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

by John W. Mefford

  “Hey now.” I extended a hand, and the kid grabbed it and jumped to his feet. He looked to be around Jared’s age, twelve or thirteen.

  “I am sorry,” the kid said with some type of thick accent. Eastern European possibly.

  A woman with dark hair parted in the middle ran up to both boys, taking each by an arm and mumbled something I couldn’t understand, then she addressed me, “Kids.” She blew loose strands of hair out of her face. “They think every place is their personal playground. No respect for others. Sheesh.”

  She rolled her “r’s” like they were separate words.

  “My boyfriend and I just want to see this wonderful exhibit, hear the dedication ceremony. I should have gotten a babysitter.”

  She ushered the two kids off as Maggie and I shifted to the four-foot wall that looked down on the DMA Cafe. I held a flyer in my hand, one they’d given to Maggie and me when we marched into the museum minutes earlier and found a sea of humanity. Apparently, the artistry of Russian painter Dmitry Merinov was a big deal to a certain segment of the population. And after listening to the lady and her kids, it appeared a large contingent of Russians were in attendance.

  “Do you see anything yet?”

  “If you’re asking if I’ve spotted my father…no. But this is probably our best vantage point.”

  Hundreds of city and federal law enforcement officers had likely been pulled into protecting every movement of the president. It made sense. Some might think Javier would target the president. I’d let Guidry and the cadre of government employees handle that awesome task. As soon as Darla told us that Albert’s father was the Secret Service agent in charge of the JFK detail the day he visited Dallas in 1963, a lightning bolt popped in my brain.

  The Russian conspiracy.

  I’d recalled my history professor at UT discussing the cloud of theories and questionable characters that surrounded the assassination. Some had every reason to want the president killed, but who had motive and opportunity? I could remember the professor asking this of the class. It had been proven that Oswald had lived in the Soviet Union for a period of time, even tried to gain citizenship there. Was he a lone gunman, or had the Soviets supplemented Oswald with another sniper, or possibly brainwashed Oswald, as my professor had theorized?

  Javier, as Maggie had noted, came to the United States through a government-sponsored plan to evacuate Cuban kids during the height of tension with Castro. While Kennedy had failed with the Bay of Pigs, Javier must have believed that something would have been different if the thirty-fifty president had lived. It’s the only thing that made sense. In some respects, though, it made no sense at all. I hoped we could find Javier, take him into custody, so we could quiz him. It would stop the senseless murders and give Maggie some peace.

  My theory on Javier’s pattern seemed solid, but humans aren’t programmed like computers. He could do something completely unpredictable, or nothing at all, which is why I’d practically chewed a hole in the side of my cheek as we searched for the man I’d associated with a white fedora. I wondered if he’d wear another one to this event.

  I typed in a quick note to Alisa, telling her about Albert’s ties to the Secret Service, as a man approached a mic on top of a lectern four floors below us and popped it twice with his hand. Maggie grabbed my hand and squeezed, but she kept her gaze on the churning crowd, many people twisting their heads to see the front of the cafe. She knew if her father was in this building, we could have a major problem if we didn’t find him first.

  An enormous poster hung behind the speaker, highlighting the event in a montage of paintings by Merinov. Five or six other dignitaries were also on the lectern.

  “Ladies and gentleman of all ages, we have opened our doors this Monday, a day when we’d normally be closed, to welcome you to the dedication ceremonies at the DMA for the featured exhibit of the year, from one of Russia’s greatest avant-garde artists, Dmitry V. Merinov.”

  Clapping and a few whistles from all around us. Sounded more like a football game.

  With everyone either sitting or standing still, the speaker continued his introduction. But each time I caught what might be suspicious movement, my eyes darted in that direction, hoping, wondering if I’d spot a fedora of some color, or even a Cuban shirt. A little kid sitting on his dad’s shoulder smacked his father’s face. Across the way, a woman jumped out of her seat with a phone pressed to her ear, her heels clapping off the hardwoods in the cafe as she exited the room, obviously with something more going on in her life.

