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

by John W. Mefford

  The man moved to the edge of his seat, his fingernails digging into the cushion.

  Another bystander. “We owe our lives to this man,” a woman said, crying. “My three kids, all of us, would be injured, dead even, if not for this man walking into our house of worship and urging us to leave. At first, we were cynical and believed the worst in him. But he didn’t leave us to die. He talked to us and helped us believe in him, trust in him. He has our respect for saving us, for risking his life to go find our friend, Yosef, and his dog. With so much hatred around us, this man showed us that it doesn’t matter what religion you are, or the color of your skin. He gives us hope for a better world, a peaceful world.”

  The man arched his stiff neck as bile stuck in his throat. “This world isn’t a peaceful world. It is a world full of hate, mockery, and death. Fucking bitch!”

  Taking the box off the floor, he raised it high above his head, paused a second, then crashed it on the metal floor. He jumped all over the contents, crushing, destroying every last piece that he’d created with his hands.

  Red-faced and chest swollen with fury, he turned to face the screen.

  “We’ve learned the man’s name is Booker Adams. We’re getting conflicting comments from the Dallas Police. One says Mr. Adams is a member of the force, while another says he is a former member. Regardless, tonight, over a hundred people owe him their lives. He is a modern-day hero.”

  His head spinning, he fell to the floor next to the broken box—the instruments of his true passion in life—and the man’s chest heaved with emotion. He knew what he had to do.

  For now, his mind sought comfort and an inner resilience to follow through on his promise.

  “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neighborhood, won’t you be my, won’t you be my, won’t you be my neighbor.”

  Piecing together his crushed toys with delicate tenderness, he thought of the Land of Make Believe and sang the familiar Mister Rogers tune for the next hour.

  He only wanted to make his mother proud.

  26

  Swirling gusts of wind took hold of her skirt, and it lifted in two or three places, as if a curious kid was playing a joke. Showing more leg than anyone around us, the slender woman with model-like looks and swagger, kept her head even, never breaking her rhythmic strut, and brought her free hand down upon her skirt, calmly taming the playful beast.

  Britney Love, who less than a week earlier had witnessed her almost-husband executed in the most cruel and brutal manner possible, looked absolutely striking, even from fifty feet away. Wearing a black-and-white-rose print, flare skirt with a form-fitted, black V-neck top that highlighted her lean body, she remained expressionless, stoic almost.

  Four-inch black heels clipped the brick inlay sidewalk en route to where I was sitting outside The Bistro, Uptown’s most chic lunch spot. Our table was situated just inside a natural border of small green pines positioned in a red planter, the tallest reaching four feet off the surface. Live oaks bordered the urban street, enhancing a cozier, private feeling.

  Truly, this was a place to forget the problems of the world, the ultimate escape within the city, despite a practical war zone existing south of our location.

  Momentarily distracted by a yellow exotic sports car purring down the street, two heels clipped to a stop just to my left. All I saw were legs, long, toned, smooth as silk. Arching my neck, rays of sun outlined Britney’s face, her natural blond hair pulled back. She was waiting for something.

  “Oh, sorry.” Scooting back my padded wicker chair with the back of my legs, I walked around the almost-bride-to-be and pulled out her chair.

  “Thank you.” She placed her purple bag on the table, then found a comfy spot in her chair, her hands folded in front, long fingers sporting a French manicure. When I’d last seen her, makeup had been smeared all over her face, blood had dripped from her nose, and her wedding day hairdo had been destroyed. Today, everything about her seemed graceful, elegant, and effortless.

  But I knew behind her leopard-rimmed sunglasses, her eyes would reveal the polar opposite, a woman ripped apart, her trust in a humane world forever jaded.

  “I appreciate you making the effort,” I said.

  The corners of her lips turned up slightly. “It’s quite all right. I need to get out, feel the sun, take in fresh air. The walls of our condo were starting to play tricks on my mind.”

  Lifting her head, she looked beyond me, the breeze catching her shoulder-length hair.

