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

by John W. Mefford

  The same man who clanged the bell tossed down a napkin. “Drink for you?”

  Glancing around, I thought, Why not? then pointed to a drink a few feet down the bar from me. “I’ll have whatever that drink is with the red umbrella.”

  “Oh yes, our special, Ron de Fuego.”

  “Rum of fire?” I just wanted to stay lucid for my meeting. Surveying the area, I didn’t see anyone matching my contact.

  “Haga dos bebidas, señor,” Bolt said, bouncing his finger off the bar.

  “Really? You thought I wouldn’t notice?”

  The bartender opened his arms, and I waved the kid off. “Just one. Gracias.”

  “But, Mr. Booker, I helped you find this bar. I can see you are here for a purpose. Do you not owe me one?” His voice pitched higher, finally cracking.

  Bolt might act like he was twenty-something, but he was still a teenager. “I made sure the bellman didn’t call the police after I chased you down when you stole my bag. Don’t you owe me one?”

  I gave him a smirk. He shrugged his shoulders, releasing a toothy grin.

  “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

  I popped his shoulder. “You’re hardly a man. What’s the drinking age in the Dominican Republic?”

  “Sixteen,” he said, placing his hand on the bar. “So, I’m really not that far away.”

  The bar man arrived with my drink, condensation dripping down the side. “It’s eighteen. Don’t listen to him.” He shifted his eyes to Bolt, shaking his head while walking to help another customer.

  “Nice one, Bolt. You think you can manipulate everyone to get what you want? That might work on some folks, but one of these days, you’re going to con the wrong guy.”

  If anyone could spot manipulation, outright deception, it was me, given my recent history. And I wasn’t thinking about the legitimate cases I’d worked since I started up my PI business eight months ago.

  His eyes moved to the ocean over my shoulder, then he nodded. “You are right, Mr. Booker. I’ll show you that I can be an honest person.”

  My first thought was that he wanted more time to figure out how to lull me into thinking he was harmless, and then I’d end up explaining to authorities my association with a known thief.

  “We’ll see.”

  I led us to a table at the edge of the bar area, less crowded, not as noisy. Just then, I noticed a man standing at the entrance, cleaning his sunglasses with the end of his aqua T-shirt. His shoulders didn’t fill out his stained, white-linen jacket. Slipping his glasses back on, flesh drooped all over his face. A prominent, dark mustache was speckled with gray, which matched the color at his temples. He started walking our way, scanning the area.

  Lifting from my seat, I felt my chest thump a little harder. I was about to finally hear the scoop on where I could find the murdering temptress who had rocked my world.

  “Bolt, you need to go sit at another table for a while.”

  2

  No sooner had I sat down across from Tito Valdez, an old friend or relative swooped in and literally plucked the wiry detective from his chair, shaking him like a rag doll while laughing and hugging him at the same time.

  While the reunion dragged on, I slurped another mouthful of Ron de Fuego, three types of rum soothing my nerves. I released an audible breath, partly wishing this trip was purely recreational.

  The other part of me was ready to confront the seductive blonde who had killed two talented performers all because they had simply spoken to me. After assaulting my mom, she manipulated me one last time before using my own gun to knock me unconscious and leave town without a trace. A week later, I read a note she’d left me, where she admitted to teaming up with a terrorist who had created chaos across Dallas by setting off bombs, killing dozens. She used her seductive ways to convince the warped twerp to make a spectacle of her wedding with Ashton Cromwell, the young heir to the Cromwell billion-dollar empire…well, at least half of it, since he had a brother. Cromwell was blown up while hanging from the top of the Old Red Courthouse in downtown Dallas.

  A sandy breeze blew my napkin off the table, but I snatched it midair. Sipping my drink again, I peered around Valdez and his boisterous friend, and spotted Bolt sitting at a table, drinking a carbonated beverage I’d purchased for him, yik-yaking away with a waiter. I had a feeling he was convincing the guy to dump all of his money into a timeshare Bolt was selling on the east side of the island in Punta Cana.

