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

by John W. Mefford

  Alisa attempted to see beyond his extreme habits to make their marriage work. The attempt lasted four arduous years. Finally, she caught him having phone sex with a high school player he’d been recruiting. As beautiful as Alisa was, the whole sordid mess turned her life upside down. She began to think she was an ugly cow, not intelligent, her confidence as a woman shattered.

  On the one night we spent together, I recall her whispering in my ear, “I’m five years older than you, so this thing, us, will never work. But you’ve given me something I didn’t think I’ve ever find again—self-confidence that I’m worthy of being wanted by someone normal, a good-looking guy who treats me right.”

  We woke up staring at each other’s crotch. Wrapping herself in a sheet, she disappeared into the bathroom. I heard her say something like, “Dear God, what have I done to this boy?”

  Alisa’s comments made me chuckle back then, and again now. I’d seen her around town a few times, and about five years ago she took a job working for Justin. To this day, we’ve never spoken about that night, and it was obvious neither of us wanted to share it with Justin.

  We exchanged a few emails after that night, although we had periods when we lost touch. But each time we reconnected, that same thread of kinship existed, like the first night we met.

  A roar from the crowd brought me back to Henry’s question. “Alisa’s one of those girls who may never settle down with someone.”

  I’m not sure Henry heard me above the raucous back-and-forth cheers, his eyes now riveted to the TV. At no more than five nine, a hundred fifty pounds, what he didn’t have in body mass, he made up with guile. He, more than anyone, saved my ass from dropping out of school. I’d probably be living back in my old hood with no degree and not much hope. Hell, I might be in prison by now, given all the seedy enticements I would have been exposed to.

  When Henry learned about my sudden football demise, he took it personally. So much so, that he immediately dove into researching my “case,” as he called it. He poured over NCAA regulations, school policies, how former players had been handled in similar situations, and various court cases. A week later, he called a meeting with the athletic director, head coach, and the university’s legal counsel. Henry provided a sweeping portrayal of how athletes were used and tossed aside like tissues at UT, naming case after case.

  Henry also mentioned that he had evidence of an “institutional” steroid program in the football department. He then proceeded to give them a take-it-or-leave-it ultimatum. They had to give me back my full scholarship until I graduated—even if it took me an extra semester—and reinstate me to the team. After a three-hour wait, the UT power team gave us the answer, specifically Coach Nelson.

  “I’ll gladly give up one of my football scholarships to keep you off the street,” he snarled, foam oozing off his fat lips. “But I’ll be damned if I let you back on this football team. You’re a lazy, no-good-of-an-excuse human being.”

  They’d halved our take-it-or-leave-it offer, but I didn’t push it. And Henry’s steroid evidence turned out to be a single accusation made by a former student who played ten years earlier.

  But after the exchange with Coach Nelson, I had no desire to play for that asshole anyway.

  Following the meeting, I squeezed the crap out of Henry, amazed at his determination and lawyerly skills. Turns out, it was an omen. Following his dad’s footsteps, Henry got accepted at Texas Tech University School of Law. But that wasn’t the astonishing part—somehow Henry’s dad called in a favor with the Board of Regents, and after stumbling through the LSATs, I was accepted into law school. Yes, Booker T. Adams, graduate of James Madison High School, trotted off to the dusty prairie in West Texas to study law.

  My false sense of academic excellence lasted one semester. Debt started mounting and I didn’t have the patience to read such dry material. It literally bored me to sleep every night I was there. Six months later, I enrolled in the police academy.

  Henry, who worked as a Dallas County assistant district attorney for the last four years, stood on the foot rail of his barstool, chanting with the UT crowd as a Longhorn defensive back ran back an interception. “He’s at the thirty, the twenty, the ten…touchdown!”

  If there ever was a day to reclaim our youth, even for just a few hours, today was it. After a hellish week of bombs, death, cat fights, and skinhead skirmishes, I was happy as hell the big game had gone on without a hitch.