  Drinks appeared, ice water with wedges of lime. Reaching for the glass with my right arm, I made it halfway, then recalled that under my steely-blue sweater was a large bandage and glue bonding my stitches. I must have winced.

  “Did you hurt yourself that night?”

  I held up a finger while I sipped the tall glass from my left hand. She followed my lead and drank her water using a straw.

  “No, it’s really nothing. Just an old shoulder thing.” Not in the mood to replay my role in the last of three bombings four days earlier, I rotated my arm in a small circle to eliminate any concern. I was doing everything I could to make her feel comfortable, relaxed, as if that was remotely possible.

  Part of me felt guilty for reaching out to Britney, a grieving woman if there ever was one. But this had mushroomed into much more than a shattered wedding day.

  Arf, arf.

  A tiny little Chihuahua padded down the sidewalk, his head held high, checking out the scene like it was all about him. On the other end of a leash was a fifty-something woman, wearing a skirt that would have been too tight and too short at age twenty-five. Wearing platform shoes that would have put the rock group Kiss to shame, her ankles buckled with every step. I thought she might snap and crumble to the hard brick, although her giant rear end would bounce her right back up.

  Jogging up behind her, a much younger man with wild, curly hair and a nose ring, held a plastic bag.

  “Now pay attention, Vince. The vet told us to watch every time Paco goes poopie. We have to see if he’s struggling to release it, or if he’s nice and relaxed. And you must pick it up for our sample.”

  He nodded quickly, then shook back his hair. “Right. I’m on poopie patrol.”

  He looked at the woman, hoping she’d crack a smile, but she kept her nose pointed upward.

  Shifting my eyes to Britney, she caught my gaze then nodded toward the odd couple.

  “My partner’s name is Paco,” I said without thinking.

  Twisting her head slightly, she said, “Oh, I didn’t think you had a partner.”

  “It’s complicated. He’s my former partner with the DPD. Just a good friend now.”

  A long nod, then the woman stole our attention…again.

  “Vince, did you bring my coffee?”

  “Uh, no, I…well. Let me run back and get it.” He turned and jogged a handful of steps until the woman barked at him.

  “Vince, Vince, come quickly!”

  He flipped around and ran back toward the dog and its master. Just as he moved in closer to pick up poop, his face about three feet high, the woman bent over to pet the rat-like dog. Vince face-planted between her cheeks, then fell back on his ass. Losing her balance, the woman swung out her leg, only to have her enormous heel find an uneven break between the bricks. She teetered like a drunk flamingo, then crumbled on top of her male friend.

  A chuckle escaped my throat, then I quickly covered my mouth, almost embarrassed I couldn’t hold it in. Peering over at Britney, she slapped her lap and released a cute, quiet giggle. She had a genuine, pretty smile. Effortless, again.

  We glanced back over and saw the dog, Paco, hunkered down, squeezing one out. Then my eyes nearly bugged out. The woman was dry-humping her boy toy in the middle of the sidewalk. And they were making noises.

  “Oooh,” Britney said, her giggle morphing into full-blown laughter. She reached a finger under her glasses to presumably wipe away a laughing tear, then she finally removed the pair.
/>   I feared she’d present circles so dark and glum that people might think she’d been abused. I kept laughing, her ocean blue eyes nearly taking my breath away.

  “That’s better,” she said.

  “Much.” That didn’t sound right, I thought.

  We ordered our meal, making small talk about the area, Uptown. Carved into the north section of the city just above the business district, it had everything one needed to live a privileged life, from popcorn to Pilates.

  Slowly, as I’d hoped, our conversation seeped into her real life. She shared that Ashton and she had purchased their Uptown condo a full year ago, just a few days after their engagement, an engagement that took place at the top of the Eiffel Tower. They shared a full life together, hiking and skiing in the Colorado Rocky Mountains, taking a cruise down the Rhine River in Germany, scuba diving off Aruba. And that was all in the past year. A former fifth-grade schoolteacher, Britney had hit the mother lode…until the day her life partner perished.

  “Ashton was really my best friend, not just my lover,” she said with sadness but no tears.