  I wondered if Bolt’s parents were still on the scene. He was independent, that much was certain. A survivor.

  I thought about Ashton Cromwell’s parents, Fulton and Muffin, the clients who’d hired me to hunt down their almost daughter-in-law. Just a week earlier, they’d called me to their estate off Strait Lane in North Dallas. They’d heard the same news that I’d been told the night before. Henry, my old college buddy and current Dallas County assistant district attorney, had interrupted the end of a friends-and-family summer party to tell me there were unconfirmed reports that she had been spotted in Santo Domingo. We’d heard similar news a few months earlier about her being seen in Hong Kong. The Cromwells said they couldn’t take the uncertainty. They needed closure and would pay me anything it took to bring her to justice.

  Watching their emotions churn into a boiling mess, I felt my gut implode, unleashing months of bitter resentment and anger, at…her, and myself for being duped. But if there was anything I’d learned while surviving the mean streets of South Dallas as a youngster, or working as a beat cop for the Dallas Police Department for seven years prior to starting Booker & Associates, it was to channel my disappointment and disgust into positive energy that would help me accomplish the goal: catch that conniving bitch.

  “Lo siento mucho acerca de la interrupción.” Valdez waved to his friend while plopping back in his wooden chair.

  “He doesn’t know Spanish. Not that well.”

  Bolt had appeared out of nowhere.

  “I thought you were enjoying your Sprite—”

  “It’s a 7UP.”

  “Whatever, 7UP. You need to be over there.” I flicked a wrist.

  “Are you the po-po?” a giggling Bolt asked Valdez.

  “What is a po-po?” His saggy eyes thinned into slits.

  “I’ve seen many American videos on YouTube, gangsta rap.”

  “He means the police. He’s asking if you’re a cop,” I said to Valdez, then turning to the nosy teenager, “You need to go back to your corner of the world and find someone else to rope into your latest Ponzi scheme.”

  “I’m not a cop,” Valdez said, locking his hands and setting them on the table.

  “What?” I couldn’t help but lean forward. “You are Tito Valdez, the detective for the Santo Domingo police force, right?”

  “Tito? Were you named after the Jackson Five singer? Woo-hoo!” Bolt spun around and grabbed his crotch, adding a final hip thrust.

  “Dude, you’re killing me,” I said, shaking my head.

  Valdez rolled his eyes, then flicked a thumb at Bolt. “Niños.”

  I returned our focus to his identity. “Tell me I didn’t travel over a thousand miles to talk to someone who wasn’t even in law enforcement. Is this a sick prank of some kind?” I eyed Valdez and Bolt, wondering if somehow they could be partners.

  Valdez held up his hands. “I’m a former cop. Was kicked off the force a month ago.”

  “Why?”

  “They told me it was for drinking on the job. But I know that’s a lie. I told them that.” Perspiration bubbled near his thinning hairline. I could almost feel the heat radiating from the skinny former cop.

  “I think we have something in common.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Working for corrupt cops.”

  “There’s a story there,” Bolt said, rubbing his hands together. He grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the table. “I’m all eyes.”

  “You mean to say ‘I’m all ears.’ Not right now. Tito and I need to talk about adul
t things. Go back to your 7UP. If you order another one, I’ll even pay for it.”

  Bolt moped away, then quickly found a middle-aged couple to pester. I could hear the inflection of his voice, his hands a windmill of motion.

  Picking up my drink, I sucked in the last few drops.

  “You mind if I get one?” the former detective asked.

  “Uh…sure.” I spotted a waitress and held up my hand. A shapely woman approached the table and took his drink order—some type of rum straight up.

  “I took on a security job at a local bank, but I haven’t gotten paid yet,” he said, opening an empty wallet.

  “Sorry to hear about your job.”

  “Eh. It’s probably better this way. At least I didn’t get sucked in by the lure of dirty money.”

  The waitress dropped off his drink, and he didn’t waste time taking a gulp. “I know you are anxious to know about this woman who is accused of murder back in Dallas, sí?”

