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

by John W. Mefford

  She glanced down for a moment, then up over my shoulder. Twisting my neck, I noticed a red digital clock on the wall, surrounded by a cluster of framed pictures, paintings of ballerinas, trumpet players, and many others. All unique. It had the same high-end vibe as David’s Ritz-Carlton condo, but more tasteful and less contemporary.

  “It’s eight oh four. We run a tight schedule around here, Mr. Adams, and everyone who contributes to the Dallas Performing Arts, understands our mission.”

  It seemed that I was receiving a new employee onboarding speech from the receptionist. I could handle the dress-down, and I’d certainly dealt with far worse, especially during my days at the police academy. I thought if she played the bad traffic cop, then Renee Dubois would hopefully provide a more congenial side of the organization, someone who was hoping to partner with me on whatever assignment she had in mind.

  “Sorry I’m late. Traffic is tough at this time on a Monday.” I stepped closer to the desk, which was free of all clutter, only a single notepad and pen sitting next to a keyboard and monitor.

  “Amy is running three errands this morning, so she can update your arrival time once she’s back in the office.” She strummed three nails with the opposite hand, and I noticed a necklace dropping the same angle as her V-neck dress. Without staring, I couldn’t make out the pendant at the end, but it was something silver.

  Suddenly, a stiff arm extended toward me. “Renee Dubois. Nice to meet you, Mr. Adams.”

  I had to remind myself to breathe. Reaching out my arm, I knew she wasn’t playing good cop, bad cop. She was the cop.

  “Oh, hi. Please, just call me Booker.”

  She forced out a professional grin and began walking. “Let’s go into my office so we can begin our meeting. I have to be at Wyly Theatre at nine o’clock, so we need to be efficient with our time.”

  She led the way, her back arched, her stride confident and purposeful. We passed by an oval meeting room, three cubes, and four offices, and I’d yet to spot another human being. As I turned my attention forward, it was hard to not be drawn to her calves. She must be a workout fiend.

  “Here we are.” She closed the door, filled with some type of frosted, beveled glass. Quite chic.

  While the office wasn’t opulent, it had a refined vibe, but I first noticed the killer view. Situated at the northeast corner of the building, out the left side I could see the Asian Art Museum, the Nasher Sculpture Center, and huddled next to it, the enormous glass tower condo building that had created so much glare into the outdoor sculpture area that both sides had brought in lawyers to negotiate some type of settlement—if one was attainable. Peering through the right bank of windows, across Pearl Street, I could see the red brick and stone cathedral, a miniature building compared to the colossal dark glass tower next to it, the one that had a hole cut out of the middle. It reminded me of something I’d built out of Legos when I was a kid.

  “Would you like anything to drink? I’m having a Perrier.” She held open the door of a small refrigerator that was perched in the corner, just under a series of three framed photographs, all black and white. Each appeared to capture a ballet dancer, maybe the same person, in three different poses. Rather dramatic lighting.

  “I’ll take a bottled water, unleaded,” I said to lighten the mood.

  She didn’t acknowledge my wit, and handed me the water from as far away as she could stand, about six feet. Extending an arm for me to sit in one of two tan leather chairs, she carefully sat in her high-back chair, also tan leather. Using a straw, she sipped from the bottle, and planted elbows on her desk, her hands clasped together.

  She glanced down at papers on her desk, maybe contemplating asking me to leave. I couldn’t tell. But for a good ten seconds, I could only hear the hum of the fridge. My eyes wandered, and I scratched my goatee.

  “How can I help you, Ms. Dubois?”

  “Renee will work just fine.”

  Both on a first-name basis, we were making progress. I noticed a slight accent, something from across the pond.

  “I’m sorry, but this is a very sensitive topic, professionally and personally.” She nodded and I reciprocated, still unsure of the exact intent of our conversation. But I could roll with it.

  “The apparent murder of Courtney Johnson has rocked the Arts District, her production company, any of us who are associated with the performing arts,” she said, her rigid exterior suddenly sounding vulnerable, as if she might have known Courtney or had some type of personal connection.

  “Did you know Courtney?”

  She looked up, like I’d just interrupted her thoughts.

  “Oh, sorry, please continue.” We’d yet to learn how to dance together, but I could let her take the lead.

  “Courtney, no. I never had the pleasure of meeting her. I hear she was a wonderful person.”

  “My girlfriend and I actually met Courtney a week earlier, at the meet-and-greet. She not only was nice, but incredibly talented. I can see why it’s so upsetting.”

  Pursing her lips, her eyes looked away, then she took in a strengthening breath, her well-defined shoulders lifting.

  “I’ll get right to the point. We, the Dallas Performing Arts, can’t allow this horrific murder to linger like polluted air. It’s my job as executive director to ensure justice is served, and then we need to move forward, honoring Courtney’s work and talent with a positive frame of mind.”

  “Your job isn’t an easy one, especially not during times like these.”

  “We have aggressive fundraising goals, along with multiple events and planning for the future. But when something like this happens, people get scared, and they aren’t very giving. They tend to think it’s unsafe to go see a musical. And we know that just isn’t the case.”

  I nodded again, following her line of thinking.