  I was proud of her for some strange reason. My mind briefly drifted off to my relationship with Eva. I’d never described her in that manner—best friend. We had a thing, without a doubt, but it was hard to describe, even to myself. Smoking hot passion first came to mind.

  Britney slurped through her straw, then said, “I don’t think I’ve been hydrating well the last few days. This hits the spot, but I need to use the little girls’ room. Excuse me.” As graceful as a swan, she lifted from her chair. “Would you mind keeping an eye on my purse, keys, and glasses?” she asked with a playful smile.

  I just chuckled, and she turned to walk away, her hand touching my shoulder. I guessed she did that for comfort, or maybe balance. But the feel of her touch lingered, as did a waft of her perfume, a hint of vanilla and tangy fruit.

  A buzzing sensation inside my pocket, and I pulled out my phone. A text from Felix:

  Jewish bomb was diff than others. Shrapnel -> meant to kill

  Reaching across to touch the back of my shoulder, I felt the byproduct of the shrapnel all too well. That bit of news wasn’t a surprise. But hearing confirmation that this last bomb was created differently sent my mind into a whirlwind of confusion. I jiggled my goblet of ice water, theories as plentiful as there were ice cubes in my glass. Could we somehow be in the middle of a power play between two rival groups or gangs?

  I wondered if Henry and the authorities had been able to identify and pick up that skinhead from the video, the one who looked similar to the kid I’d grappled with at Reverchon Park. But I knew the mind often wanted to see things that actually weren’t real, so my certainty of connecting the two kids was less than a hundred percent, and was moving south the more that time passed.

  Something about this entire case seemed off. The three bombs in three hours pointed to a perpetrator who was bold and daring, trying to make a brash statement, or going through a huge emotional swing. Bipolar possibly? Drugs? All possible. Given my interaction with the skinhead the night before the three bomb blasts, it was hard for me to imagine that same kid—as cocky as he first seemed—was at the helm of pulling off such a plot. Blowing up houses of worship, a courthouse, even a school bus didn’t fit the behavior of a group of punks who were getting their jollies messing with an older man. Didn’t fit.

  I crunched ice and, despite the welcome lull in explosions in Dallas, I could feel intoxicating anxiety fill my bloodstream.

  Thanks to another favor from my buddy Tyrone, I’d spent the last two days pouring over a list of people convicted of hate crimes in the last three years, trying to narrow down the pool of possible suspects—if I’d taken the right angle. Researching online and making numerous phone calls, I’d been able to cross sixty-seven names off the spreadsheet. Only forty-three to go.

  “Miss me?” Britney’s voice surprised me, both in her timing as well as her tone. She sounded friendly and positive.

  I decided to play a bit. “That must have been an exciting trip to the restroom. Did you take the circuitous route, you know, I-30 West, loop around Fort Worth then back to downtown Dallas?”

  Opening her mouth, she gave me a lighthearted look of shock. “Well, Booker, I happened to run into an old friend from high school. Hadn’t seen him in years.”

  “Did you have to get into…?”

  “He’d heard, just like everyone else, but we just talked about old times growing up in West Texas.”

  I grinned, again feeling an odd sense of pride to see her maintain emotional stability.

  Our food arrived; mine a simple club sandwich, while Britney had a tomato quiche.

  Holding the fork in her mouth, I watched her eyelids shut for a couple of seconds.

  “You’re either repulsed or in heaven.” I cringed, pissed that I’d let that type of reference slip out.

  “No need to beat yourself up. I want people to be normal around me, and that was normal,” she said quietly, yet matter-of-factly.

  Britney gripped my forearm and gave me an encouraging smile.

  A light breeze carried more of her vanilla, fruity scent, and I could feel a slight connection. But it was probably all empathy.

  Another Britney bite and another pleasure-filled eye roll. I looked at my sandwich, wondering what I was missing.

  “That’s why I like to come here,” she said. “Every Sunday, Grammy used to cook something close to this exact recipe when I was younger. All types of tomatoes, eggplant, squash, zucchini. Just so scrumptious. Do you want a bite?”

  For real? A breath held in my throat, words not flowing smoothly.

