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

by John W. Mefford

  Britney laid a hand on my shoulder, as if she felt confident in who she was, in what we’d become.

  “It’s so nice to meet you.” She extended a hand, then took a step forward and gave Momma a quick hug. “Booker has spoken so much about what you’ve been doing in Guatemala. It must feel quite fulfilling to make a difference for people who really need care and help in so many ways.”

  Momma raised an eyebrow, glanced over at me. I wondered which way this would fall.

  “I’m sorry, I missed your name?”

  “Oh, it’s Britney,” she said, raising up on her toes and rocking slightly.

  “Britney, yeah.” Momma nodded, then shifted her eyes to me again. I knew what she was thinking. She wasn’t racist, but she’d always said that she wanted me to share my life with a girl who had substance, culture, came from somewhere, and had a passion to change lives for the better. In her mind, most white girls represented the easy road and a vanilla existence.

  I couldn’t jump in and provide a dissertation of why Britney was one of a kind. The timing wasn’t right.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Britney asked, walking back toward the kitchen.

  Momma twisted her face, which meant, Does she actually live here with you?

  Before I could respond, my roommate released a highly sexual whistle.

  Momma jerked a hand to her chest, like she’d just heard a ghost. Hardly. It was a lurid catcall from my macaw, Big Al.

  “Dear Lord in heaven.” Momma rocked back onto her heels, as heaving breaths morphed into a light chortle.

  Glancing over at Britney, she’d stopped halfway to the kitchen, a hand to her head, apparently slightly embarrassed at Big Al’s selection and timing.

  Walking toward the metal cage perched in the corner of the living room, I debated reaching in there and plucking one of his blue feathers, just to teach him a lesson. Pondering that action an extra second, I wondered what it would get me. He’d puncture a hole in my hand, then start whistling and belting out rude comments nonstop for hours. He was worse than a strip club comedian. Honestly, I think his vocabulary went the R-rated path about a year ago when Justin bunked on the couch for a week.

  I joined tall, beautiful, and leggy in the kitchen. She made coffee while I poured myself an orange juice.

  “Can we get you anything to eat, Momma?” I called out from the kitchen, knowing I didn’t have much in the fridge or cabinet that served as my pantry.

  Hands on her hips, Momma stood in front of the living room windows.

  “So you have a pool too?”

  I leaned toward my prettier half. “She’s either hard of hearing, or she seems to have selective memory,” I whispered.

  Britney smirked. “She hears what she chooses to. Didn’t you know, it’s a lady’s prerogative?”

  “Yes, Momma, the pool has always been there. It’s just four walls and water, surrounded by a slab of concrete.” I felt a little prickle at the top of my spine, sensing my mother’s unease with anything that smelled like money. She’d always been wary of those who controlled the world’s wealth. I just wondered what she’d say once she learned of Britney’s high-end lifestyle. I laughed inside, drawing a comparison between the blunt expressions that escaped from Big Al’s beak and my mother’s mouth.

  “Hot cup of coffee, coming right up,” Britney said.

  Smoke curled toward the exposed metal ductwork slanting across the kitchen.

  “How would you like it?” Britney asked.

  “Black, that’s how I want it,” Momma said abruptly.

  Britney’s eyes recoiled, as if she didn’t know how to respond. For the first time since my mother had arrived, Britney’s spirit had taken a noticeable blow. I hated seeing her hurt, even if it was by my harmless, opinionated mother.

  On the verge of calling out my Momma in front of my significant other, someone knew she’d taken it too far.

  “Don’t listen to me, Britney. I’m just full of it today,” she said, flailing her arms. She hooted out loud, her own version of forced laughter. “I’ll take a scoop full of sugar and a smidge of cream, thank you.”

  I glanced at Britney, and she nodded. I think we both wondered if she’d chipped a hole in Momma’s icy exterior.

  Scooting around the counter while gracefully avoiding the single wood column in the middle of the living room, Britney handed Momma a burnt orange mug with the University of Texas logo on the side.

  “Thank you, Britney. Booker, don’t tell me you’re giving money to the university that tried to take away your scholarship?”

