No way was I touching that topic tonight. Alisa would have to work her research magic, find the pool boy, and determine if there was any truth to it before I confronted Darla—who I still hoped would be a paying client. The two thoughts obviously didn’t mesh well together, though.
“Actually, it was Greg who saved his ass.”
“Greg?”
“Greg Harris, Evergreen’s head of communications. With the stock price and the company’s reputation taking hit after hit, on top of negotiating the acquisition of a smaller competitor, dealing with at least two foreign governments who had changed the terms of their contracts without justification…I think Albert couldn’t get his head wrapped around a strategy on how to deal with the tree-huggers. Until Greg stepped up. He’s a good man, someone you always want at your side. As opposed to just responding to the allegations, Greg took a proactive approach. He was all about a strong offense,” she said, shaking a finger, apparently infused with a shot of energy.
“A strong offense,” I repeated.
“He presented a sweeping public relations campaign to create a new reputation for Evergreen to the Board, hitting every media out there, including mole bloggers who they paid on the side to make it look like at least some of this new, positive vibe was a homegrown, grassroots effort. Truly, it was a genius move.”
“I’m assuming it worked.”
“Brilliantly. It took a couple of months and several million dollars, but the number of protestors slowly dropped, as did the lawsuits, online attacks. They couldn’t deal with the heavy artillery from Greg’s PR machine.”
I made a mental note about her seeming infatuation with the brilliance of one Greg Harris. It could all be nothing more than supporting a victory for her husband’s company. Or it could be something completely different. Alisa’s voice swept through my mind again. “Aren’t we trying to get paying clients?”
I swallowed back a chortle. “So, I guess we’ve checked environmental groups off the list of folks who recently might be viewed as a threat to Albert?”
“I guess so.” Her eyes questioned the validity of my assessment.
“Not convinced?”
“I can’t say anything for certain. But a few weeks ago Albert hired a security guard to stand watch at night.”
“Albert didn’t give you a reason?”
“When I asked him about it, he actually laughed at himself, saying he was probably just being paranoid, but he wanted to make sure his family was safe. Turns out he was the one who wasn’t safe.”
She pulled a tissue from a box and dabbed the corners of her eyes.
“Sorry I’m such a mess. But I know you need to get something in writing. That is why you’re here?”
Once again, her perceptiveness caught me by surprise. I rested my elbows on my knees. “Do you want me to try to supplement the police effort to find the perpetrator who killed your husband or who might have been involved?”
I had to be blunt, only to show if I took this case I’d let the truth dictate my path. I would not allow my work to become a PR campaign for Darla. I didn’t work that way. I couldn’t work that way.
“From the sound of it, you think his murder could be…more involved?”
“At this stage, I don’t rule out any scenario. The information you provided tonight was helpful. But you must know if I take this case, my firm will investigate everyone, and I mean everyone who has any connection to Albert.”
Her lips parted, and she twirled a strand of hair. “Me included?”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She reached over and extended an arm. “Shake on it?”
I got out of my seat and shook her hand. “I’ll have my, uh…partner, Alisa, email you a contract, just to make it official.”
“I’ll sign it tonight.”
“Hey, Mom, have you seen my baseball?” Jared lumbered into the living room, not as agitated as he was earlier.
“Oh, hey, Jared. I have something I want to show you when you have a minute,” I said.
“Sure.” He paused, then glanced at his mom.
“I think I last saw it on the kitchen bar, dear, near the caddy holding all of our cell phones and tablets.”
Jared ambled back into the living room, a smile on his face, tossing his autographed Clayton Kershaw baseball. Lifting from my chair, I walked to the kitchen table and picked up a thick book.
“Is that the book you were telling me about? Talks about the great Bob Gibson?” Jared asked, leaning down to the open book on the table.
“Did you know that Denny McClain won thirty games that season? He was the last pitcher to win thirty games.”
“I had no idea.” Jared’s eyes opened wide with interest.
“Were you aware of the silent demonstration of two black athletes at the Summer Olympic Games in Mexico City?”
“I think I recall something about black power.”
I chuckled. “It’s all detailed in this book. But this isn’t all about sports. It bridges sports into other important events. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated, then two months later Robert Kennedy was killed while campaigning in Los Angeles. There were riots in Chicago, demonstrations all over the country. President Lyndon Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act. A time that impacted so many people then, and even now. The summer of 1968.”
Closing the book, I handed it the kid who’d just lost his dad.
“You letting me borrow it?”
“If you promise to read all of it, it’s yours to keep.”
Jared lunged forward and wrapped his arms around my chest. I could see his mother looking my way, bringing a tissue to her face. Then she mouthed, “Thank you.” I nodded and patted his back, then he ran over to his mother and nestled against her. “Hey, Mom, where were you and Dad when Bobby Kennedy was assassinated?” They skimmed the book, Darla truly engaged in her kid’s life for a change.
“Mr. Adams, can I get you a drink now?” Helen stood at the sink, washing dishes by hand. That woman never stopped moving.
“It’s Booker. But thanks anyway. I’ll be leaving here in a minute.”