  And they say the human race has evolved?

  “Please welcome our special guest to cut the ribbon, Russian Ambassador Vladimir Ivanovich.”

  Swinging my sights back to the lectern, a pear-shaped man wearing a dark suit took two steps forward and waved. The reception was vocal, but mixed. Many cheered, but I heard a smattering of boos. Just as the response died back, a woman’s voice echoed from the back.

  “Stop the killing in Ukraine! Stop the killing in Ukraine!”

  I tapped Maggie on the arm and pointed to the cafe entrance. The shouting came from two women wearing all black, holding either end of a sign, ten feet wide by about four feet deep. The sign read: PUTIN is a KILLER!!!

  Gasps sprinkled across the crowd, as every head turned in the direction of the two women. The ambassador remained stoic, his chin held high, almost like he didn’t understand the English phrases. I knew better.

  Four uniformed guards and two guys in suits—probably security detail for the Russian ambassador—enveloped the two protestors, ripping the sign in two, rolling it up. When the black-clad women continued shouting, a suit picked one up and carried her like a log, turning right toward the front door exit.

  “Hey,” I said to Maggie as the crowd buzzed. “I’m heading downstairs. I feel too far away up here to respond quickly. I’ll keep my cell in my hand. Call or text if you think you spot him.”

  All business, she gave me a single nod, then continued scanning the open space.

  Descending the stairs while maneuvering around throngs of onlookers, I felt conflicted. I wanted to find Javier, catch the murdering psycho who’d stolen a father from his kids, taken the life of an innocent librarian. I thought about the mobster, Ferrigamo, and I didn’t mind him sweating it out on the pavement just a day earlier, wondering if a sniper’s bullet might rob him of his last breath. I’m sure he’d done the same to so many others.

  Javier’s rifle. From that distance, his aim had been slightly off, but it was windy, and those bushy trees in the median must have obscured his vision. Still, he had the hardware. As I hit the third floor, I looked upward across the rafters, wondering if Javier would use the same long distance rifle. How would he hide the rifle, though?

  My phone buzzed. A text from Alisa.

  Amb Ivanovich worked in KGB; mentored by Putin

  My chest felt constricted, and I forced out a breath, wondering if the protestors knew of the ambassador’s connections. If any group could have been involved in JFK’s assassination, wouldn’t the Russian KGB be at the top of the list?

  I hopped down the last few stairs to the first floor, my senses on high alert. The protestors had reminded me that the world’s issues were no longer contained to one subsection of the planet. Social media had allowed for any message to go viral. Online hate mongers were the worst. Hiding behind a façade of anonymity, they hurled insulting messages just because they could.

  But there was a good side to being so connected. It brought to light suffering and attention to causes that people stuck in their little bubble normally wouldn’t know about, providing a forum for desperate people to spread the word, possibly give them hope that someone gave a shit. I had a feeling those two women were desperate.

  So was Javier.

  Ivanovich gripped the mic with two hands and spoke. “Me and the great people of Russia are proud to call the late Dmitry Merinov a comrade. Many of the pieces we are lending to the Dallas Museum of Art have hung in the lobby at the
Russian Embassy in your Washington, DC.”

  The master of ceremonies approached Ivanovich and whispered in his ear.

  Another buzz on my phone. It was Maggie.

  <><><>

  Her scope could detect wrinkles around the edges of his bushy eyebrows, even the salty white sprinkled through perfectly combed hair.

  Maggot.

  Perched on top of a stone column fifty yards directly in front of the lectern, Yulia Pavlenko waited for Ivanovich to be free from conversing with the other man. She’d waited two years for this opportunity. She could wait another few seconds.

  She swallowed, and her ears crackled as the conversation on the lectern continued, Ivanovich nodding his smug head. Forcing air through her undersized body, she attempted to relax her shoulders. A former gymnast back in her homeland of Ukraine, the tiny ball of muscles had been stowed away in this position for the last couple of hours. She’d snuck into the museum just before dawn after reaching its rooftop four hours before that.