  I rounded the column, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something pink and lacey on the couch. Just as Momma turned to find a seat, I quickly slid on to the couch, orange juice sloshing on my gray sweats.

  “Boy, what’s got you in such a tizzy?”

  I looked at Britney, whose face showed a state of near panic. I think she’d noticed the same evidence, and she, more than anyone, probably didn’t want Momma to notice.

  “I stumbled into my seat. I need to go clean myself off.” I stuffed Britney’s bra into the back of my sweats.

  “Good, while you’re at it, why don’t you put on a shirt? You’re my son and you’re built like Superman, but there’s a lady in the house who’s not your mother. Let’s be classy now.” Momma plopped down on the overstuffed cushion, setting her mug on the African coffee table she’d given me.

  As I shuffled behind the couch, Britney twisted her head slightly, and gave me a wink that said, Glad we got out of that one.

  I winked back, but Big Al had to have the last word.

  “Let’s get it on. Let’s get it on. Let’s get in on.”

  “Hush!” I said, noticing Britney turning as pink as the bra stuffed in my drawers.

  “Booker, you go on about your business. I’m not as naïve as you think I am.” Momma turned her head and smiled so wide her eyes nearly shut.

  Realizing I couldn’t afford to play social backgammon an entire Saturday—every day was a work day in the PI business—I went ahead and took a quick shower and dressed in a standard uniform in late January: casual jeans, Doc Martens, gray mock turtleneck with the sleeves pushed halfway up my forearms.

  Opening the bedroom door into the living room, I took two steps and paused. Momma curled an arm over the back of the couch, her other arm in constant motion, just like her jaw. Britney seemed riveted to the conversation, nodding along, then extending a hand to my mother.

  They were bonding, and my heart pinged a little faster for the beautiful blonde. Scooting to the kitchen, I made myself busy, booted up my laptop, and listened in to ensure Momma wasn’t telling any lies about me.

  “Booker probably doesn’t remember, but I toted his little tush around that high school so many days and nights, he probably thought it was a second home,” Momma said. Both ladies giggled, glancing over at me.

  “Did any of your friends or colleagues at the school think it was odd to name your son after the school you worked at?” Britney asked.

  Clenching my teeth, I dipped my line of vision below the top of the laptop screen, wishing Britney hadn’t been so transparent. All the brownie points she’d earned might have just been tossed in the garbage disposal.

  “Girl, everyone at that school knew I was one proud black woman. Proud of my heritage, proud of the school I worked at. I didn’t stand out. Everyone around me, instructors and students alike, were honored to be associated with that type of institution.”

  Sneaking in a sip of coffee, Momma’s back arched a bit more, while I tried to separate legitimate email from spam.

  “It’s quite an accomplishment, working and supporting the kids at the high school, attending events, yet still putting yourself through nursing school. You’re quite the role model,” Britney said, her hand touching Momma’s knee.

  Momma hesitated, her eyes appearing to glisten. Was she getting emotional?

  “You know, Britney, I only did it for that lug sitting in tha
t barstool over there.”

  They both turned, and I smiled like a little kid. Waving, I diverted my eyes back to my computer.

  “Sometimes I just needed someone to help watch Booker while I got work done, but I really did it to expose him to the arts, hoping some of it would rub off.”

  “And did it?” Britney asked Momma, turning to shoot me a quick wink.

  “He picked up a little piano from a few of the instructors, the students even. I showed him a couple of tricks myself.”

  “You can play?” Britney asked Momma, stoking her ego nicely, I thought.

  “Well, I suppose I used to play a little back when I had time. I did enjoy being around such creative energy. They gave me life, and I appreciated all they had to offer. Ummm, ummm. Wow, some of those kids could really bring it, I’m telling you.”

  Momma’s eyes drifted into the corner, and I noticed Britney’s foot dangling off the couch. I envisioned my hands on her toned legs.

  “Has anyone ever really made it in the business after graduating?”

  “So many I couldn’t begin to name them. Edie Brickell, Erykah Badu, and who can forget Norah.”