  “Yes. She admitted to it.” I touched my jaw and recalled the throbbing pain from the gun’s impact, something close to an infected root canal. “Do you know where I can find her?”

  “Me? No. But I know someone who says he can.”

  This felt like a human shell game, and I slumped in my chair. “Where is this guy? Don’t tell me, it’s the cab driver who ran over my foot.”

  “Ha!” He chortled. “You Americans enjoy sarcasm. I do as well.”

  He grinned under an extra-long mustache.

  “Can you bring me to him?”

  “Mass starts in a few minutes. He will be busy the rest of the evening. I will take you there in the morning.”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek. “Did this guy’s wife drag him to church on Wednesday night?”

  Another quick laugh from Valdez. “Father Santiago. He’s my priest.”

  Just what I needed—a confession.

  3

  The last image my mind captured just before closing my eyes was a crested moon hooking into the backdrop, just next to the top of an enormous lighthouse. I recalled Bolt telling me that some of the remains of Christopher Columbus were kept inside the monument. For some reason, it made me think about King Tut, which then led to a memory of watching Steve Martin perform at the Meyerson Symphony Center in Dallas—positioned just down the street from Wylie Theatre. That instantly segued into the night of the first Arts District murder. A GSW to the forehead of Courtney Johnson. A professional hit if I’d ever seen one.

  Little had I known that she was behind the professional hit.

  Wrestling with the notion of regurgitating all the memories I’d tried to purge months ago, it felt like a rubber mallet was pounding a wide nail deep into my skull.

  Unsure if I’d truly fallen asleep, I first caught a waft of sweet syrup mixed with a pungent odor. Sweat? Peeling my eyes open, I was staring at an old stone wall. Then something nudged my back, round and hard.

  The barrel of a gun.

  My pulse ignited, flashing alarm signals throughout my core. Somehow, I didn’t move, pretending I was asleep.

  “Si te mueves, te voy a matar.” A voice full of wet rocks spoke quietly.

  I had no clue what he said, but it didn’t sound like an invitation to dinner. Wait, matarte…back in the hood I’d been threatened with that phrase. Kill. He wanted to kill me.

  My senses on high alert, I listened for a click. Another poke, this one just inside my shoulder blade. I had no idea who I was up against, how I could combat this would-be assassin.

  “Me voy a comer para el desayuno,” he growled.

  I think he said something about eating breakfast? Confusion racked my brain. The butt of a gun was inches away from lodging a bullet in my spine, and he was talking about breakfast and killing. Dammit, I wish I’d paid more attention to Eva’s Spanish rants.

  Unable to swallow or feel any liquid in my mouth, I knew I had one chance, and it wasn’t a strong one at that.

  Channeling the adrenaline that was already sending my pulse skyward, I flipped my blanket over my back while lunging out of bed. With the blanket now covering the gun, I grabbed for the barrel just as I swung a right cross to the chin of my attacker. The crack echoed in the barren room, and he staggered back, grunting in sudden gasps, muttering phrases I couldn’t understand.

  I still had a hold of the gun, but he was lumbering about four feet backward, and he took me with him. The blanket started sliding off just as the moon’s radiant glow gave me enough light to see his features—pronounced belly, bearded face, moving like he was older, much older. I stopped my attack, then tossed the blanket to the side.

  I was holding a metal cane missing its rubber tip.

  We both let go of the cane at the same time, and it rattled off the concrete surface for at least ten seconds. I took a single step toward the man, his face now wedged in the corner of the room. I could see scraggily silver hair hanging down to his shoulders.

  Just then, the door burst open, a light popped on, a single bulb dangling just above my head.

  “Hector, Hector, why must you do this?” The woman I’d met earlier threw her arms up in the air, shaking her head at me while scooting up next to the grisly man. She started babbling all sorts of phrases, most of which I couldn’t translate, but I was rather certain I didn’t want to.

  Seconds later, a weary-eyed Bolt darted into the room. “Mr. Booker, what happened?” He shot a glance in the corner.

  “Hoy. Mr. Hector, Mr. Hector.” Bolt now flailed his arms and walked to the corner.

