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

by John W. Mefford

  Eva and Samantha had been blown into the pool. Wet and scared, they emerged to see my back smoldering like hot coals. I was just glad as hell to see their faces. When I realized all my body parts were still intact, I hauled my ass to the Saab, punched up Alisa, and eventually found the resting place for one Fatima Gujarati Plumlee.

  Unsure what type of booby trap I might come across, every step I took was careful, precise.

  Up ahead, in between two other gravesites, I spotted a silhouette, unmoving, leaning over like he was in prayer. Or already dead.

  Ten more paces, then I stopped, my boot cracking a twig.

  “You survived.” I recognized the voice of Conductor Chris. It sent a jolt of disgust up my spine.

  “I survived. Everyone survived,” I said calmly. I couldn’t mask the pride I felt for the people of my community, survivors.

  Plumlee’s head twitched slightly. “You’re awfully smug for someone who let dozens die and more be injured in five other bomb explosions.” His torso rose upward, and I could see his body covered with an enormous blanket or jacket.

  I took two steps then paused, not wanting to spook him.

  “There’s no joy in anyone dying, regardless of how they go, is there, Andrew?”

  A slow nod. “You’ve done your research. Bravo. I knew that eventually someone would stumble upon me. Even a broken clock is right twice a day. Get it, Booker?”

  He knew my name.

  “The pocket watch.”

  “Yes siree, all six explosions were detonated using my father’s pocket watch collection. He tortured us, left my mom years ago, running off with some teenage girl. He couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. I imagined his spineless ass splintering into a thousand pieces with each explosion.”

  “So all of this was to get back at your dad? You could have sent him a nasty email and not killed dozens of people. Did that thought ever enter your pea brain?” Sharp pain shot through my leg.

  His head moved slightly. I had no idea why he wore such a heavy coat on a night with the temperature near seventy degrees.

  A loud chuckle. “This wasn’t about my dad. It was about vindication, all the people who had a hand in killing my mom.”

  Alisa had learned that Fatima had suffered from complications from diabetes and died in her sleep at Parkland. The lead doctor went to Yosef’s synagogue.

  “More than just nurses and doctors died in these bombings,” I said with anger in my voice.

  “That was the idea. It wasn’t who they were, but who they represented. Blacks, whites, spics, Muslims, Hindus, and those damn Jews. I saved the best for them, using nails and flechettes. Did you like the personal touch?” He laughed again.

  “You really think they had anything to do with your mother dying? That’s fucking nuts.”

  “You can think what you want, but I know. I was there every day for six months. I witnessed her pain, and none of them gave a damn. They might as well have been carving out her heart with a pair of tweezers.”

  Another shot of pain zipped up my leg, and I winced a bit. I had no gun to threaten Plumlee, and the official cops had yet to arrive on the scene.

  “None of the people you killed hurt anyone. You’re worse than a fucking animal.”

  I thought I heard him panting, or seething.

  “That last one was meant for you, your friends, your girlfriend, and especially your little daughter, Samantha. Maybe next time, though.”

  My ears burned from fury racing through my veins. “There won’t be a next time.”

  “True,” he said.

  I was confused.

  Slowly he lifted his arm out of his coat pocket. A cell phone filled his right hand.

  “Have you ever heard of C4, Booker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we’re both going to hell at the exact same time. Do you want to hold hands?”

  Eyeing the back of his coat, I could see darker patches illuminated by the glow of the moon. He must have lined his coat with the explosive material. But it needed a detonator.

  I didn’t think. I just raced toward him, screaming at the top of my lungs. As I’d hoped, he turned around, fear and confusion contorting his face and that puny little mustache. Two steps later, I tackled his arm, smacking the phone against a neighboring tombstone. He turned over on his back and rubbed his thick coat against the grass, like a dog with hives.

  “This explosive must go off. I have to die this way. It was meant to be!” His screams morphed into whimpers, and then he clutched the grass above his mother’s grave between his fingers and began to sob.