  “If you don’t like vegetables, like a lot of guys, that’s okay. I’m not offended.”

  “It’s not that. I love vegetables, fruits. It’s just—”

  “Yeah, I had a feeling you ate healthy.”

  I think she’d just checked me out. In just a matter of seconds, I felt oddly conspicuous.

  Without me saying another word, she held a fork halfway between us. I leaned forward with open mouth, and she scooped in the quiche.

  “Damn, that is great.” I wiped my mouth. “Speaking of your grandmother—”

  I felt a tug on my shirt near my bandage, and I flinched a bit.

  Turning my head, I had to look down, even though I was sitting. It was a little boy, maybe six or seven, straight black hair sloping down his forehead, his eyes dark brown.

  “Aren’t you the guy who saved all the Jews?”

  I thought I felt awkward before. I literally patted him on his head, leaned toward him, and spoke quietly. “I guess so. No need to make a big deal. Have a good day.”

  Just as I faced Britney, another tug on my shirt. The boy opened his mouth to speak, but I got there first.

  “Where’s your mom or dad? It’s not safe to be away from your parents in public.”

  “My dad says you’re the Black Messiah.”

  Peering around, I wondered who had heard that. I think I caught Britney snicker.

  “I am black, yes sir, and I’m as human as you. I make mistakes every day of my life. I was just fortunate to be in the right place at a time when I could help.”

  I tried returning to my conversation again, but this time Britney held up a finger. “I’ve been so out of it. I heard about the bombings. I knew that man and his dog were saved by some person. But that was you?”

  Touching my napkin to my mouth, I set it on the table. Taking in a breath, I was interrupted again, this time from behind…again.

  “Sir, I’m so sorry about Ryan intruding into your private lunch.” The kid’s mom had finally appeared, wearing a tweed business suit.

  “Not a problem. Have a good—”

  “I’m sorry, but would you mind signing an autograph? There are so many athletes that Ryan has looked up to, but they all disappoint him, whether it’s because of drugs, steroids, assault. It’s all so sordid.” She extended a fancy pen and a notepad.

  If
my pigmentation was white, you could have spotted my red face from outer space. As it was, I felt warm all over. I signed my name.

  “Can you write a little note to him?” She tilted her head like a begging dog.

  Lost for a second, glaring into the leaves of a nearby live oak, I recalled the advice Uncle Charlie had given me so many years ago. I wrote on the notepad: “If you don’t try, then you’ll never succeed.” I decided to leave out the last part about getting off your ass and doing something about it. That, most likely, would be driven home once he’s a teenager.

  The boy and his mom thanked me and walked off. The dose of flattery caught me off guard; I tried to remain as unassuming as possible.

  “That must make you feel good. I can see it in your eyes,” Britney said. “Is that why you do it?”

  Whether it was from raw emotion or self-assessment, this gorgeous, torn woman had hurled a probing question that no one had ever asked, one that I’d never really answered to myself.

  “By doing it, you mean being courteous to civilians, rather, people?”

  “No, why do put your life on the line for people you never met?”

  She wasn’t going to stop. I nibbled on a fancy potato chip.

  “I try to make the world a little less shitty, let’s put it that way. And since Dallas is my city, I consider this my home turf. I don’t like it when people fuck with my home turf.”

  My response had come across far rawer than I’d anticipated. “No offense with my language.”

  She shrugged one shoulder, easily brushing off my foul mouth. “You talk like you’re still on the force, to protect and to serve. You’re a PI now, a lone ranger, so to speak. You don’t carry a badge, wear a uniform, drive a black and white. You’re essentially one of the people, a civilian. Yet, you still nearly died saving that man. And I have a feeling you would have done the same for my Ashton, if given the opportunity.”

  Britney held her gaze. I tried matching it, but I looked away, felt my tongue stick to the back of my throat. I reached for my water. Quickly replaying her words, I sensed a subtle, dual message. Yes, her appreciation was pointedly flattering, yet why did I have the sense it was ever so slightly accusatory? I couldn’t pin down why that would be, though, and I pushed the negative thought to the back of my mind.