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

by John W. Mefford

  “We’re in dry dock right now, so I’m sitting at the bar with my laptop open, catching up on BAPI email.”

  Of Alisa’s many talents, her ability to find an acronym for long phrases or names was noteworthy. It probably had something to do with the text generation, although she was five years my senior. Nonetheless, it wasn’t the reason I hired her, although it afforded me the opportunity to add the “& Associates” to business cards and signage. I’d hired her because of her natural ability at organizing data with a passion that equaled my own in terms of corralling the bad guys. She’d proven herself a perfect fit for the job from the get-go, when she’d volunteered to help narrow down a pool of potential suspects in the recent bombings.

  And she didn’t mind working for an hourly wage that fit within my budget.

  “Anything urgent I need to be on top of?” I spoke through an ear microphone, a new gadget Britney had purchased for me when she witnessed me juggling a thin phone between my shoulder and face while driving a stick shift.

  “We need to talk about our accounts receivables,” she said, clicking away on the keyboard.

  “What’s the problem?” I cruised out of Eva’s neighborhood and drove east toward Central Expressway.

  “All of our contracts have a net thirty payment, but we’ve yet to receive one check, electronic or otherwise, within thirty days.”

  Suddenly, sounds of glass shattering pinged my ear.

  “What was that?”

  I think I heard her smack her lips. “Dear God, Justin. You act like a self-conscious businessman every hour of the day, but you toss around bottles of liquor like they’re play toys. What’s up with you?”

  It was obvious she wasn’t talking to me. I overheard Justin’s response.

  “I’ve been practicing some of those fancy bartending tricks. With the big show tonight, I thought it might be another way to get the crowd into it. You know, anything to increase the revenue.”

  I could picture his crooked, toothy grin.

  “Sheesh,” she said. “Booker, I better get going and babysit Justin before we run out of the hard stuff. We should meet for a few minutes when you get here later, just to review the status of the accounts and our open cases.”

  I like how she used the term “our.” I said, “It’s a date.”

  “You’re so silly.”

  Cruising under Central Expressway, the silver bullet crossed into Uptown, Dallas’ version of nirvana, heavy on the plastic for all the surgically enhanced young people walking the chic, urban streets.

  “I’m headed to Marvel right now to remind our Double D friends about their two-month overdue monthly payment to Jenna.”

  “Right. You understand you’ve never told me the whole story behind David and Dax and why you never turned them into the authorities.”

  I snickered, realizing I’d allowed Alisa’s blond roots—all authentic—to make me forget how astute she was. Nothing got past her.

  “All in due time.”

  We disconnected, and I turned left onto Routh Street and spotted the white facade of the Marvel restaurant on the right. I typically avoided valet parking, but I planned on David, the con artist/chef, giving me a voucher, so I zipped into the circular driveway next to two redheaded, freckled teenagers standing behind a lectern with a cursive M on the front. The shorter, wider one, wearing a short-sleeve button-down shirt, wiped his nose and appeared at my door in less than two seconds.

  “Welcome to Marvel, the number one Asian fusion restaurant in the country,” he said, his eyes staring at brick pavers.

  “Impressive.”

  He raised his eyes and smiled, showing a mouth full of braces. I turned and looked at my car, contemplating my options.

  “Is it possible for me to leave my car in this spot? I’ll only be about ten minutes.” It sounded odd asking for permission to do anything from a kid who probably hadn’t seen a first date yet.

  “Uh, well…” Shuffling a running shoe, he leaned forward to see if his thinner look-alike had heard my question.

  Just then, one of the oversized European double doors opened to the restaurant. A man was throwing a jacket over white garb, a chef’s uniform. He walked down the sidewalk, under the steel architecture affixed to the entryway.

  “Gordon?”

  One glance my direction, then he stopped like a cat who’d just seen a ghost.