Turning to the windows, I assessed the current weather conditions. Rain whipped across the back in sheets, almost horizontal during some swells. Skies flashed briefly, and thunder had calmed to a somber growl.
Suddenly, motion. Yellow. I took a step forward, opened the shutter even wider.
There it was again. I squinted, moving my head to see if the poor visibility had tricked my eyes. Out of the gray haze, a person in yellow was stepping tree to tree, trying to hide their movement, it appeared.
Without thinking, I rushed to my left and swung open the back door.
“Call nine-one-one!” I yelled and jumped onto the patio then down the steps in one giant leap. Already soaked head to toe, I slowed down, narrowed my eyes, searching for the target. Swinging my elbow against my torso, I was reminded I’d left my Sig Saur in the safe at home. I ignored the ping of danger in the back of my mind and darted back into a full sprint, racing around the enormous pool, so large it felt like I was running the first turn on my old high school track.
A pool chair. I leaped at the last second, my boot clipping the edge. I stumbled, used my hand to stay upright, and kept churning my legs. Weaving around two tables, an umbrella, and a float that had just blown across the flagstone, I regained my stride. The rush of the driving rain had silenced the smack of my shoes as I spotted the person in yellow heading toward the canopy, now flapping in the wind. I had to get to him before he realized I was coming after him, before he could pull out a weapon.
Just at the edge of the brush, I leaped outward, knowing the sound of my boot crunching twigs, leaves, and anything else in my path would announce my arrival. Landing on one leg, I thrust my arms up, launching my body as if I’d just made the final leap of a triple jump. As I floated through wet air, he spotted me just as he crouched down, I watched his hand reach behind his body, and my heart erupted in my chest, hop
ing I’d take him out before he could swing the firearm around and shoot me point-blank.
I hit the earth with reckless abandon, yelling at the top of my lungs just as my boot kicked his moving arm. I swung my elbow into his face, connecting with the bridge of his nose, stunning him. Without hesitating, I jumped on top of him and started throwing punches with all I had, my eyes searching for a weapon.
Hands covered his face. Thick hands. Chubby hands. A scream. It was coming from the man.
“Booker!”
A quick glance behind me. It was Darla, running in my direction, her black dress a wet rag, no shoes, her hair a soaking mop, makeup smeared to hell. She looked like the cover to a horror novel.
“Help!” the man said, and I stopped punching.
Darla grabbed my shoulder, her lungs gasping for air. “Stop, Booker, please.”
“Mom, Booker!” I heard a girl’s voice. Sophi.
“Mom!” This time it was Jared. Within seconds, the rain-soaked family arced around me, all leaning on their knees.
“That’s Tyler, our security guard,” Darla finally yelled over the howling storm.
I grabbed his wrists, pulled them away from his face.
“Tyler? NorthPark Tyler?” I almost couldn’t believe my eyes, but then I surveyed his outfit—the yellow rain slicker covering his security-guard hat.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” I screamed over the rain.
“I think you broke my nose.”
I saw blood smeared on his face, his hands. I jumped up, then helped him stand.
“Let’s get him to the house,” I said to Darla.
She nodded, and the kids each took a Tyler elbow and guided him back through the pool area, strolling at a slow pace as if it was a normal spring evening. Finally under the cover of the back porch, Tyler sat on a green, padded lattice chair, his head leaning backward.
“Sophi, get the stacks of towels from the guest closet, quick. Jared, we need an ice pack.”
Each kid nodded confirmation and ran off. Discarding my weighted, rain-soaked jacket, I approached the pear-shaped security guard, his hand cupped against his nostrils.
“Sorry about the punch, Tyler.”
He tried opening his mouth, but his face bunched up. Then I noticed two cuts on his forehead, a pair of black and blue eyes, and another bruise on the side of his chin. There’s no way I did that much damage. Or had I?
“Man, are you okay?”
Closing his eyes for a moment, Tyler finally spoke. “I saw my life flash before my eyes the other day. Then, Mr. Yates was murdered right behind me. God, I’ll never forget those sounds.”
“Wait, you were the one who was tied up?”
“The one and only.”
Dammit. Had Alisa told me that Tyler, the security director from NorthPark Center, was the Yates security guard who’d been assaulted and tied up by the person who killed Albert? I was either pissed at her for not communicating key facts in the case, or at myself for not paying attention.
The kids jumped through the open door, handing Darla the towels and ice pack. Sophi also had a roll of paper towels and what looked like a tube of makeup remover pads.
“I thought these might help stop the bleeding,” she said, leaning over and taking care of Tyler.
While it was odd to see Sophi in a caretaking mode, I didn’t interrupt her until Tyler seemed more settled.
“What happened at NorthPark?” I finally asked.
“Remember that Darth Maul shoe thief? He sued us, just like I thought he would. Management blamed me for not training my people better, and they fired me. But things happen for a reason I guess. I ran into Mr. Yates over at the firing range. We got to talking, and the next thing you know, I’ve got a nice job here. What I thought would be easy-peasy. Guess I was wrong about that.”