  Britney set her mug on the table and leaned forward. “Norah Jones?”

  “A voice that could melt steel. So melodic, soulful.” Momma brought a hand to her mouth and tried to stop from giggling. “Booker, do you remember being serenaded by Norah?”

  I was waiting for this story, so I shrugged my shoulders, preparing for the playback.

  “When Booker turned thirteen, I told him we were going to do something extra special. I made him put on his Sunday clothes, and I took him up to the school. Even in the summer, kids were always developing their skills, putting on small shows for whoever would show up. Well, we caught a show with about five or six performers. At the end, they called Booker down to the stage. Oooh weee, girl, that boy of mine did not want to get on the stage. But he did, and he sat on the piano bench right next to Norah, who sang him the sweetest version of Elvis’ hit “Can’t Help Falling in Love with You.”

  “For reals?” A youthful, teenage slang crossed Britney’s lips as she glanced at me over her shoulder. “Who said you haven’t rubbed shoulders with greatness?”

  I nodded, an embarrassing grin taking hold. “It was probably the only time in my life I’ve ever truly been starstruck. Even at age thirteen, I knew she was pretty talented. But sitting next to her, I thought my heart was going to pop out of my chest. I didn’t tell many of my buddies, but it was something I’ll never forget.”

  Britney twisted around to face me as a full smile subsided into a warm glow, her eyes penetrating mine.

  “What?”

  “It’s cool to hear stories about how you became the man you are today.”

  Momma gasped, rocking back slightly, yet Britney maintained her gaze a few more seconds.

  “I just hope your new infatuation inspires the same dreamy memories,” she said, winking then twisting back around to face Momma.

  “We almost forgot about another talented graduate. We met Olivia Dunham from the Sleeping Beauty ballet. She attended BTW.”

  “Right.” Britney nodded.

  That led to us giving Momma a quick rundown from the prior evening. She responded with at least three “Dear Lord in heaven” comments, each one more drawn out than the previous.

  “And now you’re telling me you’re a private investigator?” She started chuckling.

  I smiled, but I didn’t get the joke, unless it was on me.

  “Oh no, Booker, I’m not making fun of you. It’s just kind of surreal, you know. You go from being this straight-laced cop wearing a blue uniform every day, holding the peace, making sure everyone follows the law, to now being more of a freelance man.” She nodded slowly, staring at me. “I can feel this is right for you. Can I call you Shaft?”

  “I don’t plan on shaving my head, so let’s stick with Booker.”

  Bonds had been made, and hugs were exchanged. Now the real work could begin.

  3

  “My tummy hurts, Daddy.”

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, I noticed the corners of Samantha’s mouth turn downward as she rubbed her belly.

  I debated pulling out one of the Tums I had stashed in the center console, but thought better of it, not wanting to get her hooked on the chalky tablets like her father.

  “I’m so sorry, Mittens. We’ll have you back at Mommy’s in no time. Why don’t you snuggle up with Woofies and try to fall asleep?”

  My five-year-old daughter took in a sulky breath, seeking courage to not cry, then leaned out of her booster seat to snatch her most coveted item, a stuffed animal. Originally dog-shaped, the stuffing had been coddled and molded into looking more like a brown prehistoric reptile, snakelike girth in the middle, bulges at either end, and tiny fins attached. Samantha nestled the matted creature under her neck, her arms wrapped around the animal with the intensity of a kid twice her age.

  Maybe she did inherit her dad’s strength.

  Following Momma’s unexpected visit, I’d received a text from Eva, my ex-fiancée, asking if I could watch Samantha while she went into work to finish some paperwork. Eva, a curvaceous Latin diva whom I’d left at the alter about five years ago—when she was eight months pregnant—was a cop, a profession we’d shared up until my career veered into the private sector a few months back. Thankfully, we’d coexisted in the Dallas Police Department, most likely because she worked out of Central Division, me at Northeast.