  “Booker, I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  The Marvel restaurant sous-chef had a reason to carry a chip on his shoulder from our first interaction months ago, although I thought it should be directed more at David and Dax than me. In an effort to temporarily evade my questioning, David had essentially tossed his unsuspecting second-in-command into the lion’s den. I was told Gordon was David, while Gordon himself thought he was going to answer questions about the menu. The Double Ds had pulled off a mini-conspiracy just to buy an extra few minutes for David to escape in his ostentatious Cadillac down the back alley. The con artists were essentially liars, pathologically speaking.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, his thin, feathered hair jostling from the breeze.

  “Why wouldn’t you think I had reservations? I’ve always been intrigued by how you pull off the Spider-Man/Ironman vibe while serving the…”

  I pointed at the valet.

  “The number one Asian fusion restaurant in the country, sir.” His smile lit up the north side of Routh Street.

  “That,” I said.

  Gordon checked his watch. “Sure, I guess it’s possible.” He sounded stressed and annoyed at the same time.

  “What’s the hurry? David and Dax have you spinning plates while they sit in the back office and drool over the money they’re making from their new catering business?”

  David’s brainchild, Double D Catering, was intended to be the funding mechanism for returning the twenty-five thousand dollars to my client, Jenna, plus interest. Another fifty-seven clients he’d swindled were also flying around like vultures.

  The whole mess started when David had built up a monstrous debt in Vegas. From what he’d said—which is meant as the ultimate qualifier—David won more than he lost on most of his betting vacations, which apparently bloated his already oversized ego. Then he took a downward spiral, to the tune of one point five million bucks. Somehow, the liability changed hands like a shell game, and the rights to David’s debt shifted to a seedy gentleman who apparently was connected to organized crime.

  Fortunately for David, “the man” saw potential in his financial prowess, which led to an invitation to become a minority partner in a privately held company that managed real estate investments, called an REIT. It was all too good to be true, however. As part of the terms of paying off his Texas-sized debt, David had to forfeit ownership of his restaurant to the REIT and agree to convince vulnerable people—including women who’d recently became widowers—to invest in their company. It might as well have been called a donation, because the so-called investment only paid down David’s debt, and the investors never saw another penny or a financial report.

  “I’ve got a new recipe that is literally sitting in the kitchen half-baked,” Gordon said.

  “Kind of like David’s plan to pay back the clients he defrauded?”

  “What?” His eyes shifted, and he seemed confused.

  Maybe Gordon still didn’t know the full story.

  “Never mind. You seem like you’re in a hurry. David making you do all the work?”

  I couldn’t help but take another dig at the guy who was in over his head.

  “You don’t know? That’s why I’m in charge of the kitchen, the menu, the staff. I just can’t keep up. It’s like a runaway locomotive and I’m tied to the—”

  “Don’t know what? Where’s David?” Instinctively, I moved a step closer, my voice strengthening with each word.

  Gordon set a hand on one hip, then he looked me in the eyes for a good five seconds. “It’s Dax. He wa
s mugged three days ago.”

  A rush of adrenaline and guilt swept through my body, eliciting thoughts and a few questions. I’d always considered Dax to be an annoying twerp who pampered his other half, David, like a pharaoh. The fact he was gay meant nothing to me. I only wondered if this was similar to the other acts I’d investigated during the bombing spree. Was it a hate crime? For Dax’s sake, and the reputation of Dallas, I wished like hell it was a random mugging.

  “Did you hear me? Dax was mugged.”

  I guess Gordon sensed my shock.

  “Right. How bad?”

  “He was in the hospital for a day. They’re back at the condo and David is nursing Dax for a change.”

  Gordon had acknowledged the obvious irony, or was it simply payback for watching David yank Dax’s invisible but very tethered leash? Karma’s a bitch…so they say.

  The nearest red-headed valet cleared his throat. I glanced over, and he used his sleeve to swipe his nose. This kid must work for the competition.

  “Where do they live?” I asked Gordon.

  “Twenty-five fifty-five North Pearl, number twelve fifteen.”