  As sirens echoed nearby, I kneeled and watched Plumlee crawl into a pathetic ball of hate.

  34

  “So KY had the balls to dangle a detective job out there on the same day he was officially firing you? Is he bipolar?”

  Justin’s face scrunched into a set of deep trenches, and I began to see what he’d look like when he got older. It wasn’t pretty.

  I sipped a draft beer while sitting among friends at The Jewel, just hours after my final official police meeting. “Apparently, Chief Ligon had gotten wind of my suspension, only after he’d seen the news following the synagogue bombing. KY’s voice sounded like someone had a gun to his head.”

  “Wished someone would shove a gun up his ass.” Justin howled, then leaned over, and we smacked hands.

  Crossing her legs, Alisa released a knowing giggle and sipped her wine. “You didn’t take it, did you?”

  Henry chimed in. “This guy, the ultimate rebel?”

  “I actually told him that I appreciated the consideration, but I felt like I’d be more fulfilled if I went a different direction in my career. Then I reached over, shook his hand, and thanked him for everything he’d ever done for me.”

  Outside of low music and a few patrons in conversation, a hushed silence engulfed our space. Looking at my three friends, I noticed three jaws wide open. I took another long swig and enjoyed the cool beer hitting my throat.

  Henry held up a finger. “Booker, did you really say that? I’ve got to hand it to you. Not many men—”

  “Or women,” Alisa added.

  “Man, woman, or child, would not have responded in such a controlled, mature way. Good for you.”

  I set my beer down on the little doily that had a picture of the Dallas skyline on it, then grabbed a handful of cashews and popped them in my mouth.

  “Are you kidding? I told him to shove it up his ass, then I flipped him off and walked out of his office, strutting the whole way down the hall.”

  “That’s the Booker I know.” Justin reached across, and we smacked hands again.

  Henry got a call on his cell, while Alisa and Justin ran a round of drinks to two tables. A few minutes later, they gathered back at the bar. Henry leaned in closer. “Everything cool since Eva, you know, shared her news?”

  A day after Plumlee was arrested and my wounds addressed by a medical doctor, my almost-wife dropped by my place, sat me down on the couch, and said, “Booker, I’ll always love you for so many things, starting with our little Samantha. But I’ve known for a long time we weren’t right for each other. We share a passion, but there’s a lot more to love and a relationship than sheer passion.”

  Putting a hand on her knee, I’d said, “I understand.”

  “There’s more. I wanted you to know that I’m dating someone.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s a cop, one of the good ones. You don’t know him, but he’s out of the Northwest Division.”

  I hadn’t expected that news. I brooded for a couple of days, but I knew she was right. I’d let my emotions for Samantha cloud my ability to separate admiration, respect, and a little bit of passion from true love.

  Frankly, I appreciated her ripping the bandage off. Someone had to do it, and my lack of willpower had always served as an impediment to taking that step.

  Justin popped his towel two inches from my shoulder. “You off in la la land, Booker?”


  “I’m cool. I actually went on a real date the other night.” Lots of ooh and ahhs, followed by a chorus of, “When can we meet her?”

  “It’s been one date. Give me some time before I bring her home to meet my twisted parents.” I glanced at Justin, my serious gaze morphing into a wide grin.

  “Did you hear about the latest internal investigation?” Henry asked, sipping a Cosmo from a red straw. “Apparently, they believe someone had been taking drugs from the evidence room and selling it on the streets. Can you believe that shit?”

  Without me saying a word, justice would finally be served, exposing Sims and his cronies. “Unbelievable.”

  Henry said, “Word is it’s a solo operation, and they’ve got their man. Felix Upton, that CSI guy who fed you the inside information.”

  I felt my stomach form its first knot in almost three weeks. I signaled Justin for another beer.

  “Jenna says you’ve got that restaurant owner paying her back on a monthly plan,” Justin said while filling my mug.

