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

by John W. Mefford

  “Who gives a shit about your little sandbox anyway? Why do you think it’s called a sandbox?” the man asked like a teenage brat.

  “Who is that? What are they talking about?”

  Now Britney sounded somewhat agitated.

  “It’s too hard to explain. Hey, I’d love to check out your little project, but I just remembered Momma needs me to come over and clean up tree branches that blew down from the storm the other night.”

  Shouting and finger-pointing accusations continued in front of me, but I took more notice of the silence on the phone.

  “Britney?”

  I think she huffed out a breath.

  “If you feel like you need to go help your mother, feel free.”

  Squinting my eyes, I wondered who’d kidnapped my silly, carefree girlfriend. I tried to say something, anything, but I couldn’t formulate any words. I didn’t know what I should say, or wanted to say.

  “We can catch up later. Help your mom. Who knows how long she’s in town.”

  Not comfortable in this position between mother and significant other, I literally squirmed while standing up, thinking of a way to veer us back to our relaxed, cozy coexistence.

  “You know I think about you all the time, even if I’m chasing down a drug-dealing drag queen on roller blades.”

  She laughed out loud. “You did what? When?”

  “Back when I was with the DPD. But I hope you get the picture.”

  Just in front of me, I heard more accusations, some including four-letter words. Amy started bouncing up and down, her eyes squeezing shut. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Another fist pulled back.

  “Britney. Gotta go. See ya.” I slid the phone in my pocket, just as I saw the fist start its forward trajectory.

  Lunging forward three steps, I threw out my arm, hooking it inside the arm of the man trying to throw a punch.

  “Ow! Shit,” he yelled, now bent over, his fiery eyes glaring back at me.

  “You need to calm down and go take a break,” I said like I still wore a badge.

  It took a few seconds, but someone couldn’t let it rest.

  “Those marketing assholes think they frickin’ own us.” The nerdy girl’s glasses slipped off her face again. I think she needed a different size.

  “You IT guys are clueless. Did you hear me? Clueless. You tell us one thing one day, another thing another day,” one lady said. “And when I mean guys, I mean that very generically. I can’t tell if you are male or female. Is your name Pat?”

  The McCoy side of the feud laughed so hard they cried. Suddenly, Pat, the nerdy Hatfield girl, rushed the other side, holding something sharp above her head, teeth chattering from an intense guttural yell. “Ahhh!!”

  I casually stuck out my arm, and with very little effort, I caught her just under the armpit.

  “Hand it over,” I said, realizing my hand felt slick and sticky. I think from it came from Pat’s armpit, and suddenly I needed another shower.

  The girl handed me a metal-encased pencil, her fingers moist.

  “Everyone needs to calm down and chill out. You’re all on the same team, right?”

  Amy nodded her head vigorously, beady green eyes wide with anxiety.

  “Right, Booker.”

  All heads turned.

  It was the head honcho, Renee, a black wrap draped over her arm, her eyes measured, full of contempt.

  The Hatfields and McCoys parted like the Red Sea, immediately humbled and embarrassed.

  Renee licked her lips and set her jaw. “We at the Dallas Performing Arts will conduct ourselves in a professional and courteous manner, on our worst days. We…I cannot accept childish behavior, threats of any kind, or these silly feuds. Is that understood?”

  All heads nodded, even the guy who still sat on the floor. I reached out a hand and helped him up.

  “Thanks,” he mouthed, likely humiliated.

  “We are a beacon of light for this great city, the Arts District, and all the people who cherish the performing arts. Isn’t that why we all joined this team? To make a difference.”

  Faces came back to life.

  “We all have work to do, but we’re here because we love it. It’s our passion. Try to remember that.”

  With that, Renee fluttered by everyone. “I’ll be back in an hour, Amy. Call me if there are further issues,” she ordered.

  Handing the moist pen to Amy, I caught up to Renee as the elevator doors parted. Her eyes, not as light as they were in her office, shifted to me.