  “Looks like the new coach might have brought the magic back to Austin,” Henry said.

  I nodded, realizing this was the third head coach since Nelson had been let go a year after I graduated. Apparently, his 0-5 record against the Sooners didn’t win him many friends from the rich alumni base. I think I last heard he was coaching a girls’ volleyball team in New Mexico.

  With the game midway through the fourth quarter and the Horns up by thirty-one points, the burnt orange and white fans mocked their counterparts as they walked out of the bar. I knew Justin was hoping for overtime, anything to keep the money faucet running.

  “It’s been great catching up, Henry.”

  He slapped my good shoulder, then put a hand on his computer. “I know why you called, Booker. The game was great, but we need to talk business.”

  Glancing around the bar, it was still on the raucous side with intermittent whoops and hollers bouncing off the worn, brick walls. Justin slipped by on the other side of the bar, pouring two martinis with olives.

  “Is the door locked to your closet?”

  He padded his pockets, then pulled out a gold and brown key chain that doubled as a bottle opener etched with the name “One Nut.” He tossed it right at my face, but I snatched it with my left hand before impact.

  “What’s up with that?”

  “Oh, just something I got from one of my ex-wives.”

  Motioning to Henry, he grabbed his laptop, we dodged a few inebriated patrons, and then ascended one flight of stairs. At the top, somewhat surprisingly, the sound had dropped to an acceptable level. I opened the door, flipped on the overhead light, wiped dust off the top of the old bar, and he set down his laptop.

  “I heard about your suspension,” Henry said with a subdued tone.

  “Damn, I guess news travels fast, especially when it’s bad news.”

  “You know they’re spreading all sorts of rumors about you?”

  Sticking out my jaw, I shouldn’t have been surprised. But that didn’t mean the reminder of their betrayal felt any better than Bevo kicking me in the gonads.

  “I hadn’t heard specifics, but I knew it was coming. It’s part of their smear campaign while I’m on suspension so that when I go back for one day, they’ll have plenty of backing to officially end my career at the DPD.”

  My voice carried a pitch of sadness, and I could still feel their disloyalty churning inside. I guess I knew how Eva felt the day I left her at the altar.

  “Screw the DPD, at least the assholes who are making you take the fall.” Henry scratched his chin and paced the room. He was in rescue mode, I could see. “Look, I think I can find a way to get the DA to open an inquiry into how Internal Affairs handled this investigation. Then I can—”

  “Henry, it’s not worth it.”

  “What do you mean? It’s your career, your reputation.” He emphasized each word like he was giving a closing argument.

  “Dude, you’re a helluva good friend.” I put a hand on the diminutive shoulder of my Asian buddy. “But this isn’t college, and we’re not going to be able to march into the Northeast Division and demand my job back. At best, they’d turn everything public and string me along for months, if not years. And it wouldn’t help your name at the same time.”

  His mouth opened, ready to make another push for justice.

  “It’s okay. Seriously. I think…check that, I know I’m beginning to carve out a new career,” I said with a hint of pride.

  “You’re going to become a trainer, or one of those famous personal quarterback coaches w
ho take kids when they’re thirteen and train them into a triple threat Division I beast?”

  “Hardly. You know me. I’ve always wanted to make detective. Now I get my chance, just on my own terms.”

  The usually astute Henry pulled his eyes together.

  “I’m starting my own PI business. And I already have my first client.”

  I provided a brief summary of the case and my progress to date.

  “So you’ve essentially solved your first case?” He smacked my good shoulder again.

  “Eh. Yes and no. I found the Harvey Specter look-alike, but he hasn’t really admitted anything yet, and I think getting the money back might be iffy. I should know more tomorrow.”

  “Harvey Specter? Suits? I never miss it. This guy must be a real charmer.” Henry lifted an eyebrow.

  “Unofficially, I’m also working this bombing case.”

