“We’ll be back in a minute, fellas. Just need some girl-talk time.” Alisa draped an arm around Cindy, and the pair of unlikely friends walked around the bar into the kitchen.
“Didn’t know they were friends.” I tried like hell to not say anything derogatory about Henry’s new flame, my old stalker, Cindy.
“Yeah, I think Cindy looks up to Alisa, like a big sister.”
Had I entered a world where everything was opposite of what made logical sense? Alisa acting as a big sister to Cindy was as odd as Henry dating Cindy. “That’s cool.” There was a moment of silence, then I said, “Can I get you a non-alcoholic beverage? Justin’s okay with me pouring out a Coke or Sprite.”
“Uh…sure. Sprite’s good,” Henry said, stuffing hands deep in his pockets, his body suddenly tense.
I wheeled around the bar, found a glass, dipped it in the ice bucket, and filled his glass with the carbonated drink. “Here you are.”
“Listen, Booker…”
I’d seen that look before. A look of mournful pity. “Henry. You’ve got something to tell me about…”
Saying the name of my ex-girlfriend—the one who’d murdered two innocent girls because of some psycho jealous issue—was something I’d been able to avoid. It brought back way too many memories. Categorizing her as more of a generic murdering psycho as opposed to one who made my heart bounce like no one else before her somehow allowed me to move on with my life, even though she’d disappeared from authorities and had been on the run for the last few months.
I could feel my pulse starting to increase with every second Henry stood there, a pained expression on his face.
“Come on now. I won’t break. Spit it out.”
He released a deep breath. “I figured you’d want to know this before you read it online or, worse yet, someone from the media sticks a microphone in your face asking for your comments.”
I leaned forward while mentally holding up a blockade to keep my mind from racing off with wild, pointless theories. I even wasn’t sure what I wanted to hear, but if Henry didn’t say something in the next few seconds, I knew my filter would disintegrate under pressure from the dark side.
“News came into our office from the FBI, via Interpol, about Britney.”
He’d said nothing really, but the sound of her name in the same phrase with the FBI and Interpol ignited a burning sensation in my chest, creeping upward. Where was my nearest canister of Tums?
“They picked up an image of Britney walking through the airport in Hong Kong.”
“An image? They don’t have her?” I knew my voice pitched higher, an edge to it, like the rest of me at this very moment.
“She used a fake passport to get through customs, but later, while scanning video looking for known terrorists, someone recognized her.”
“That wouldn’t be too hard.”
Dozens of images slammed into my conscious state, apparently diverting around my mental filter. A cute picture of her lean, taut body scampering across my condo wearing nothing more than my old Longhorns T-shirt, her happy face after waking from a long night of sleep and lovemaking, her crystal blue eyes sparkling under a full moon, and many, many more. Most just reminded me how much she’d completely fooled me and the rest of the world, how I’d finally allowed myself to feel something I thought was love.
But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. She’d killed two innocent girls for no reason. She’d assaulted Momma, and then did a number on me. So many thoughts raced through my mind, feelings of resentment for the beautiful woman with a bitch heart who masterfully pulled me into her fucked-up web, guilt for not seeing right through her to prevent the murders, and even a bit of empathy. Mental illness destroyed thousands of lives, and I wondered if hers had been diagnosed and treated earlier in her life, would she have been the same person that melted my heart…but a truer version of that? I’d never know, and I sure as hell didn’t want to harp on what could have been. It was pointless and would quickly morph into a black hole, sucking me down.
Henry cleared his throat, and my brain awakened from its trance-like state.
“Apparently, she’s changed her appearance quite a bit. Cut off her hair, and she’s now, or at least was when the image was pulled, a brunette.”
I couldn’t help it, my thoughts trying to converge her beautiful features with short, brown hair.
“Even with brown hair, B…” I almost said it. “…she was a beautiful woman, about five-nine, lean, blue eyes. I’d spot her a mile away.”
“Have you ever been to Hong Kong?” Henry asked with a slight chuckle. “The airport is situated on an island, Chek Lap Kok, almost completely manmade, only a few feet above sea level. Anyway, the number of people rolling through the airport alone makes DFW or LaGuardia seem like regional airports.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Alisa and Cindy had pulled up a few feet from us as we were still engaged in conversation.
Taking in a breath, I detected a small but recognizable pit in my stomach feeding off hidden thoughts. The kind that typically festered if left unattended. The only way to temper them, or better yet, to eradicate them, was to take action about the issue.
I forced up another filter, searching for my analytical side.
“Are officials looking for her?”
“The city is so vast, with so many people, they can’t shut it down and go high rise to high rise until they apprehend her. But they have notified all the local authorities. They don’t want a murderer wandering their streets, potentially looking for more victims.”
“Still, even without her signature long, blond hair, you’d think she’d stand out, literally.”
“Lots of expats live in Hong Kong. If she had new identity and a good backstory, she could blend in pretty easily, I think.”
“And she does have access to a decent amount of money.”
“Hong Kong is known for its high volume of plastic surgeons.” Henry arced an eyebrow.
Swallowing, I felt sandpaper in the back of my throat. I poured myself a glass of water and downed a big gulp.
