmly on his hips, sweat bubbling at his hairline.
Was that a sign of guilt
? Or was he pissed for being accused of something he didn’t do?
Just then, I noticed Dax quietly shuffling away from his mini desk.
Before I could call out Dax for leaving the scene of an accident waiting to happen, Bradley stepped in.
“Dax.”
The kid didn’t turn around.
“Dax, you hear me. I was told a patron wanted to discuss the menu, and now I have to endure these outrageous allegations. Tell me what’s going on,” he demanded.
Dax stopped.
“Yeah, Dax, tell us what’s going on.”
Dax turned around, his neck and face a splotchy red. “Gordon, I’m sorry if you misunderstood, but—”
“Misunderstood? I understood perfectly when David said you called and would like for me to come to the front and review our menu with one of our patrons.”
“Wait a second. You just used David in the third person. That’s not you?” I pointed, one eyebrow lifted, my heart shifting into overdrive.
He jerked his neck backward. “What are you talking about? I’m Gordon, the sous-chef.”
Taking two big strides, I stood in between Dax and Gordon.
“Where is David Bradley? The real David Bradley.”
Dax opened his mouth, but words failed to formulate.
“He told me not to be surprised if he was gone when I got back from this conversation. He wanted to run down to the Farmer’s Market for some last-minute shopping,” Gordon offered.
“Dammit!” I’d been duped by Dax the JCPenney cover boy.
“Take me to the kitchen, quickly.”
Gordon led the way, Dax not far behind me. “I assure you, he has no business with you, no knowledge of this alleged financial crime,” Dax said.
“Who said anything about crimes, financial or otherwise?” I asked as I thumped the swivel door heading into the kitchen.
Heads popped up from whatever they were doing, and I stopped in my tracks, scanning the crowd of faces. Think Harvey Specter.
No matches.
“Where’s his office?” I asked Gordon.
He held out his arm and guided us around ovens, food preparation tables, cabinets, and shelves filled with dishes and flatware, and finally to the office. A slender, vertical window showed darkness on the other side. I grabbed the doorknob.
“Locked.”
I put my face against the glass. Not too big, but I could make out pictures on the wall, two chairs facing a contemporary desk.
“Any way for him to hide under the desk?”
“Might be tight,” Gordon said.
“Where does he park?”
Ten more strides, and I toed the metal back door open, a small ten-car lot to my right, splitting a curved alley on both sides. I looked left then right. Nothing. Then I looked left again, Rear brake lights fifty yards away.
I started running as Dax yelled, “He’s not going to talk to you. You’ve got nothing on him.”
Dax’s loyalty would have been admirable, if it wasn’t so damn annoying. But why was he so protective? Add that to my list of things to pull from David and Dax.
Still feeling a brick of burger grease sloshing around in my stomach, I didn’t feel very swift. The cadence of my Doc Martens crunching pebbled concrete seemed slower than usual. I hadn’t played defense since the eighth grade, but I eyed the three red lights like they were the prey, and I the hunter.
I’d failed to ask Gordon and Dax what type of car David drives. Didn’t matter right now, I only wanted to catch my dinner. I was closing fast, under fifty yards. Darkness blanketed the city, and I squinted to see the outline of the car.
I swooped left around a small shed and lost my visual. Just as I came out of the curve, a hollow can clanged off the concrete and my heart skipped a beat, my pace reduced in half, my eyes darting around. A hiss, then a high-pitched, animal-like squeal. Twisting my upper torso left, I saw white fangs and arched claws just before impact.
“Fuck!”
A wild cat punctured my shirt, then my skin, clinging like Spiderman to my chest. Hopping around while trying to pull him off, I looked down, his green eyes shooting evil rays.
“You little shit, get the hell off me!”
He wouldn’t let go, and the harder I pulled, the more he dug in. The sensation of dagger-like claws plying under my skin felt like being awake during surgery. It just wasn’t right, especially from a cat.
He snapped at my forearms every time I tried to touch him. Nothing was going to keep this cat from tearing my flesh into spaghetti.
Beyond the tree line, a dog barked. The cat’s head turned in that direction, and I finally stopped, my chest heaving from exhaustion. Three more barks, but these were much closer. I couldn’t see the animal, but the cat didn’t care. He dropped from my chest with his legs already in full run motion. Skidding out of the starting gate, the devil cat darted for the dark trees, leaping through an opening, ready to pounce on his next victim. That cat was either fearless or possessed.
Turning back to my prey, the car was turning right onto Oak Lawn. “Fucking cat!” I yelled.