  Two years of intensive training at a compound outside of Kiev had prepared her for this moment, not just her physical development as a well-rounded, skilled field agent, but more importantly, it established her mental foundation, providing a base level of confidence that she could live a fake existence while still holding on to her core values and beliefs. Her position at the Sixth Floor Museum had been the perfect cover. Today, she’d called in sick. If all went as planned in the next hour, she’d return to her job Tuesday, resuming her mundane existence reciting the stories of the life and death of the thirty-fifth American president.

  She could still recall her mother and father’s small farm near Ternopil, a small city in western Ukraine. Money was hard to come by, hard work a necessary tool to help families survive the harsh winters. But people had respect for each other.

  Yulia could practically taste her mother’s homemade varenyky, dumplings, or her borscht. They were the best. She even had fond memories of her younger brother, the little pipsqueak that he was. One image stuck in her mind, though. She was five, maybe six years old, and late one night she peeked into the kitchen after bedtime and found her mother pulling needlelike splinters from her father’s hands. Seven days a week, he worked the farm plus another job chopping down trees, but he insisted on not wearing gloves. Each night his hands bled, which made Yulia sad as a little girl.

  A day soon thereafter, Yulia was horsing around on the school playground, twirling her body on the rusted horizontal bar, sometimes holding one of her schoolmates while her legs coiled around the bar. A woman approached her and asked if Yulia would be interested in learning the skills of a gymnast. Yulia had heard people speak of Nadia Comaneci from neighboring Romania, the greatest gymnast of the twentieth century, and she soon envisioned herself working on the balance beam, launching herself on the vault, dancing to Ukrainian music on the floor exercise. Her parents worked even harder to pay for her training, and it quickly provided dividends.

  Yulia, all five-foot-one-inch of her, worked at the trade as hard as her father worked both of his jobs, but she truly loved every minute. She won several local competitions, then found her way onto the national team. The Olympics were within her sights, and she longed to represent her homeland, accepting a medal on the grandest stage in the world.

  Then, everything changed.

  Saying she could serve a far greater purpose for both her family and the people of her country, the Ukraine Secret Service recruited her into the counterintelligence agency and soon plotted her to move to the United States to perform covert operations for the homeland.

  Resetting her aim, the crosshairs of her AS50 sniper rifle splitting the cheekbone of Ivanovich, she moved her finger in front of the trigger, her mind focused but calm. She’d have one, maybe two shots before bodyguards would jump to protect the former KGB agent, Putin’s former pet. Oh, how she wished her target was the dictator from Russia. Just the thought of ripping a hole through his brain sent her pulse skyward.

  She closed her eyes for a second, recapturing her mental edge. Counting backward from ten, she centered her thoughts on the task.

  Seven. Six. Five.

  Able to drown out the monotone bullshit from Ivanovich, she heard even breaths escape her nose, and she picked up a scent of something baking in the kitchen, quiche perhaps.

  Three. Two.

  Motion off to the side. Swinging her rifle left, she spotted a man pushing his way through the standing crowd, faces showing agitation all around him.

  Ignore him, she told herself. He’s nothing more than a nuisance. Repositioning her firearm, she found Ivanovich again. The window to kill the Russian ambassador was still open, but likely for just another few seconds. She began her counting pattern again.

  Ten. Nine. Eight.

  Ivanovich continued his speech, but she picked up grumbling voices. Keeping her rifle intact, she turned her head. That same man creating more of a commotion.

  Fuck!

  She shifted her scope, capturing the man in her sights. He was bald, wearing a navy blue sweatshirt, but his arms were extended out. He bounced off people around him. Was he drunk?

  Americans can’t hold their fucking booze, she growled to herself.

  Moving to the front of the standing crowd behind a red rope, the man paused for a moment. Her body tightened, and she regripped her hands on the rifle.

  The man reached behind his back, under his sweatshirt. A gun!