  Henry didn’t respond, but he opened his computer and hit the power button. “I had no idea about your PI business, but I knew you’d be restless while on suspension. And the fact that Samantha could have been on that bus…finding the asshole who’s turning our city into a terrorist playground is probably your number one priority.”

  “Outside of hearing that the CSI team might have found trace evidence that could link the bombings—”

  “I heard that on CNN myself,” Henry said.

  “So you didn’t hear it officially, as part of the investigation?” I queried.

  “The Feds have taken over every aspect of this case. We mostly work on the peripheral, helping out when they ask. But I have tried to keep my ears open,” he said, then turned to his computer. “How’s the Wi-Fi in here?”

  “Never tried it from the second-floor closet.”

  Henry glanced around, unfazed by the setting of our meeting space. He clicked on two windows and opened a browser, then turned to face me. “What I’m about to show you, it can’t go any further than the two of us.”

  Moving a step closer, I nodded, my stomach tight with anticipation.

  “Let me cue it up,” he said. “It’s only about thirty seconds.”

  He clicked the start button and I saw a grainy picture of a school bus, at least the back third of it, in the lower left part of the screen. At the Boys & Girls Club.

  “The cameras at the facility had been destroyed,” I said.

  Henry kept his eyes on the screen. “It’s from down the street at a car wash. It’s grainy because we zoomed in, losing some of the resolution.” He pointed at the screen and said, “There!”

  A man, bald, darted around the bus, then another just behind him. I didn’t blink. Squinting, through the backdoor window I was able to detect arms and bodies jostling around. Restless kids. Innocent kids. A bald man came back around, stopped at the backdoor, looping a chain through the handle. Wearing dark clothes and boots, he turned his face toward the camera, then he tugged on the chain to ensure it was locked and jogged away.

  “That’s it.” Henry said, reaching to close his laptop.

  “Go back.”

  I could see Henry’s eyes crinkle at the corners. He hit play again. Twenty seconds into it, the man moved to the back of the bus and secured the chain.

  “Pause it.” Moving my face within a foot of the screen, I saw something shining off the top of his chest, at least I thought I did. “There. Do you see the sun reflecting off his chain?”

  “Could be,” Henry said. “Nice catch. I’m not sure anyone noticed.”

  “I think I know this guy.”

  “What? How?” Henry’s voice jumped an octave.

  I pointed at the shiner on my cheek, and scooted a finger across my neck. “On top of that, one of them did a number on my shoulder.” I tried twisting it around and felt the same level of pain I did when I finished my twentieth push-up earlier that morning.

  “Where?”

  “Coming back from Parkland when I was working my other case with the Double Ds, I spotted a dog running across Reverchon Park without a leash. I found the owner, an older Jewish fella who was being pushed around by three punks. Dressed like skinheads.”

  After I explained how the skirmish played out, we replayed the video three more times.

  “Same body type, same height.” My heart started pumping. “Did I have the group that bombed the bus literally in my hands?” I scratched the top of my head and turned away, disgusted at myself.

  Suddenly, heels hammered the wooden steps just outside our door.

  “Booker, Henry. Another bomb’s gone off,” Alisa said, catching her breath.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Hindu Temple off Ross and Fitzhugh. News just broke into the post-game show.”

  I scampered down the stairs and out of the bar, fearing I’d see more dead bodies in just minutes.

  23

  “Are you fuckin’ blind?”

  His flapping jowls nearly scraping the moist concrete under his boots, a burly man pointed at an orange sign: Construction Zone Speed Limit 10 mph—when workers present.

  I’d just slammed on my breaks, my computer flying off the front seat into the dash. The man with four chins and a basketball hidden under his shirt, as well as three colleagues, had been walking—strolling was more like it—across lower Greenville, just next to a section of road that was being reconstructed. Perhaps they were headed for break. Or maybe they were in the mood to window shop. I didn’t give a shit, until they got in my way, nearly creating a domino car crash about ten deep.

  “Police business!” I yelled out my window.