  Our relationship over the years had been complicated, wavering from congenial to cold, from feuding to jumping in the sheets—usually right after one of our historic fights. Passion was what brought us together, and ultimately it’s what led to our demise as a couple. We both finally grew up enough to understand that physical attraction alone couldn’t weather our storms. After five years of on-again, off-again signals, Eva and I had both started dating other people in the last few months, which, amazingly, brought calm to our relationship and opened communication lines for us in parenting Samantha.

  Downshifting the Saab 9-3 into second gear, I glided around the corner, veered right, and pulled up to the curb in front of Eva’s duplex. “Okay, Samantha, we’re back at Mommy’s house.”

  I yanked the brake and coiled between the bucket seats to check on the usually talkative Samantha, extending a hand to her knee.

  In just a couple of minutes, the cutest little girl in the world had fallen into a deep slumber, her mouth agape, her chest lifting with each hissing breath. If anything in this crazy world softened me, it was Samantha. I truly think she’d only inherited the best parts of Eva and me. She had Eva’s thick, brown locks, corralled today by a purple headband, which complimented her pink fingernails. Obviously, Eva had taken Samantha for a mommy/daughter manicure.

  Samantha’s head leaned against Woofies, her tiny hands grasping two stuffed legs attached by nothing more than stretched fabric. I could still see a little bit of baby fat on her adorable hands, which is why I’d given her the nickname of Mittens when she was just a roly-poly baby.

  Rounding the car to Samantha’s side, I noticed Eva pop out through the front door.

  “Did you guys have fun?” Ambling our way, she squinted into the January sun, her arms tucked against her chest. She wore a solid white, short sleeve T-shirt, even though it hovered around fifty degrees.

  I held a finger to my mouth as I opened the door. “She’s sleeping. Said she had a tummy ache and just conked out. Not sure if it’s what she ate, or if she has a bug.”

  Eva ran fingers through her hair, a deep crevice forming between her brows. “What did you feed her, Booker?”

  I gave her a sheepish grin. “We went to Exall Park, near my place, ran around like two kids—”

  “She’s the kid and you’re the parent, remember?” She raised a single eyebrow and turned her face into a light breeze, wavy hair lifting off her shoulders.

  Ignoring the dig, I continued. “We hit every piece of eq
uipment there, the roundabout thingy, the tire swing, climbed to the top of the jungle gym and rang the bell. Had a real blast. We were both hungry, so we stopped and ate sub sandwiches. She even had apple slices.”

  She popped my upper arm like she was a buddy. “Sorry I went there. I just don’t like seeing my little girl sick.” She leaned down into the car to unlatch the booster seat.

  I forced out a breath. “Actually…”

  She turned her head toward me, and all I saw were brown and white eyes.

  “You know how Samantha has this fear of heights?”

  No response, only the glare of two eyes.

  “Well, I convinced her to walk the guided tightrope. Halfway across, she froze and almost started crying. I told her if she made it across on her own, I’d buy her a blizzard at Dairy Queen. I was so proud of her.”

  I tried smiling, hoping my eyes would avert the laser beams aimed right at me.

  Eva flipped around, squared her shoulders, and set her jaw. “Really? Don’t you know she has issues with dairy?”

  “I know, I know.” I held out two arms, deciding it was best to take the strategy of falling on the sword. “My fault. Sorry.”

  She let out an I-forgive-you breath, and her voice intensity dropped in half. “I get it. Sometimes she’s irresistible. Do you mind bringing her inside?”

  Popping the latches on shoulder restraints, Samantha wiggled in her seat, her eyelids still shut. Even without her grinning, I could see Samantha’s matching dimples.

  I carried Samantha inside with Woofies’ slinky tail stuffed into my ear. Laying her on the couch, I kissed her forehead, then turned to tiptoe away.

  “Love you, Daddy,” she said softly, her voice gravelly.

  Turning back around, I leaned down and kissed her head again. “Love you too, Samantha. Hope you feel better.”

  She exhaled and quickly regained her mouth-half-open sleep breathing rhythm.

  Back in my car, I punched up the other half of Booker & Associates Private Investigations.

  “Catch you at lull?” I asked Alisa, who doubled as the lead waitress at The Jewel.