  “It’s complicated, but for now, he’s got a side restaurant business, and he’s able to siphon some off and pay her back. He knows if he misses a payment, I’ll hunt him down.”

  I thought about David’s connections to organized crime, his information about Sims, and I wondered if we’d ever be able to find evidence and put those fuckers behind bars. It gnawed at me, while Alisa whispered something to Justin.

  “Care to fill me in?” I popped in a few more cashews, then sipped my beer. “Have you guys thought about my offer?”

  “So, you can get a sign on the closet upstairs,” Alisa said, looking at Justin.

  I jumped in. “Let’s call it an office. What about a small sign outside?”

  “As long as it doesn’t hurt my brand, and I get final say on placement,” Justin said.

  “Deal.”

  “And…”

  “Now what?”

  “Your rent will be helping me with security on nights whenever we expect a big crowd, host a live band. Agreed?”

  I figured that might happen one or two times a month, at most. “I’m good with that.” I raised my beer toward Alisa. “And what about you?”

  She tried to hold back, but her cheeks lit up like a little girl. “I’m in.” She gave me a fist bump.

  We all brought our glasses together, and Justin raised a fist like he was the symbol for black power. “Here’s to Booker, PI.”

  I winked at Alisa, saying, “And Associates. Our little startup business.”

  “Cheers,” we all said in unison.

  Alisa immediately started rattling off a list of supplies we needed, and a task list to prepare the office and create our website, and to determine our go to sources for information, online and otherwise. Damn, she was sharp.

  I sat back and soaked up the camaraderie that I thought I’d never regain after leaving the force. This PI gig was what I was meant to do all along. I could feel it.

  And if my first few weeks were any indication, it was going to be a hell of a ride.

  35

  Tracking a hairline crack up the side of the concrete jail wall, a single finger reached over and touched the epicenter of the spider web. The tiny spot of impact where thousands, no, hundreds of thousands of cells had been redirected to alter their course for eternity.

  Andrew Plumlee used a sliver of light cutting through a distant window to outline one crevice after another. Each and every one found its way back to the single source.

  Releasing a choppy breath, Plumlee turned on his back, draped an arm overhead, and wondered if was possible to pinpoint the distinct moment in time when his life had forever changed its path. Was it truly the day his mother passed away? Anger swelled each time he thought of that moment when the machines went monotone, but he now questioned everything he’d ever known about himself.

  Happiness, in all reality, had been an elusive goal, slipping through his sweaty palms every time he thought he’d had it in his grasp. Maybe it was never there, only a mirage that his mind used to trick him into keep trying, keep fooling himself that another job, another deed would uncover a gold mine of joy and contentment.

  A soft howl carried throughout the North Tower Jail at Lew Sterrett Justice Center just west of downtown Dallas. Plumlee secured the gray, thin blanket against his neck, preparing for the nightly onslaught of threats. It had been two weeks since his arrest, and Plumlee had met with his lawyer five times. He could already tell she’d put less energy into his defense than any of the doctors had made in saving his mom.

  One howl grew into three, then six. In the middle of the coyote choir, he heard the sound of a fleshy hiss, so wet it made his skin crawl.

  Gauging the growing number of lurid cat calls, he guessed it was close to two a.m. Each night seemed longer; he counted to sixty repeatedly as long as he could keep it up, trying to drown out the pathetic losers who were attempting to get into his mind, to break him.

  He knew it was working.

  Plumlee’s story had been sensationalized and dramatized across every news outlet in the country, and even in jail, his cellmates mocked him

  “Does little Andy want to come out and pwwway?” a familiar voice asked.

  Suddenly, he felt a fingernail slithering up his foot, and he jerked his leg to his chest, a fearful grunt escaping his lungs. He squinted and could see white eyes through iron bars, a shadowy figure smacking his lips, then a smooching sound.

  Blame and guilt. He’d learned to survive based upon those principles. To avoid any guilt, he was quicker than a biting snake to blame a person, or race, or religion. Anything to avoid the guilt.