  Ensuring I didn’t touch the door handle, I shifted around my open car door and set a foot inside. “That address came easy. You’ve been there a few times I take it?”

  “They’ve yet to invite me to their new digs, but I’ve had to cook for them every day, and one of the busboys delivers the food. I just know the address. It’s one of those fancy new condos. Gotta run.”

  Gordon hopped through landscaping, trampling purple pansies and gold violas, and made a beeline for his car parked across the street.

  Using my sleeve to grab the handle, I shut my car door and turned the ignition.

  Ha-chew!

  Moving my eyes left, through spit-covered glass, I watched a redheaded valet turn red all over. And then I was gone.

  4

  The sizable, ornate lobby of the Ritz-Carlton Residences was everything I’d imagined—throngs of well-coiffed guests bustling around wearing brand names of clothes only Britney would recognize, more concierge, doormen, and general help staff than required to support a presidential gala, and a subtle, but extremely effective security detail.

  Like everyone in the me-first, modern era, I used my cell phone as a crutch while I reviewed options on how to make it up to the Double Ds’ condo without forewarning them about my arrival. The mugging story notwithstanding, I didn’t trust either one of them, especially after this latest disruption in their monthly repayment plan for my client.

  As I studied the flow of the people, I began to draw assumptions on their purposes. On their way out the door or on their way up the tower? Clothing helped me in the formal versus casual category, and if I listened to parts of conversations and swiftly observed mannerisms, I could determine if they were actual residents or guests. My guess was I had about a sixty percent shot at making this work the first time. There would be no second time, as I spotted armed security guards posted in at least five locations. In addition, the building actually had elevator operators to push the buttons and probably serve as a secondary form of security. Getting into the elevator with the number twelve button lit up was the goal.

  “Are you part of the Miller bachelor party? We’re loading the party bus out front.”

  I paused, thinking the man who looked liked a party planner on a cruise ship was speaking to someone beyond me. I turned in his direction, and he extended an arm toward the brass-framed revolving door.

  “Sorry. You have the wrong guy.” I pondered why he’d assumed I was part of that group. Maybe because I wore no wedding ring. Who knows?

  I found myself drifting toward people huddling, or even intersecting folks who appeared to have a mission—mine was to ride their coattails up to room twelve fifteen.

  “Oh dear, I forgot my reading glasses. Would you be kind enough to run back up and grab them?” A fifty-something woman with raccoon eyes and fingernails so long that, as she constantly tapped her cell phone, she sounded liked a woodpecker, waved her husband toward the bank of elevators. He didn’t say a word in response and lumbered off to my right.

  I couldn’t think of a way to tag along with the beaten-down husband, so I let that opportunity pass. I was leaning against a granite wall that outlined a massive fireplace, once again thumbing through my phone, my ears honing in on any conversation that could take me to the promised land.

  Suddenly, a body pressed against me, a hand grabbed my butt. Just as I turned my head to find out who had pinned me, I felt warm, salty breath against my neck.

  “I saw you looking at my…body.” The sultry voice aimed to be seductive, but instead I found it creepy and, frankly, inaccurate.

  Just as I opened my mouth, the woman with raccoon eyes squeezed my ass like it was Charmin, fingernails digging into my cheek. I lurched a tad, but withheld the urge to push back.

  “Can you—”

  “Don’t say a word,” she ordered through a raspy whisper.

  I caught a waft of salt again, this time mixed with a boozy lime. She must have downed a margarita, maybe three given her impassioned come on.

  “I know you want me, and…” She paused, gritted her teeth, and continued assaulting my ass. “I think it’s obvious what I want to do to you.” She attempted to raise her eyebrows on a face appearing to be coated with plastic wrap, then released a phlegmy laugh, sounding oddly wicked.

  A quick image of my college film class popped into my mind: Dustin Hoffman awkwardly evading an older woman’s advances—the mother of his girlfriend—in The Graduate, the classic movie with an equally memorable theme song, “Mrs. Robinson.”