  “Thank you for intervening back there.” Her lips drew a straight line. “Nerves are frayed, Booker. I can give all the speeches I want. No one in this arts world will be at ease until the killer is identified and caught.”

  I nodded, then changed the topic. Renee and I walked out together, and I enjoyed her company all the way down to the garage.

  11

  Strobe lights flickered outside blue stained glass, then I heard three quick chirps and a long wail. Fire truck sirens ricocheted off city buildings, followed closely by a smaller wave of honks and distress signals from an ambulance.

  Not as unnerved as when I’d worn the blue uniform, I could still feel unease wash over me, knowing my former comrades were about to put their lives on the line. Even on the simplest of calls, I could recall a small piece of me wondering if I’d make it back to the station. For some reason, a memory shot into my mind. My rookie year back at the station, I was talking all sorts of shit about rescuing a cat from a tree. The next day, news cameras caught me chasing down the aforementioned drag queen on Harry Hines, who carried nothing more than red heels and a fistful of cash. Later, colleagues enjoyed stuffing my supersized ego back down my neck—and rightly so.

  Strumming fingers across my desk, I felt needlelike pricks into my skin. Momma’s clean-up task had evolved into a six -hour workout. After renting a chainsaw from the local hardware store, I learned how effective it was to have a sharp blade—or not. It took two hours solid just to cut up the huge chunks of the red oak. The top third of the seventy-year-old tree had toppled over during the storm. We were relieved the massive tree didn’t crash through Momma’s old rooftop. Too cheap to buy a pair of gloves, I’d used bare hands to pick up every stick, log, and wood chip, which is why I felt splinters sprinkle both hands, including one slice that was buried under a fingernail. Momma offered to pull it out with tweezers, but I thought I’d offer Britney the opportunity to bond with me on a caretaker level.

  Arching my stiff back, I heard a soft rumble from the opening into my office above The Jewel, patrons sharing a laugh and a drink, and I caught a waft of beer. The bar crowd was more subdued on weekdays, although Monday Night Football had occasionally elicited a good number of whoops and hollers. As long as the vibe was generally positive, Justin appreciated any activity that stirred emotions. “Just about everyone out there is an emotional buyer. Especially in a bar.”

  Made sense to me. I’d grown to respect Justin’s marketing intellect. But to me, he’d always be One Nut, a nickname he’d more than earned during a head-on-nut collision with a two-hundred-fifty-pound bruiser in junior college.

  Hard-soled shoes shuffled up wooden steps, and swiveling in my chair, I thought I heard Alisa in conversation.

  “Hey, how’s it going?

  She blew curls out of her eyes and made a beeline for the chair opposite mine.

  “I’m just mumbling to myself, that’s all,” she said, massaging her neck and jaw.

  “Can I help?”

  “I can handle it myself, Booker. You don’t need to come in and rescue me. College punks think they can waltz in here and treat me like I’m a two-bit—”

  “Whoa! Did something just happen downstairs?”

  She blew out a breath and slowly shut her eyes, the white part lingering an extra few seconds. “Three college kids got a little handsy, and when I put them in their place, they decided to disparage my career, calling it a ‘job for bitches and hos.’”

  I pushed my
self out of my chair and marched around the desk in three strides. Alisa reached for my arm.

  “Booker, stop. Justin already asked them to leave.”

  “You sure you’re not telling me that just so I won’t embarrass you?”

  She shook her head, her hair shuffling into her face. “I was about to smack this one boy in the face, but Justin stepped in and told them they should come back once they’ve grown up. He’s just hoping that’s next week, because these guys were loaded.”

  Both of us shared a laugh, knowing it pained Justin at least a bit to watch that kind of money walk out the door.

  I remained standing, as Alisa opened her laptop.

  “Where do you want to start?”

  “The Double Ds and Vincent Sciafini,” I said.

  Her eyes illuminated from the glowing computer screen, Alisa clicked three or four times, then rattled the keyboard.

  “Typing a last-minute note?