  “Do you know if the DPD has any suspects?”

  “Well, Booker, that’s really the problem. After interviewing everyone that night, and then having follow-up interviews with me, my staff, and everyone else, I’ve not been able to receive an update. I’m not naive. I know they have their own jobs. I have a duty, though, to push this forward. Which is where you come in.”

  I sat a little straighter in my chair and took a drink from my water.

  “First, you’ve come highly recommended.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Fulton and Muffin Cromwell. Muffin sits on our Board. In our emergency meeting two days ago, she thought you would be the right person for this job. In fact, she personally volunteered to pay for your services.”

  “I’m flattered,” I said, crossing my legs.

  Considering I was dating the girl who could have been her daughter-in-law, Muffin’s confidence in me was more than flattering. She’d not held any grudges, which was consistent with my interaction with them at the opera house the other night. I’m guessing she’d made a mental note after I had helped bring in her son’s killer. The Cromwells must be a high-class family, despite their net worth of one point four billion.

  “Egos aside, we need to see results.” She lifted her bottle of Perrier and sipped the straw.

  “Understood. I’ll start working the case immediately. Of course, I’ll need access to anyone on your staff or others who I deem might be connected to this case in any way.”

  “I’ll be as responsive and helpful as possible.”

  Just then, my phone vibrated against my chest. I reached inside my leather jacket pocket and pulled it out while maintaining eye contact with Renee. Glancing down, I found a text from Momma.

  Storms took down half a tree. Can u help ur momma clear it off?:)

  I must have smirked or made some facial expression.

  “Everything okay?” she asked in way that indicated she didn’t appreciate the interruption.

  “Yes, just my assistant, Alisa, checking in with me.” Renee didn’t need to know my mother had diverted my attention. “I’ll have Alisa email you our standard services contract.”


  “I’ll sign it right away.”

  My eyes were drawn back to the pictures hanging on the wall.

  “There’s something about those pictures. Mesmerizing,” I said transparently.

  Rising from her chair with remarkable ease, she took a step toward the photographs, brought a hand to her mouth, and released a light giggle.

  “That was me, what…seventeen, eighteen years ago now.”

  I think my jaw dropped open. I lifted out of my seat and shuffled toward the wall, eyeing both the girl in the picture and Renee.

  “That is you.” I quickly realized I’d restated what she’d already said.

  “Yes, ballet is my first love, my true love.” She stared at the floor a moment, her professional demeanor more subdued.

  Were her eyes glistening, or was that just the reflection from the sun?

  “That looks like a really nice theatre. Where were you performing?”

  She stepped to her right, where two more pictures hung. “We were performing at the Palais Garnier in Paris, named after its architect Charles Garnier. A stunning, inspiring structure originally built in 1875, then again in 1937. It’s one of the most coveted buildings in all France, right up there with the Louvre or Notre Dame Cathedral.”

  The first picture displayed the façade of the building, beautifully designed stone, and ornate detail.

  “Le grand foyer,” I said without the correct French flair, and Renee released a slight giggle at my accent attempt.

  I smiled in return, shifting my gaze back to the picture. It literally took my breath away. Rimmed by gold and stone columns with glass chandeliers anchored every twenty feet around the edge, the ceiling was painted in some type of mosaic of colorful flowers, dancers from yesteryear. I shook my head in disbelief.

  “You performed there?”

  Another giggle. “Yes, little Renee danced at Palais Garnier on four occasions. This particular night, I performed for French President Jacques Chirac and his wife.”

  “So, you’re French…obviously.”

  “Yes. Actually, my father was originally from Cameroon, my mother from Monaco. They met in Paris. Both loved the performing arts, and that passion was passed on to me, I suppose.”

  Glancing at her eyes, an amber color and full of wisdom, I could sense Renee’s mind had gone elsewhere.

  “How long did you dance?”

  Her cheeks dropped a bit, and she inhaled. “Two days after this performance, I injured my knee. Torn patellar tendon. It took me twelve months of rehabilitation to make it back. But I was never the same. I finally retired at age twenty-five.”

  “That’s a painful injury. I’m sure that wasn’t an easy time.”

  She nodded, her eyes closing momentarily, then her gaze returned to the pictures, her mind perhaps reliving the exhilaration of performing at the highest level possible.

  “I had my time. And given earlier events in my life, I didn’t sit around and weep like a weak little girl. It only made me stronger.”

  Scrunching my eyes, I held back from further queries, although I could have asked a dozen more questions.

  Feeling another buzz inside my jacket, I slowly touched my chest, but I dared not pull out the phone. We’d come too far in our bonding exercise, and I didn’t want to disrupt the positive vibe.

  “Thanks for sharing the story behind the picture. That was nice.” I reached out a hand and we shook. “I’ll keep you updated on our progress…and if we need your help in lining up interviews.”

  I turned and headed for the glass door.

  “Booker, yes, one more thing.”

  I flipped around, and she’d already closed our separation by twenty feet.

  “We need to be persistent and aggressive in our pursuit for the truth, regardless of where it takes us,” she said, her head nodding like she wanted me to join in.

  Her professional side making a return appearance, she’d used the term “we.” Renee and I both knew she meant “me.”