“Can’t they track her whereabouts before she landed in Hong Kong?”
“They did. She flew in from Sydney, Australia. Before that, she was in New Zealand. That’s where her tracks disappear. One theory is that she might have been living on one of the dozens of smaller islands in the Pacific, allowing things to die down a bit while she figured out a plan. Then she executed the plan and dropped off the radar again in Hong Kong.”
“Sounds like a woman with experience in alluding authorities across the globe,” I said.
“Yep.”
“She could have had help.”
Henry nodded, his eyes glancing away then back at me. “Good theory, but Booker, I can see you’re starting to get sucked in. I didn’t mean to take you there. Let’s bring it back to Dallas. There’s enough crap here to deal with. What’s-her-name will always have to look over her shoulder while living in a foreign land. Eventually, she’ll screw up and they’ll catch her. Forget about her.”
“You’re right.” I said, but I couldn’t convince myself to not think about her, in so many ways.
“Did I hear someone say Chek Lap Kok?”
Cindy walked toward us, her face contorting like she was a member of a traveling road show.
Rocking his head back, Henry broke out in laughter.
“Isn’t she the funniest?” He brought Cindy in closer, kissing her on the cheek.
I think I needed my Tums again.
“Get it?” Cindy continued, playing to the crowd of one. “Do you want my lap on your cock?”
Henry’s face lit up like Rudolph’s nose, not from embarrassment but out of sheer lack of self-control. I hadn’t seen him so unrestrained since he’d downed ten cups of trashcan punch at a toga party in college.
Alisa shifted in my direction, a hand to her chin, looking a little like my eleventh-grade English teacher.
“They’re quite a pair, aren’t they,” she
whispered without turning my way.
Cindy started snorting she was laughing so hard, which admittedly was a bit contagious. But I think Alisa and I might have been laughing at her more than with her.
Still in a lather, Henry took hold of Cindy’s face.
“Isn’t that the cutest face you’ve ever seen?” he asked as if he was talking to a dog.
Come to think of it, she did look a bit like a Chinese Shar-Pei. “Something like that,” I said, a bit under my breath.
“Oh, Henry, doesn’t the game tip off in less than an hour?” Cindy pulled out her phone.
“Tip off?”
Alisa connected the dots. “Henry and Cindy are going to the Rangers game.”
“Baseball. They throw the first pitch in less than an hour.” I motioned my arm like I was throwing a ball.
Ignoring my input on sports—what did I know?—the odd couple kissed like wet seals, then walked toward the door, arm in arm. Cindy pulled a red Rangers cap out of her purse and fit it on Henry’s head.
“See you guys. Thanks for the advice, Alisa,” Cindy said with a wave.
Curiosity would get the better of me later. For now, my mind reverted to the fruitless exercise of trying to figure out how to hunt down my murdering ex-girlfriend.
12
“What are you daydreaming about?”
Alisa had just walked into our office and caught me gazing at the lone stained-glass window perched on the opposite wall, my thoughts still in a foreign country, my gut twisted like a pretzel.
“You and Cindy.”
Arching an eyebrow, Alisa gave me one of those looks, as if I’d been too transparent with my naughty thoughts.
“What? I didn’t mean it that way. Well, I didn’t until you gave me the ’tude.”
“Right. You go ahead and tell yourself that.” She paused, then winked, opening her laptop on the other side of our shared desk. With an office the size of an oversized closet, sharing space was unavoidable at Booker & Associates.
“You going to share your dirty little secret?”
“Which one?” she asked.
“It’s not mandatory that I know. I’m just curious how you and Cindy became besties.”
“We talk occasionally.”
I chuckled, realizing she’d avoided my inquiry about how they became friends, or whatever they were. “Can you be any more evasive? It’s like I’m talking to a teenager.”
“Sorry. It’s no big deal. Today, she just wanted a little advice, that’s all.”
Leaning my neck forward, I think she could see my curiosity was piqued.
“Listen, Booker, I know you and Cindy have a bit of history and all.”
“It’s more like a series of creepy events. I kept a log of them in case she ever drugged me and held me captive in an S&M dungeon.”
“Cindy’s got a strange side, I’ll agree with you on that,” Alisa said, logging in to our cloud-based documents. “But at her core, she’s just like every other twenty-something girl. She’s a little insecure about her body.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“And she’s interested in finding Mr. Right.”
“Okay...” Was she alluding to Henry?
“She’s not sure how to act around Henry all the time. He’s a buttoned-up lawyer in a serious job, and she’s not sure he knows how to handle her goofy side.”
“Given her Chek Lap Kok reference, that’s surprising.”
“That’s the thing. She says she can’t control herself all the time.”
I let out the loudest laugh I could muster, then smacked my hand on the top of the metal desk. “That’s a good one.”
“Seriously. At least she recognizes some of her…challenges.”
“Your advice?”
“I suggested that Henry, like most men, want their significant other to be multidimensional, to be able to have an adult conversation, but also to not take herself too seriously.”
“So, you’re sort of her life coach.”
“I wouldn’t use that term.”