  “What? No. The user name and password to our shared drive in the cloud. That’s where I’m putting all of our company documents. It’s secure—I made sure of that before I signed us up, and it has a disaster recovery service built in. So, with our email and documentation in the cloud, no person or natural disaster can shut us down.”

  Shaking my head, I grinned.

  “Is that your way of saying you’re impressed?”

  “As long as you don’t ask for a raise, yes.” I shot her a quick wink.

  “All in due time, Booker. All in due time.”

  Waving my wrist, she took the queue, narrowing her eyes.

  “Vincent Sciafini, known as little Vinny when he was a teenager growing up in Brooklyn, is seventy-two years young. I say that because he’s got more going on than any thirty-year-old I know.”

  She raised her eyes above the laptop for a second, then returned to her notes.

  “The day after he graduated high school, he showed up in Chicago. Followed his Uncle Tommy there, who presumably had an opportunity to partner with someone in a laundry business.”

  My neck snapped back. “Is that a joke? Laundry business?”

  “Fact is stranger than fiction. We both know that.”

  “So true. Please continue.”

  Clearing her throat, Alisa put a finger to the screen. “Apparently, it never happened—the laundry business—and Vincent and his Uncle Tommy worked odd jobs off the pier at Lake Michigan.”

  “Never been to Chicago. Always wanted to see a Cubs game at Wrigley, a Bears game at Soldier Field. I think Britney would appreciate those river cruises.”

  “Vacation planning?” Alisa asked.

  “More like daydreaming. Sorry, please keep going. This is good stuff.”

  Her eyes refocused on her notes. “From what I’ve gathered in reading newspaper and magazine articles, as well as talking to a couple of folks at the Chicago Police Department, just after the Chicago riots—in 1968 for those who need a history lesson reminder—business and civic leaders were trying to piece the city back together. Vincent figured out a way to make money by providing loans for people who had business ideas. Apparently, banks were a bit skeptical about handing out loans to the regular Joes.”

  “I guess some things in this world are cyclical.”

  Alisa arched her neck and popped an eyebrow. “He started small at first, but by the mid-seventies he’d carved out a niche for his ‘loan business.’” She used air quotes and puckered her lips. “That’s when he started bankrolling, and he needed to protect his assets.”

  “Protecting, I’m guessing, was more offensive and less defensive,” I added.

  She pointed a finger at me. “He had terms and conditions for all his loans, with balloon payments on top of the interest if the loan wasn’t repaid by a certain date. And if a customer missed a date, they received a visit from Vincent himself, usually accompanied by two large men who’d rather beat the shit of you than shake your hand.”

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Direct quote out of a magazine article written in 1989, titled ‘Flesh and Bone.’”

  “Is that because he and his henchmen would literally tear flesh off the people who missed their loan payment?”

  “Actually, that turns out to be more myth than fact. But he developed a nickname. The Shark. Numerous people were assaulted, and two were killed, but they never found any evidence against Vincent.”

  Every time I came across a case, or even read a story about repeat offenders or those who had money to buy their way out of jail, I couldn’t help but get riled up. On cue, my neck pulsed.

  “Over time, Vincent expanded into other industries. He owns all three companies that run…” Alisa extended a hand toward me.

  I shook my head. “Can you turn a vowel for me, Vanna?”

  “Chicago River Cruises. If you can’t beat the competition, buy them out. Or, as reported in one article, you offer them a loan under terms they could never meet, then you force them to turn over all assets, company name, everything to you.”

  Turning my head back to the stained glass window, I noticed a cool glow, likely from a clear night and a brilliant moon.

  “This river cruise operation sounds like how he procured Marvel, maybe other assets in his REIT, who knows.”

  “Hold that thought,” she said. “He also owns a trucking business, delivering goods all across the Midwest mainly. But his biggest haul comes from contacts he made in Vegas. Actually, they were old pals of his from Brooklyn. Through a bartering program he developed, he hauled deliveries in return for his Vegas buddies handing over debt from big money gamblers. Vincent used an array of special methods to get people to pay back their loans, both in real money and in sweat equity.”

