BOOKER Box Set #2 (A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense): Volumes 4-6

by John W. Mefford

  He brought both of his hands together, interlacing his fingers.

  I didn’t think a prayer was appropriate, but if it was more of a confession, I was all ears, even if he closed his eyes.

  “Booker, I will tell you everything I know about Natalie Lopes.”

  I placed both hands in my pockets while I surveyed our space, on the lookout for any more bodyguards who wanted to get handsy.

  “Natalie and I met on the Dallas party circuit, at an event much like this one,” he said.

  I knew Natalie didn’t have much money, at least not her own. “Was she alone, with a girlfriend, or a date?”

  “Usually she was tagging along with a date, but I don’t think I ever saw her with the same man. It was never serious, that much I could see. Almost immediately I could sense a connection with her. Such an interesting, insightful young lady.”

  Those words had not been used to describe Alisa’s younger sister. I’m sure Alisa would have told me if a twin was involved. Surely.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “She had a great interest in learning more about my culture, my way of life. As you can see, I’m a proud man. I think that was our common interest.”

  I nodded while interpreting his comments. Natalie saw a single man with more money than half the free world, and therefore, she turned on the charm full throttle and acted like Zahi was the most interesting man she’d ever met. And it appeared their common interest was nothing more than boosting Zahi’s already oversized ego.

  “I’m not going to lie. We became close very quickly.” He raised an eyebrow, which told me what I needed to know.

  “Exclusive?” Given the way this guy flaunted money, I was sure his innocent act of being the lonely, single man was a bunch of bullshit. I needed to know if another woman might be involved, someone who might resent a young, Texas girl stealing the attention and associated spending privileges that came with being Zahi’s girlfriend. Or at least the girl riding shotgun.

  He looked at me as if I’d accused him of screwing a goat. “Why yes, of course. As I said, we were close. Inseparable. At least for a while.”

  “What did you do together?”

  “She accompanied me on my travels. I shared my wonderful homeland with her. Everywhere we went, everyone thought she was warm, genuine. A true American beauty.”

  “Was that your goal, to win the heart of an American girl?”

  “You have no idea. Natalie and I…dare I say, were in love. And I do not use that term lightly.”

  He wiggled a finger too close to my face to emphasize his point.

  This guy was a walking contradiction. A jet-setting playboy who was trying to portray himself as a virtuous man only seeking a good-hearted woman. The great American love story—international style.

  Whatever.

  “If you guys were the next Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, then why did you break up so soon? You sound like marriage was a possibility.”

  “It was my travel. It always is. But I cannot help it. It’s what I do. The company has been in my family for three generations,” he said, his mood more solemn. “Honestly, this age thing you brought up. I’m not sure I would have dated her if I’d known she was just nineteen. But once we became lovers, yes, I would have married her regardless of her age.”

  I flipped a business card in his face just as I felt fingernails tickle the back of my neck. Zahi took the card.

  “Sorry to keep you boys waiting,” Renee said, sidling up to me. “I ran into one of our top donors and had a lengthy discussion about creating a performing arts weekend, with performances inside our beautiful facilities as well as outside on our grounds, in the park.”

  I nodded, acted interested. “Zahi and I have gotten to know each other a bit, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Indeed.” His energy level had dropped about two hundred degrees.

  “Just you two talked the whole time?” Renee asked both of us with a toothy smile.

  “I got a helpful hand from one of Zahi’s friends, Nick.”

  “He didn’t want to stick around?”

  “He said he had a pressing matter he had to get to.” I tried to hold back the smirk, but it didn’t work.

  I held out my arm, and Renee took hold while waving at Zahi.

  “Call me if you think of anything I need to know,” I said to Zahi.

  Zahi held up the card and nodded, then walked away as quickly as his feet could move.

  11

  “Daddy, why are street lights red, yellow, and green?”

  Tilting my Ray-Bans upward, I shifted my vision to the rearview and locked eyes with my little girl. She was anchored to her booster seat in the Saab’s back seat, her spastic legs knocking the back of the passenger seat. She’d already created a sweeping scuffmark on the back of the leather seat. I’d have to live with it. Asking her to stop moving her legs was like asking her to stop talking. Her caramel eyes with flecks of orange had a serious look.

  “That’s just how it’s been since the beginning of time, Samantha. Green is good, so that means go. Red is bad, so that means stop. Yellow is in between, so you better slow down.”

  I did my best to provide an answer that would appease a little girl who was growing more curious by the day. Fortunately, she was still young enough that if I sounded like I knew what I was talking about, she usually believed me. Eventually, she’d tell me I was full of crap, but the teen years could wait.

  “But why don’t they use my favorite colors, pink and purple? Purple especially.”

  Her pronunciation of purple still sounded like a toddler, as if she’d been born into a British family.

  Pulling her headband out of her thick hair, strands going this way and that, she pointed a purple fingernail, which looked more like a nub, at the purple headband.

  “I’m not sure, Mittens. Maybe we can go talk to the mayor and see if he’ll change all the lights in Dallas.”