“That’s true. Henry said you’re more of a big sister.”
Alisa’s eyes narrowed a bit, and her lips formed a straight line.
“Sorry if I said anything that upset you.”
“No worries. It’s just my little sister. She’s…uh, gone off the reservation lately. Hard to rope in, she is.”
I paused, giving Alisa time to continue down this path. She decided to move on.
“Okay, last night at the Yates Motel.” She paused, giving me a sheepish grin. “The very definition of a dysfunctional family. Did you stay clear of the mother/daughter cat fights?”
I brought Alisa up to speed, including my latest run-in with Tyler, the mall cop turned security guard.
“And he never saw the killer?”
“Nope. What’s more interesting is the fact the murderer could have killed him, but didn’t. He went to great lengths to ensure Tyler didn’t see him. It was a risk.”
“No way this was a random killing,” Alisa chimed in.
“I’m split on two theories right now. Part of me believes someone on the fringe of one of those environmental groups couldn’t take the fact that Evergreen was winning the PR war. He did it for the cause, theoretically.”
“Perhaps you’re talking about Trent Meadows.”
Angling her laptop my direction, I found a picture of a man who hadn’t shaved in a few days, a serious look on his face.
“When did you have time to do any research?”
“Started late last night, but did some more this morning. Trent Meadows has been arrested at least nine times, from what I could uncover. Most of it pretty normal stuff. Trespassing on private property at various corporate headquarters, endangering a crew from a Japanese whaling ship. His group’s website, SaveTheEarth.com, details their positions on many topics, including fracking. It reads like a thesis. Very detailed, very convincing.”
I nodded. “But…”
“Trent has one violent arrest on his record, and it’s a disturbing one. He beat up his wife.”
Glancing at the stained glass window, I thought about all the recent reported incidents of domestic abuse across professional sports. “How long ago?”
“Six months. As we’ve heard so many times, the wife eventually dropped the charges. Even with the local DA pressing, she wouldn’t turn on her husband.”
“Where?”
“San Francisco.”
“They still married?”
“Apparently, yes. By the way, he recently signed a book deal with Penguin.”
“You think her acceptance of his apology was actually an admission of her love of money?”
“I hate to be cynical, but isn’t it always? Or least most of the time?”
I scratched my goatee. “A little cynicism is healthy in this profession.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” She winked an amber eye.
“A one-time arrest for domestic battery. Hard to make the leap to brutal killer.”
“Two letters. OJ?”
“Touché.”
“I have no idea if Trent murdered Albert Yates or not. But he does mention Evergreen in his fracking white paper.”
I held up a finger.
“I know, more research. Just need a little more time and we should see if he has an easy alibi to rule him out.”
“Or in.”
She nodded while typing notes. “Your second theory?”
“Third-party intervention.”
Crinkling her eyes, Alisa finally looked up. “Mrs. Yates?”
“Hanging around that family is like watching an old rerun of Jersey Shore. It’s a train wreck. Hard to not watch, but you walk out wishing you hadn’t. Man, Darla and her daughter can really sling the mud.”
“It’s that mother/daughter thing,” Alisa said, like she’d been there.
“Glad I’ll never have that experience with Samantha.”
“True. But you might have to help through those turbul
ent years when she’s locking horns with Eva.”
I winced, thinking about Eva’s somewhat demanding style. I was damn glad my little girl was still all dimples and cute smiles. The teen years could wait.
“The other night, Darla’s daughter, Sophi, accused her mother of sleeping with the pool boy. Sounded pretty random, like she was just trying to take out her anger on her mom,” Alisa said.
“Last night was different though. When talking about what pulled Evergreen and Albert out of the environmental quicksand, Darla named the Evergreen VP of communications by name. Greg Harris.”
“Okay…”
“She’d been sipping her cognac and was in the mood to share a lot. Greg, evidently, created the PR campaign that turned public sentiment back to Evergreen. I think Darla called it a genius move. She said he was someone ‘you always want at your side.’”
“So they did it that way?” Alisa raised both eyebrows, a smile cracking her lips.
“Don’t give me a visual, please. But…”
“More research. This one won’t be easy. Not often that you get grown adults to admit to an affair. It might take some leg work, following Greg around,” Alisa said.
“It might. I guess I’m open to working a few late nights. Or perhaps you want to get your feet wet in the field?”
“Shut up.”
“Okay.”
“Seriously?”
“Test run. I could even let you borrow my camera. But before you get too excited, let’s first see if you can get more information, just so neither of us wastes our time holed up in a car for hours and hours, day after day. Time is money, and we need to be efficient.”
She gave me a sassy salute, then her eyes focused on the screen, her full lips moving.
“What’re you reading?”
“Just received an RSS feed from this website I subscribe to.”
More lips moving.
“And?”
She held up a finger, her lips still reading.
“Don’t tell me Justin Bieber was just arrested for driving a hundred forty through a school zone, and before the cop could give him a ticket, a mob of hormonal teens pounced on Bieber, and he’s now in the hospital suffering from post-traumatic groping disorder. Has to be something similar, something to capture the nation’s star-crazed attention span. Right?”
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 56