  “Just like our Harry Specter impersonator, Chef David.”

  She nodded, then waved her wrist with the next set of information. “This REIT is all a result of an FBI investigation.”

  “I thought he’d never been convicted of anything, not even charged?”

  “He hasn’t. The FBI tried to scare him, tried to get his people to turn on him. It didn’t work. After an eighteen-month investigation, they had to announce they weren’t charging him. That was about four years ago. Since then, however, he’s made an attempt to at least act like he’s running a legitimate business.”

  “That’s when he created the REIT company.”

  “You got it. Vincent and his staff moved offices into the Wrigley building in the business district. He also started giving more to charity and paid one point five million to add an additional wing onto the Art Institute of Chicago. It bears his name.”

  Pinching the corners of my eyes, I tried to let all the data soak in. I rotated my neck one direction, then back the other way until I heard two pops. “Never convicted. Amazing. Anything else of note, personally even?”

  “He was married to the same woman for forty-one years. Rosa was sixty-nine when she passed away two years ago. They only have one kid, Dino. He hasn’t done much. Went to college for two years then dropped out. Looks like he’s worked for his dad off and on, but doesn’t appear to be in a position to take over the operation.”

  Shoes popped off the staircase and in seconds Justin appeared at the door, his chest pumping air at a pretty good rate. “Damn, those stairs get higher every time.”

  “Meh. You’re still the quickest white boy I’ve ever seen,” I said with a wink.

  “Was,” he said.

  “True. That’s the same for all of us. Was.” The three of us laughed.

  “Henry’s down at the bar waiting on you,” Justin puffed out the words, then pulled his ponytail tight.

  Checking my phone, I still had five minutes until our meeting time. “Tell him Booker & Associates doesn’t jump when the DA’s office says so,” I deadpanned.

  “Yeah, right. By the way, don’t get used to me being your errand boy. I lose track of night and day downstairs. I need to build some exercise into my routine.”

  “You’ll get plenty of exercise if you
jog every time you run to deposit money in the bank.”

  “Surely, you aren’t calling me cheap?” He put a hand to his skinny chest.

  “Yes, and don’t call me Shirley.” I’d followed his lead on one of his favorite, and oldest, jokes, all at the expense of Alisa, who shook her head.

  “Thought of any new material lately?” she asked Justin.

  He took two steps my direction, and said. “I have the need…” He waved me over. I shrugged my shoulders at Alisa, then chimed in, “The need for speed.” And then we completed our roundhouse five, old-school style.

  Justin hopped downstairs to warn Henry we’d be another five minutes.

  “I’m the one who asked Henry to drop by, so let’s make it quick,” I said to Alisa.

  “What are your thoughts about Vincent Sciafini and the Double Ds?” she asked.

  Plodding over to the floor lamp, I ran my finger down the tan cone shade. “We need to dust.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. I have a couple of ideas, but they need to marinate a bit. Plus, it’s good for Dax to get healthy, back on his feet, and for David to resume his regular routine at Marvel.”

  “Sounds good. Meanwhile, I’ll continue trying to develop contacts in Chicago. Something tells me Vincent Sciafini isn’t going to disappear into the night.”

  “You’re taking this business pretty seriously, huh?”

  “Let’s just say it fills a void.”

  “That’s all?”

  Flipping a lock of blond curls behind her ear, Alisa let a grin slip out of her lips. “For the first time in who knows how long, I feel like I’m making a difference.”

  “That you are.” I glanced at my phone, signaling our need to wrap it up

  “Real quickly, the new murder case, your meeting with Renee Dubois?”

  “Uh. Strong woman of substance, danced in fancy opera house in Paris in front of the French president and his wife, then injured her knee and never made it back. Although she’s still in phenomenal shape. Very focused, intense, and has high expectations for herself and everyone who works for her. Including me now. Actually, us.”