  “But we need to ensure we don’t create a cloud of fear or panic. That would only detour us from our mission.”

  My phone buzzed repeatedly. Someone was calling, but now wasn’t the time to reach for it.

  “You have my word.”

  Just as I grabbed the door handle, it turned and in walked a plump, red-haired woman.

  “Oh, you scared me,” the lady said, slapping a hand against her chest.

  “Oops, sorry.”

  “Yes, Amy?” Renee asked, fully locked into professional mode.

  “Your nine o’clock has been moved to nine fifteen, and you now have lunch with the mayor at noon.”

  “That’s fine. Have you received the brochures for the February mailer?”

  Deciding to cut my losses before Renee balked at hiring me, I gave both of them a silent wave and walked myself out while pulling out my phone, weaving through a swarm of people who carried laptops, posters…everyone speaking at the same time. I’d actually missed two text messages and three phone calls from Britney.

  I dialed her up as I waited for the elevator.

  “Booker?”

  “Your one and only.” I shuffled around the open space, admiring two pieces of sculpture, both bronze Remingtons, and found myself drawn to touching the spiked end of a longhorn churning up a dust storm.

  “Okay, good. I just hadn’t been able to reach you, and I…”

  “You weren’t worried about me, my safety, were you?”

  “Well, I…It’s silly, I realize that now. It’s just when I call you, I like to hear your voice. It kind of turns me on.”

  People milled about at the entrance into the DPA, most of the men in a coat and tie, the ladies wearing their Sunday best, and all very animated in their discussion or debate.

  I attempted to keep my inner smile less obvious.

  “Right back at ya.”

  “Is someone nearby, and you don’t want to outwardly show your affection toward your loving girlfriend?” She’d used the terms girlfriend and love—at least a variation—in the same sentence. Her care was cute, endearing even, but I wasn’t sure how to utter the “L” word to anyone other than my daughter. But perhaps I was beginning to feel more of an urge.

  “Something like that,” I said, my eyes diverting to the increased volume of voices from the DPA offices, where I spotted Amy and her orange-flame hair standing in between two sets of folks. One guy was jabbing a finger the other direction. “Drama, drama, drama.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m watching grown men and women bicker over something inane, probably the background color at the next production at Winspear.”

  “Oh, I forgot. You had your first meeting with the executive director of the Dallas Performing Arts. Renee…”

  “Dubois. She’s French. Go figure, given her name and now that I’ve heard her accented voice. Turns out she used be in the ballet herself. Danced at this incredible venue, the Palais Garnier in—”

  “Paris,” Britney said. “Ashton and I went there a year ago. It was magnificent.”

  Glancing back to the Hatfields and McCoys, their intensity was growing by the second as arms flailed and folders flapped, one wagging within inches of a homely looking woman, with black stringy hair and a plaid skirt pulled up to her boobs. She smacked a finger away from her face, knocking her own glasses to the floor.

  “Did you hear me? Are you even there?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I’m just distracted by adults fighting over who controls the sandbox.”

  My phone buzzed, and I brought it away from face. Another text from Momma.

  Let me know if u can help out with tree branches. I can make ur favorite lunch!

  Not really in the mood for manual labor, especially with my new case and needing to make progress on the old case that had woven itself into another case I wasn’t being paid for…I could sense Momma needed me. She wasn’t as young or as physically capable, and I could already feel my mouth turn moist in anticipation of “
the Momma Special.”

  “Soooo, the reason I called was to let you know that I’m ready to show off my little project.” Britney’s voice tilted higher.

  The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. I decided not to step inside, since I didn’t want to tempt fate losing my cell phone signal.

  “Now it’s your little project. You’ve built up so much suspense about this, it feels like it should be the unveiling of a major project. It involves shopping, right?” Teasing Britney had always been fun, playful.

  “Hey now, be nice to your girlfriend.”

  I guess I’d pushed it a bit too hard with the shopping. “Just joking with you. I’m really intrigued to see or hear about your project. I’m assuming something I can touch.”

  “Uh, yes,” she said, letting out a giggle. “But it doesn’t have the same curves I do, at least not in the same places.”

  Just like that, I could feel my body temperature increase. “You had me at hello.”

  “What? You’re silly,” she said.

  Suddenly, more shouting from the DPA offices. One guy slammed his portfolio to the floor and raised his fists, his face coiled with intensity like a shriveled red pepper.

  Padding a little closer to the offices, I kept the phone pressed to my ear.

  “So are you headed over?” she asked.

  “Actually, as much as I want us to…you know, unfortunately I’ve got work to do.”

  “I wasn’t talking about making love. I wanted to show you my little project.”

  Sex had turned into making love. I couldn’t say I didn’t feel the same, but I could now feel my pulse skitter like a jackrabbit. And a warming sensation had begun to settle at my neck.

  “The little project. Right now?” I asked, my eyes more focused on the agitated, crinkled faces a few strides in front of me, although the guy with his fists raised was now sitting on the floor, legs crossed and arms folded. He’d either initiated a protesting sit-in or was simply pouting because he didn’t get the last crumbs from the box of Cap’n Crunch.