I realized I was chasing down a large sedan, perhaps a Cadillac. The car turned slowly, then I saw more lights. There must be traffic. That thought gave me a burst of energy. The inside of my shredded shirt rubbed my chest, the puncture wounds feeling like sixteen African bee stings, each carrying a wicked venom. Ignoring the pain, I pumped my arms, picked up my knees, and gained ground.
I zipped out of the alley at near-maximum speed and immediately spotted three sets of brake lights up ahead at a stoplight, all three four-door sedans. I hoofed it another twenty-five yards. As I approached the first vehicle, one person sat in front, head facing forward. Huffing like I’d just run a marathon as opposed to the quarter-mile, I skidded to a stop at the front passenger door and looked in. The middle-aged black woman glanced my way, smiled, and waved by rolling her fingers.
What? How that didn’t elicit a scream, I had no idea.
I waved back, then scooted up another fifteen feet up behind a Buick. One person. Again, it was an older man who could barely see over the steering wheel. I ran past him and spotted a black Cadillac XTS. But there were two people inside, including a tall person in the back seat. I didn’t move. I must have lost the car when it turned.
Leaning over, I put my hands on my knees. I could feel oozing blood sticking to my shirt, and I flapped the shirt thinking that would help. It didn’t.
Looking up and down Oak Lawn, I only saw an early model Toyota Celica and a limousine. I glanced up at the stoplight for the other direction, which turned yellow then flipped to red. The light on Oak Lawn finally turned green. The Caddy exploded from the light, the person in the back flopping back in a stiff way.
Something about that didn’t feel right.
I leaped back into running mode, thinking I could chase down a car. Every step I took, the Caddy’s distance grew another ten yards. Almost a full block ahead of me, I saw two blurs moving in from the right. The Caddy slammed its breaks, the back end lurching upward.
I’d finally caught a break. Ten yards away, off to the left I spotted a dog sprinting away from the road, the cat from hell ten feet behind. For some reason, the Caddy didn’t move, allowing me to close the last few steps, slamming my hands on the front passenger door. I looked inside and a man was slouched over, his head against the wheel. Not sure if he was faking it, I rounded the car, crouched over, ready to evade vehicle if the man decided to use it as a weapon against me. I noticed his hair…it was thick with gel, like Harvey’s, and my pulse spiked a bit higher.
Just as I got to the driver’s door, I looked in the back seat. A giant blow up doll. I’d seen this prank before, where drivers used fake blow up dolls to drive in HOV lanes, hoping that cops couldn’t tell the difference. People like that usually thought they were anointed, able to live by a different set of rules than the rest of society.
I pulled the door handle, but it was locked.
“Hey, open the door.”
He shifted in his seat but stayed leaning forward, his hand clutching his shirt.
“I can’t help you if you don’t unlock the door.” I banged on the window.
Finally, he fell back against the seat. Then I knew who it was and what was going on. The fake Harvey Specter was having a heart attack.
18
“We call ourselves the Double Ds.” A humbled, frightened Dax thumbed an escaping tear, as he scrolled through his phone’s picture roll. He paused, staring at a shot of him and David, arm in arm while wearing T-shirts that had fingers pointing toward each other with a phrase printed on the front that said: “I’m with him.”
Sitting on cold, hard, plastic chairs down a long, busy hall from where David was lying in a bed at the emergency room inside Parkland Hospital, Dax had dropped the pretentious bullshit attitude, and for the last hour, had been spilling his guts about everything. I practically knew his entire life story, which apparently didn’t amount to much until he and David met while strolling through Needless Markup…rather, Neiman Marcus.
“We had the same interests, same goals. We had fun together. He made me a better person,” Dax said, acting as if David had just left Planet Earth for good.
I stretched my legs and sat back, propped my chin on my hand, still processing the last couple of hours. The fake Harvey Specter, a.k.a. David Bradley, had apparently wooed more widowers than Alex Rodriguez had girlfriends. But learning that David hit from the other side of the plate was nothing less than shocking, and I’m sure Jenna and a gaggle of other duped women would agree, maybe sadly so.
I’d already tried to ask Dax a few questions about David’s financial consulting business. He turned mum, saying, “What David does in his spare time is really none of my business. I just know that he has a natural way with people. Everyone loves him because he’s a great guy.”
He probably knew more about David’s investment business than he let on, but he was an emotional mess, and I wasn’t in the mood to console the guy who was trying to cover up for his scheming boyfriend.
“Are you the friend of David Bradley?” I thought the short doctor was looking at me. I pointed left, and Dax raised a feeble hand.
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 11