  Cracking a wide smile, her dimples serving as cute magnets, she showed off a missing tooth on the top and bottom. Good thing we didn’t name her Jacqueline, like my PI friend in Chicago, who’d been called Jack most of her life. With Samantha’s grill, she could have been an Irish lass, “Jack O’Lantern.”

  I almost chuckled out loud, my mind interrupted by a quick thought: my father was Irish, fair skinned, light hair. Thanks to him, when I was growing up my buddies called me Milky Way. But it was an endearing term, so they said.

  Color coordination was big with Samantha’s mother. I’d learned the hard way to go along with it. Anything to get Samantha into school with a happy face and positive attitude.

  Once, when I picked up Samantha from her mom’s house, I’d made the mistake of commenting on her outfit, which resembled Barney the dinosaur. Purple knickers, purple socks, shoes with pink shoelaces, a lime green T-shirt, and a purple sweater. Of course, her mom included the accessories, a different purple headband than what she had worn today, and a purple cloth bracelet.

  She looked more like a mutant Slurpee, and I said as much. Eva laid into me—she could curse under her breath with the best of them—and Samantha interpreted my comments as meaning I didn’t think she looked cute. I apologized profusely for ten straight minutes, and her tears dried up just before she stepped onto the sidewalk at school.

  Now three blocks from her school, Ignacio Zaragoza Elementary, I hit the first wave of traffic, instigated by a large swath of kids crossing the street while an old man waddled out and held up a stop sign. One little boy tripped and spilled his books and papers across the road. He started crying as he and his mom chased down the windblown papers. Just when I thought we could resume our top-notch speed of twenty miles per hour, another little girl ran back to the other side of the street where her father held the leash of a black Lab. The girl leaned down and kissed the tail-wagging dog on the snout and ran back across the street…then halfway, stopped to tie her shoes.

  Oblivious to society. That was the life of a little kid. In some respects, there was s
ome merit to not being aware of the world around us.

  “Daddy, where do clouds come from?”

  Diverting my eyes for a split second, I could see Samantha’s hand touching the window, as if she wanted to reach out and touch the puffy, white cotton balls.

  I wrangled my brain, trying to find an answer that would end this line of questioning. “Clouds come from small liquid droplets or frozen crystals of water that float in the atmosphere above the surface of the earth. That’s where rain comes from.” I felt like I nailed it.

  “Crystals?”

  “What about them?”

  “My friend Carlos brought a bunch of crystals to school for show-and-tell. They were all sorts of cool colors. We got to touch them. He said his collection was worth ten trillion dollars, if he wanted to sell it on eBay. But he doesn’t. He just wants to keep them.”

  “Ten trillion, huh?” I ensured a laugh didn’t escape my lips.

  “I think that’s what he said. Maybe he said ten bazillion. Which one is more?”

  “Trillion. Although a bazillion sounds like a lot too. Do you want to start collecting something?”

  Pulling around the corner of Worth Street, my brakes squeaked a bit as I turned into the drop-off driveway. One of the teachers working the area waved at me as she walked toward the back door.

  “Daddy, why didn’t you and mom get married?”

  And here I thought she was going to ask if she could start collecting stamps, or coins, or even dolls.

  “Well, uh…you know, Samantha…”

  The back door opened. “Good morning, Samantha,” the teacher said.

  I turned my head and found Samantha scooting out of her seat, her gaze still glued to me, as if I could provide a perfectly understandable two-word answer that would satisfy her inquisitive mind.

  “Have a good day, Mittens.” I’d choked and she knew it.

  “Goodbye, Daddy.” She plodded to the front door, twice flipping her head back to the car, her cheeks filled with extra air, her chin nearly touching her neck. That was pouty Samantha.

  It hurt to see her upset. But I’m not sure what else I could have said in the two seconds she’d given me. Answering the question about what happened, or didn’t, between her mother and me was akin to asking why Congress couldn’t agree on how to rearrange the furniture in the Senate chambers. It might seem simple to those on the outside, but for those involved—her mother and I, in this case—a straightforward explanation would only lead to more questions. I’d only begun to do some self-assessment in the last year, and sharing all that with my five-year-old daughter wasn’t high on my priority list. It would only create more hurt for her and probably a healthy dose of self-pity.

  And that wasn’t Samantha, at least not in her first five years of her life.

  Releasing the clutch, I glided out of the school parking lot, reminding myself to keep it all in perspective. Knowing Samantha, she had probably already run into a friend and they were discussing their strategy for tag at recess. But I knew I’d have to come up with an answer on the mommy marriage front, and quickly. These days Samantha could hurl a wicked curveball when I least expected it—this morning being a perfect example.

  Ten minutes later, I inserted my key into the front door at The Jewel, eager to make headway in finding Natalie, as well as uncovering who had motive to kill Jade.

  Strangely, the key turned without effort—it wasn’t locked. I pulled the glass and wood door open, concerned someone had forgotten to lock up last night. Didn’t Alisa say Dax had been subbing for Justin? Stepping inside, I glanced over at the bar. All quiet, and my Dax theory pinged my brain.