  Still loitering in the middle of the one lane that went south, the head dick scratched just that, then waddled closer.

  “Where’s your fuckin’ siren and shit?”

  Must be a transplant. New Jersey was my guess.

  “Left it at home; now can you and your men clear the way?”

  He either coughed or chuckled. I only know phlegm was clearly involved.

  “You hear this guy, he thinks he’s a fuckin’ cop. Sheesh,” he said, turning to his lap dog buddies, who grunted, words possibly, and smiled back.

  Looking in my rearview, an F-350 dually hugged my bumper, probably no more than a couple of inches away.

  “Get out of the way or I run them over,” I warned the big man. My heart hammered my chest, and I tried like hell to keep my breathing in check…and my temper. Blinking my eyes, my subconscious heard screams, cries for help at the temple only five or six blocks away.

  Leaning down while arching my neck, I peered above the old two- and three-story buildings bordering the road. No sign of smoke…yet.

  “Don’t they call that vehicular manslaughter?” The man bobbed his head like he was hot shit, jowls jiggling long after he’d stopped.

  “Ever heard of obstruction of justice?” I leered at the man, whose puzzled eyes told me he couldn’t define obstruction.

  “A bomb went off at a Hindu Temple five blocks from here. I need to get to the scene.” I pounded the steering wheel, which I figured was a better alternative than wasting my time on the fat man from Jersey.

  “I didn’t hear no bomb.” I think he ingested one of his chins. “Frankie, you hear a bomb?”

  “No way, Marv. No bomb in these parts,” said the anointed second-in-charge.

  “Do you want blood on your hands?”

  “Where’s your badge then? I know my rights.”

  You and every other asshole think they have rights over everyone in every situation.

  Nudging the car forward another foot or so, the four men milled about, apparently talking about options. Then one pushed the second-in-charge out of the way—was there a coup taking place?—palmed his thermos and slammed it on the hood of the shiny Saab.

  Squeezing the leather steering wheel until my knuckles turned an almond color, I quickly ran through my alternatives. Jump out of the car, throw five solid punches, then roll over the big lugs like speed bumps; call nine-one-one, get the non-suspended cops over here, and watch these fuckers get take
n away for vandalism, or…

  I slipped out my wallet and opened it, ignoring numerous other comments and rants by the four jugheads as other drivers started honking horns. I counted out two tens, three fives and about eight or nine ones. Balling them in my fist, I held it out the window.

  “You want a little incentive to get out of the way?”

  “Some cop you are, trying to buy us off. I oughta take you in on citizen’s arrest.” He poked a sausage-like finger a foot from my face.

  “Okay,” I said, bringing my fistful of cash back into the car.

  “Wait, wait, hold on. I didn’t say it couldn’t help the situation.” He looked at his buddies, then rubbed his paws together like they were warming over a fire.

  Slowly, the blind mice moved toward the fat leader. Rearing back my arm, I flung the cash over their heads, the wind taking hold of the green bills. They’d probably not moved that fast in years, certainly not on the job. I punched it, leaving a little rubber in my memory.

  Moving at about forty-five, winding and weaving around slower vehicles, a grandma walking her dog across the street, and a man carrying four bags of groceries, I made good time. The light at Greenville and Ross turned yellow, but I gunned the four banger and tires squealed, drawing looks from every onlooker around.

  Passing the John F, Kennedy Learning Center on the right, a catholic church on the left, I finally noticed smoke, an iron gray, coiling into the sky. Just over a small hill, I entered another scene of chaos.

  Turning left into a gas station, I yanked the Saab parking brake behind a Honda with no wheels propped on four cinder blocks, got out, and ran. Twenty steps into the intersection helplessness nearly overwhelmed me; gray smoke pumped through the left side of the Temple, and at least six uniformed cops ran around to bodies on the ground. I saw one put a hand on a neck, then call for a paramedic. Another one just a few feet left of him performed the same test, but then turned to his buddy and shook his head. His head dropped, and he pinched his eyes.