  Forcing his mind away from the suggestive, intimidating sounds, he thought about dear old dad, his nemesis as long as he could remember breathing. He’d watched his dad use the utmost care and precision every time he fit the monocle in his eye and tinkered with one of his watches. But every time he interacted with his mother or him, his dad’s concern and compassion were null and void. Absent. Slowly, he watched his dad drink his life away, turn abusive. Then, when Mom got sick, he left both of them for a young bimbo, and he never came back or called.

  Fuck him.

  Was that when his life changed?

  He thought through his recent conquests, and a sense of accomplishment filled his body. But one thing didn’t sit right. The bitch had coerced him into creating that spectacle at the Old Red Courthouse, putting the crosshairs of death on that Cromwell kid. That rich prick’s life didn’t mean shit to him, but in looking back, it had changed his focus, altered his mindset.

  Maybe that was when his life was bumped off course.

  Grinding his teeth, he wished he had one more opportunity to fill a room with people he loathed and blow them all to hell. Booker would lead the way, that smug former cop, and his prissy little daughter. He would make sure he had the whole thing on video. Using high-definition, he’d replay the snippet hundreds of times just to watch the precise moment when shrapnel ripped flesh from her scrawny ass, her eyes knowing she only had seconds to live.

  Plumlee found himself smiling. Maybe he’d found happiness, at least for a few, brief seconds. He touched the cracks again.

  Metal clanged, and he felt his heart erupt. His jail door opened, and he heard bare feet shuffle along the concrete floor. But Plumlee didn’t jump out of his bed. He closed his eyes and used his finger to feel the trail of cracks, taking his mind on a new journey.

  Gasping breaths drew closer, but Plumlee lay there, realizing it would soon end.

  Suddenly, the subhuman pounded his chest with a sharp instrument, and Plumlee felt a warm spray of blood across his face. His assailant grunted with each thrust, sounding like one of those apes from those movies.

  Darkness engulfed Plumlee’s mind, but he took solace in the fact that he’d finally experienced true happiness for those precious seconds.

  And that’s all a man could ever hope for.

  BOOKER – Tap That

  A Novel


  Book 2

  By

  John W. Mefford

  1

  A timpani roared to life, and I could feel the reverberation in my chest just as she took off…leaping like she wore angel’s wings, hanging in midair with effortless grace.

  The art of ballet. Who would have ever guessed that I, Booker T. Adams, the South Dallas kid who grew up with a poster on his wall of Jordan defying gravity, would even have an opinion about the artistry on display this evening? I’d just watched two hours of a ballet and had not even thought about shutting my eyelids. It might have had something to do with our vantage point. Platinum seats.

  I was in awe at how these dancers soared across the stage with such power and elegance, how they stirred the emotions without saying a word. This was the second time I’d attended a ballet here at the Winspear Opera House in the heart of the Arts District of downtown Dallas—thanks to sweet Britney. At first, I’d thought I would hate it and had gone only grudgingly. I really hadn’t wanted to watch a bunch of dudes flitting around in their tights. The whole thing just seemed like an incredibly boring way to spend my free time.

  I considered myself officially enlightened.

  Long, soft fingers interlocked my hand, and I glanced at Britney, her eyes so blue they twinkled even in muted lighting. She gave me a brief wink, gripped her free hand around my biceps, and returned her focus to the stage, a mesmerizing version of Sleeping Beauty. She shuddered briefly. Cold? Moved by the production? Moved by my presence?

  Perhaps her laying claim to me, my arm, had as much to do with her subconscious need to feel secure and safe as it did with warming up her body temperature. I couldn’t help but sneak another look at her purple and black dress by Alexander McQueen, which hugged her lean, taut body in all the right ways.

  Mmm.

  My brain suddenly shot off in a different direction, and I thought of my mother, who’d be returning from her latest excursion to help the needy—in Guatemala—in two days. Or was it three?