“So, can I ask what you’re doing back here, at night, in the middle of a storm?”
He sighed, shaking his head. “I was at home healing up, searching the Internet for a security job, and then I realized I couldn’t find my watch. My wife gave it to me for our anniversary last year. So I got in my car and came over here, figuring it was lost in the brush by the pool shed somewhere. I didn’t want to bother anyone. Calling ahead might have been the wise thing to do, huh?”
“You’re welcome here anytime, Tyler,” Darla said, bringing her kids closer to her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Yates.”
Darla looked my way. “Maybe I should take up the offer from the Dallas Police Department, putting an officer at the house and one at the driveway entrance?”
“I didn’t know they offered. But in my official capacity as your private investigator, yes, please allow the DPD to put officers on your property.”
A couple of minutes passed. Tyler’s egg-yolk-colored slicker was now in a pile next to my jacket, and he was wrapped in towels like the rest of us. Makeup remover pads were stuffed up each nostril and an ice pack sloped across the bridge of his nose.
“The ice actually feels pretty good under my swollen eye. Thank you, Sophi, Jared. You guys are the best.”
Darla had an arm around each of her children, and she kissed the tops of their heads, closing her eyes with each moment. I knew the feeling with my Samantha.
I looked over at the window and saw Helen looking to heaven above, holding up two hands, a smile covering her face. I was right there with her.
10
A honking snort came from the top of the stairs, and Nancy Fitzwater prepared herself for the walking head cold, Marty.
Plodding down the last set of stairs at the Richardson Public Library, Marty’s swollen eyes came alive when he saw Nancy, who was about fifteen years his junior.
“Hi, Marty. Another Friday night at the library? Some people might start wondering about you.” Nancy teased the retired postal worker. Anything to lift his spirits. She wasn’t sure if he had any other physical ailments, but she couldn’t recall a Friday night in the last six months when he’d waltzed into the two-story building without a red nose and a fist full of tissues.
“It’s the perfect way to spend a weekend, what can I say.” He held out his arms, his face squeezing out a smile. Wearing his typical drab gray sweater, which drooped from all the cold medication he stuffed in the pockets, Marty crinkled his nose, then panted three times.
By sheer instinct, Nancy’s feet kicked off the back of the desk, launching her six feet in the opposite direction, clear of the soon-to-erupt germ mushroom cloud.
Ha chew!
“Marty, you need to learn to sneeze into your elbow, like this.” Nancy mimicked the move, as she had every week for the last six months. She’d never been blessed to have kids, but damn, Marty came awful close. Too bad he wasn’t a cute little ball of baby fat and about sixty-four years younger. Geez, she was really stretching it now.
“Six books, Marty. That’s a lot even by your standards.”
He turned and blew into a tissue, emitting a trombone-like sound. “What’s the saying about living vicariously through all the characters and stories? Well, for an old, lonely guy who doesn’t have much money and has spent his entire adult life delivering mail in one city, reading books takes my breath away over and over again.”
Bringing a hand to her chest, Nancy shook her head and smiled, part of her feeling sorry for Marty, while also realizing they shared a similar position in life. They’d fallen in love with books at least partially to help compensate for not having that special someone in their lives, not experiencing the tremendous peaks and valleys that create remarkable adventures. Majoring in creative writing from the University of Houston over twenty-five years earlier, Nancy had always imagined she’d pen novels, most likely focusing on historical fiction. But while she dabbled a few notes here and there over the years, she realized that her approach to life—taking no risks, always playing it safe—had left her with a cupboard barren of experiences to draw from.
At age fifty-one, she hadn’t been on a date in almost five years.
The few invitations during that period had come from people just like Marty. She’d always hoped a Dr. McDreamy would saunter through the doors, sweep her off her feet, and take her away to exotic locations full of romance and adventure.
Unfortunately, she was a pragmatist, and she struggled at even keeping her fantasies alive longer than a few chapters in an engrossing book.
“I’m right there with you, Marty.” Nancy lifted her readers from the chain hanging around her neck, placing the metal-rimmed glasses on the bridge of her diminutive nose, then went through the process of thumbing through each book and scanning them into the computer system.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, reaching for Marty’s library card that he’d already placed on the counter. It looked like it had gone a few rounds in the washing machine, or possibly was dropped in boiling water. She held it up, comparing Marty of today with the photo on the laminated card.
“Umm. Marty, if you show this as identification to vote, people are going to wonder if you’re a plant by the other political party.”
Forcing out another horn-tooting nose blow, Marty’s face looked like it might explode from the congestion. “I’ve learned how to trick my mind. If I keep looking at pictures of myself from fifteen years ago, I’ll wake up one day and actually be fifteen years younger.”
Nancy giggled while placing his books in a plastic bag. “Oh Marty, you’ve read so much fiction that now you’re starting to believe in those fantasies.”
He gave her a wink then whistled while walking to the exit.
“Damn, Marty is like clockwork.”
Nancy’s boss, Rebecca, had just pushed up a fresh cart of books that would need to be catalogued.
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 53