  My Doc Marten smacked the first step as I headed upstairs to my office when I heard what sounded like the nails of a rat clattering across a hollow piece of wood. I paused, calibrating the origin of the sound. The rat-tapping noise was coming from the top of the stairs. I bounded up the steps two at a time, hoping I’d find the nasty vermin before Alisa got in. She was no girly girl, but she’d go postal if she spotted a rat.

  As my head peeked above the top stair, I was stunned to see a dirty blond mop—the back of Alisa’s head.

  “Hey, Booker. I actually beat you to the office today. Go figure.”

  She didn’t bother turning around.

  “I thought you were…” I didn’t complete my thought.

  “Thought I was what?”

  “Nothing.” I changed topics. “It’s just after eight in the morning, you know. Have you had your two cups of java?”

  She held up a paper cup. “Number three right here. I’ve been up since six doing research, studying the data Josh and I pulled from Natalie’s phone.”

  Moving around to my side of the desk, Alisa finally lifted her head and I saw raccoon eyes. I tried not to wince.

  “Everything okay?” I’d learned a while back that saying anything more direct about her appearance due to lack of sleep was male suicide.

  She lifted her eyes, her face stoic.

  “I mean anything above the extra stress you already feel?”

  She released a tired chortle, pinching the corners of her eyes.

  “I’ve been here before with my little sister running off, no one able to find her for days at a time, or dealing with something that got everyone in an anxious stir. It came to be known as Natalie drama.”

  “Nice pun.” Good to see Alisa could allow a bit of humor into her mind during this uneasy time.

  “I know we have some things to discuss on Natalie. We also need to take some steps with Jade’s murder. Can’t forget that.” I found remnants of dried glue stuck to my metal desk, but Alisa didn’t pay it any attention.

  She puffed out a breath. “I know we need to dig on the Jade murder case. It makes my stomach turn flips, putting her death and Natalie’s disappearance in the same context.”

  “But—” I started, but she jumped in on top of my words.

  “But…we have to go where the evidence takes us on both cases. If they intersect, so be it. It doesn’t mean Natalie will end up…”

  I walked around and put my hand on Alisa’s shoulder, and she leaned against it.

  “Thank you for being here, for being in my life, Booker. I’m not sure I could deal with all of this shit without you.”

  I felt a lump in my throat. “You couldn’t keep me away. Now, let’s talk about what we know and what’s next.”

  I returned to my chair, which released a squeal that sounded like a gaggle of middle school violinists—excruciatingly painful.

  Alisa leaned back in the green, padded office chair, circa 1985, which arched her ample chest in my direction. It was hard not to notice her curves, especially when she wore a sleeveless red button-up made of a thin, slinky material that stuck to just the right places. She’d never lacked in the looks and figure department. And since she’d started putting in hours working for Booker & Associates, filling any number of roles, my respect for her tenacity and sheer smarts had quadrupled.

  I almost felt guilty about doubting her brainpower prior to our little partnership. Actually, while I’d been tossing the “partner” term around lately—calling her my assistant seemed to demean her importance to me and our clients. It was nothing more than verbal volleyball. I knew I’d need to address our arrangement at some point in the future. Just not now.

  Running long fingers through her hair that appeared more frizzy than curly, she kept her sights on the screen of her laptop.

  “Josh and I captured all the data off Natalie’s cell phone. I created a spreadsheet for it, and I’ve started to study the timing of phone calls and text messages against her modeling schedule that we received from Tiara. I also need to pull in what I can find from social media to create more of a 3-D view into Natalie’s life.”

  “You’ve done a hell of a lot in a short amount of time. But I guess I should expect nothing less.” I ensured she saw my appreciative wink.

  She replied with a straight-lipped smile, no teeth.

  “I
’ve got a lot of work left. When I started this, I thought it would be a simple spreadsheet table, giving us the information we need to debate the significance of certain messages. That data does exist, but from what I’ve seen, it just leads to more questions. Which is why I came up with the idea to scrape the social media sites too. I know Natalie liked chronicling herself through pictures that she posted. But I already have one barrier. I found it in the last hour. Well, it’s not really a barrier, more like a large impediment.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An app called Snapchat. It’s kind of like Twitter, but it deletes the messages after a couple of seconds. She had that on her phone.”

  “Think I’ve heard the name. Sounds like an app for teens who don’t want their parents checking all of their messages or pictures they send to their friends…or enemies.”

  “Frenemies. That the new term kids use these days. A combo for friends who they can’t really trust.”

  I scratched my chin, noticing cobwebs straddling the ceiling in the far corner. “I can think of a few folks who might fall into that category.”

  “Don’t we all. If we could only go back in time.” Alisa raised an eyebrow, signaling there was a story in her past where she might have been thrown under the bus by some type of digital attack. At least that was how I read it. I thought I knew just about all of her stories, but apparently I hadn’t been given top secret, ultrasensitive security clearance by whoever hands out those types of things.

  I had to guess it was a committee of women.

  “You said you sort of hit a brick wall. Is it brick, or faux brick that’s really made of plaster?”

  “I did a little digging and found out that even though Snapchat says they delete every message within seconds of it being posted, gone forever, that’s not exactly true. Apparently, there is a way to recover them. It’s just not easy.”

  Leaning on my elbows, I said, “And?”

  “And what?”