  I stayed put, feeling like I’d interrupted a family moment. I wiggled my toes on the cold concrete, waiting for someone to speak up and fill the awkward silence that wasn’t contained in the corner of mumblers.

  After I agreed to meet Valdez in the morning, hours earlier Bolt had convinced me he had the perfect place for me to stay—in the heart of the city, close to everywhere but still in a safe zone. Skeptical, I considered pulling up a hotel app on my phone and looking for a four- or five-star establishment downtown. With the Cromwells footing the bill, cost didn’t enter the equation.

  But that didn’t account for Bolt’s persuasive nature.

  “Who wants to stay in a cold, impersonal high-rise where people only want your money when you can stay in a family-owned place that is comfortable, laid back, and takes care of the people like family?”

  Call me a sucker, but I took the bait.

  Upon our arrival, it didn’t take long to see that describing the place as comfortable might have been a slight exaggeration—almost like calling the cab I’d taken from the airport a smooth ride.

  I met the owner of the brownstone, Lupe, who initially came across as cordial, but quickly became a bit histrionic when two little kids ran by her desk squirting each other, and the rest of us in the vicinity, with water guns. In fact, she raised her arms and pointed to the heaven above, much like she did when she came into my room a few moments ago.

  In addition to the clotheslines that crisscrossed the stairwell, kids running around in diapers, and the stench of urine lingering in the damp air, Lupe informed me they’d run out of “luxury” rooms, which is how I ended up in my current digs. She tried to be accommodating, but my room, with a single oval window, had the feel of a third-world-country prison rather than a third-world-country hotel.

  The kicker came when I overheard Bolt negotiating a side deal with Lupe as we walked toward my room. In so many Spanish words, I was able to ascertain that he would be able to spend the night for free since he’d brought her a paying customer. She argued that she didn’t have room, but he finally agreed to sleep in the laundry room. I didn’t push it, since it was obvious that Bolt didn’t have a home to sleep in, and I questioned if his parents were anywhere to be found.

  As I waited not so patiently in the middle of the room, I thought about Samantha, my dimple-faced six-year-old. I hated being away from her, even if she had entered the phase of life where she could hardly utter a word without peppering me with umpteen ques
tions, many of which I either had no knowledge of the answer or had no desire to answer. (“Daddy, why aren’t you and Mommy married?”)

  “Mr. Booker, it is okay. Mr. Hector has…uh, these episodes.”

  The man pulled away from the wall, staggered a couple of steps, then righted himself as Lupe held tight to his arm. Bolt rushed over and held him up from the opposite side.

  Strands of hair covered his face, although his eyes didn’t appear to be open. He rested a free hand against his jaw.

  “Dile que lo sientes por amenazar su vida,” she said into his ear.

  Bolt leaned toward me, cupping his hand so that only I could hear him. “She’s asking him to say he’s sorry for threatening your life.”

  I nodded. “Who is he?” I whispered.

  “Lupe’s hermano.”

  “Brother. Got it.”

  A few seconds clocked by and no one said a word, only a light hum resonating from the light bulb above us. Lupe leaned her head in, apparently trying to find his eyes.

  Out of nowhere, a rooster went off in the distance, and my eyes suddenly grew heavy. It must have been close to dawn, and I hadn’t slept more than hour all night.

  A grumble from Mount Hector.

  “Go ahead and say it, if you want to stay in my place,” Lupe said in plain English.

  “Lo siento por interrumpir su sueño.”

  “That’s all you’re going to say to this man who thought he had a gun against his back?” Lupe picked up the cane and held it front and center. “You don’t even need this thing…unless you’re drunk.”

  I began to pick up a waft of booze. I wanted to swat the air in front of me, but I didn’t want to interrupt the intervention.

  “I am sorry for pretending I had a gun. It was just a joke.” He tried to chuckle, but she swung an elbow into his ribs.

  “Sebasten, can you help me take Hector to his room?” Lupe nodded at me. “Mr. Booker, I do apologize. Hector can’t control himself when he has had too much to drink.” They shuffled out of the room.