  Yulia cursed in her native language. Who was this man? What was his purpose, his cause to want to kill Ivanovich? No time to debate politics. Her plans had just changed. She wouldn’t, couldn’t allow him to steal the spotlight. Moving her finger in front of the trigger, she released a slow breath, then applied just enough pressure, and the rifle fired.

  <><><>

  My heart lurched into the back of my throat.

  Within ten feet of Javier, a crackle came from the rafters. Then Javier dropped, a bullet penetrating his right shoulder blade, exploding through the front of his chest wall.

  Screams emanated all around Javier, rippling through the vast space.

  Glancing behind me, I saw movement, but I didn’t stop. Cutting on a dime, I raced four steps, spun around a woman holding her face in her hands, then used a vacant chair to vault my body over two rows of chairs and a corded rope. Chaos all around me. I spotted the ambassador on the lectern, his face crinkled with fright. I shoved a confused security guard out of my way, launched my body just as I heard another crackle reverberate off the walls.

  My shoulder crunched into the ambassador’s ribs, and I heard his lungs release air. As we fell to the ground, I felt a sharp pain at my side. We were mobbed by security guards, but I managed to touch my torso.

  I’d been shot.

  <><><>

  As quick as a mouse escaping a trap, Yulia scooted up a chute and into the air duct above the cafe before anyone spotted her exact location—at least that’s what she hoped. The former gymnast closed the cage, wrapped the duffel bag strap around her shoulder, and started crawling. Her tiny size combined with tremendous flexibility made this escape path possible. Having memorized the intricate maze, she knew to make three lefts turns, then one right turn. She got there in two minutes, then looked down and found a black hole.

  She swung the bag around and paused, hoping the bin at the bottom of this hundred foot drop would be where she’d put it. She’d circle back later this evening to corral her bag of weapons. She touched her ankle to ensure her 9mm was still there, then felt the blade hidden inside her long-sleeve T-shirt with the DMA logo on it. She released the bag and listened to it skimmer against the medal sides, disappearing into nothingness.

  Three more hairpin turns then a long straightaway that hit a dead end. But that was part of the plan. She’d reached the farthest corner of the fourth floor, a maintenance closet. A quick peek between the metal slits, then she unlatched the door and dropped fifteen feet as softly as a panther landing on a ridge.

  Taking a Texas R
angers ball cap, which she’d stuffed inside the back of her pants, she pulled the red hat over her pecan hair, stuffing frizzy ends into the side as she walked out of the room. People raced all around, the shooting creating the expected reaction. She heard someone speak over the intercom system.

  “Please walk, do not run to the nearest exits. We are evacuating the building until we know it is safe.”

  All part of the plan.

  For a moment, she wondered if her one shots had paid off. That crazy man had jumped on stage, but she was almost certain the hollow-point bullet had ripped a hole through Ivanovich, just as it had the bald man who tried to steal her thunder.

  Who he was, she’d eventually find out. But she was certain he was dead.

  A feeling of accomplishment washed over her body as she descended the final flight of stairs and eyed the front door about a hundred feet in front of her. Throngs of men and women rushed their children toward the exit.

  Suddenly, a team of SWAT officers appeared through the swarm of folks, automatic rifles clutched in their hands moving right toward her. Catching her breath in her throat, she maintained her same pace, a quick walk. Who would ever think to stop a small, young woman in such plain clothing, hiding in plain sight?

  The officers jogged closer, then a pack broke off and raced into the cafe that was still fifty feet in front of her, off to the right. A team of six was headed right for her, two directly in her path, their eyes penetrating hers, their stature growing with every thud of their combat boots. She had the advantage of quickness, and her burst of strength would catch them off guard. She could probably take out one, maybe two, but eventually she’d be overpowered.

  Curling a lock of hair over her ears, she heard one call out.

  “Has anyone seen a gunman?” It appeared it was the ranking officer who had asked the question, slowing a bit, shifting his head to see if Yulia or the dozens around her would respond.

  Perfect. They believed it was a male. There was even a glass ceiling in the world of assassins, apparently. She kept her head down, continued her forward trek, the group of SWAT officers ten feet and closing.