  In real life, it was more than awkward…it was obscene, and I started to get pissed off. “What the—”

  “Hush, my young stud muffin.” Eyelashes flittered against my lips, feeling more like stiff paint brushes. “You and I will rendezvous at midnight, right at this spot. Be prepared to join the mile high club.”

  Closing my eyes for a brief second, I prepared to unleash a verbal attack, but I realized she’d never remember what I’d say. A couple closer to my age strolled by, hand in hand, appearing to have a normal conversation.

  “I love it when Donna and Matt have these open house parties,” the perky girl said.

  I noticed she carried a gift bag, purple tissue paper jutting out of the top.

  “They have so many diverse friends. And, I can’t wait to check out their new condo.”

  Without any internal debate, I slithered away from the clutches of Mrs. Robinson, three steps behind the couple. Behind me, I heard a final plea. “Don’t forget. Midnight. I’ll be awaiting your hard—”

  Banking left around the other side of the thirty-foot fireplace, I avoided further verbal abuse.

  Ding.

  Elevator doors opened, and the couple angled right about forty-five degrees. Scouring my surroundings while moving at a decent clip, I spotted a gray and white stone table with two glasses of wine, a corked bottle next to it. Two girls chatted away with their backs to me, each one pointing to the other’s phone. Modern communication at its finest.

  Dipping my knees, I swooped up the bottle, noticing it was only half-full, and tucked it under my arm, the cork end pressed against my armpit. I followed the couple on the elevator, and held my breath.

  “Who are you visiting and what floor?” The elevator operator kept the door open, while thumbing through his iPad mini.

  I jumped in first. “I’m here for the open house party.” I coughed, hoping the couple was listening. “Donna and Matt…” I coughed again. “Sorry, I have a tickle in my throat.”

  “The Fergusons?” the girl to my right offered.

  I nodded, coughing again.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Sure.” I cleared my throat. “I’ll just grab a water once I get up to the Ferguson’s. New place. Can’t wait to see it.”

  “Oh, sorry. It’s twelve fifty-four,” she said to the elevator ope
rator.

  He held his gaze on me for a just a second, then flipped around and jabbed the button with a twelve on it.

  Bingo.

  Two metal doors started shutting, but just before reaching their destiny, I heard a, “Wait for me, stud muffin.” Lifting my eyes faster than my next heartbeat, the leechy woman who’d pinned me against the wall just moments before, thrust her arm through a foot of free space, the doors closing fast. The elevator operator flung his hand toward the wall of buttons, but he misfired, and the doors shut. Three sets of eyes turned my way.

  I shrugged my shoulders, acting like I’d just heard an anonymous drunk lunatic spout off a nonsensical comment. It was the truth.

  “Looking forward to seeing Matt.” I nodded, inviting further build-up.

  “I know, right?” the girl said.

  “Fat Matt, the water rat, we call him…” I threw a thumb over my shoulder, realizing I’d just painted myself into a corner.

  “Oh, you must work with Matt down at the center, that urban project. What’s it called?” She asked, her hand touching my arm.

  I ignored the urban remark, and jumped in headfirst, figuring at this stage I at least was going to visit the twelfth floor. “Matt and I have been spending a fair amount of time building houses, working with the good folks at Habitat for Humanity.”

  She turned her head, nudging her significant other with an elbow, and he finally spoke up.

  “I need to get involved in the community more. Do you mind introducing me to the right folks? Maybe I can join you and Matt.” He looked at the girl, who gave an approving nod.

  “We need all the help we can get. Can you swing a hammer?” I asked, smiling.

  “That might be all I can do,” he replied.

  The girl eyed the bottle of wine. “It’s good to see we won’t be the only people walking in with a gift. You see?” She elbowed the man again, and he winced this time, giving her an annoyed look. “What do they expect? They invite us to these lavish parties and what are we supposed to do, not bring a housewarming gift?” She spurted a chortle.