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

by John W. Mefford

  My body hit the bed before the door clicked shut. Seconds later, though, my favorite rooster announced the start of the day again, and I knew any type of peaceful sleep was a lost cause.

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  “Some of the best coffee in all the Caribbean,” Valdez said, placing coins on the counter of a corner vendor set up near a bus stop.

  People knocked me to and fro as if I was just an impediment on their way to get their morning coffee and newspaper.

  “I’ll take one. Anything to get some caffeine.”

  Valdez translated my order, including the extra sugar, as I watched another man behind the counter hand change back to a guy to my right, who had snapped a newspaper open. I tried to understand the forty-two-point headline across the front page.

  “Huelgas Cartel de espalda,” I said out loud, as Bolt nudged his way through the pack.

  “Can I get a coffee?”

  “You’re too young. What does this headline mean?” I pointed at a newspaper resting on the counter.

  “Cartel strikes back.”

  I took my coffee and wove through the crowd just in time to follow Valdez onto a bus. He sat in the outer seat opposite of me. Bolt tagged along, sitting diagonally from me, eager to visit what he called “my church.” I had a feeling there was some angle to his proclamation.

  Timing my sips in between the bus lurching in and out of potholes, the smooth taste of java filled my senses. I closed my eyes for a brief second, allowing the caffeine to infiltrate my arteries and boost my energy.

  “The best, huh?” Valdez said, holding up his cup.

  Booker nodded. “Dominican Republic might have the best coffee in the world. At least the world I’ve been exposed to.”

  Valdez leaned in and cupped his hand. “No one likes to admit it, but most of this coffee is imported from Columbia.”

  “Ah. Makes sense.”

  He put a finger to his mouth, as if I’d been sworn to secrecy.

  “Do you know much about the growing drug cartel issues in the Dominican? I saw that headline.”

  I could see Bolt casually angle closer while his eyes peered out the window.

  “Despite our own issues with corruption, in the last six months or so, the government initiated a task force to fight the flow of drugs through our beautiful country. The government claimed victory on many fronts. But like any good heavyweight…like your ‘Iron’ Mike Tyson, the drug cartels have fought back. I believe they want to prove how cruel and vile they really are. To scare the people. To scare our government.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Yes,” Bolt said assertively, leaning in the middle of our conversation. “I have friends who had no choice but to work for the cartel. They were killed and their bodies thrown into the sewer. No one cared because they didn’t have parents, a family, or a home.”

  A wave of concern washed over me, wondering if Bolt had been swayed by the lack of food or shelter to do the dirty work for the dirtiest of people.

  “I’m sorry, Bolt.”

  “We all have to go sometime,” he said, glancing away. I wondered if he was hiding watery eyes.

  The bus crossed Rio Ozama, moving west. After making two stops, we turned right on Calle Pepillo Salcedo and passed Estadio Quisqueya Juan Marichal. I recalled all the incredible baseball players from the Dominican, including Marichal, a Hall of Fame pitcher for the Giants back in the 1960s. I knew the names of countless other players who had learned the game on this island: Sosa, Ramirez, Pujols, Cano, Martinez.

  Buildings grew taller, the roads had fewer potholes, and generally the vibe morphed into a more modern city the farther west we drove, the bus cutting in and out of smaller coves, its brakes squeaking at every stop.

  “This is it,” Valdez said, popping my arm while walking down the aisle.

  Moments later, the three of us walked through the church’s front door. I could see the modest sanctuary through another set of double doors, a couple of folks doing some work near the front.

  “Let me get Father Santiago,” Valdez said.

  Bolt darted around us, saying, “He’s my padre. I will get him.”

  It sounded strange, Bolt claiming the priest as his father. I had to assume he meant it in a Catholic way.

  A few moments later, Bolt came out, one of his arms looking like he was conducting a symphony, followed by a man dressed in the typical priest garb, a long brown robe, white collar. He walked as if he was balancing a stack of books on his head, and his demeanor was just as even-keeled.

  “You’ve come a long way to find this woman named Britney Love,” Father Santiago said. He sat in the pew in front of me and Valdez, twisting around to look at us as he spoke. Bolt had read the tea leaves and said he needed to make a couple of important requests from the man upstairs, so he walked up and hung out near the altar.

  “She personally killed at least one person, hired someone to kill two others.”

  “Allegedly,” Valdez said, glancing at me.

  I gave him a straight-faced response. “You still have the cop mindset. I lost that months ago. She committed the crimes; there’s no question about it.”

  The Father offered me a knowing look, nodding his head. “You have personal investment in this woman. I can sense your emotion.”

  If he only knew. My stomach churned like a blender filled with nails, jagged memories wrenching my mind.

  “Emotion is a broad term. The friends and family of the people she killed have emotion for their loved ones, and they have a different emotion toward…her. My clients are the parents of her former fiancé. He was blown to kingdom come the day they were supposed to get married.”

  A surge of bile tickled the back of my throat, as my chest lifted with every audible breath.

  “Passion might be a more accurate term. Is your passion driven by love or resentment?” Silver-streaked hair outlined a face etched with a surplus of lines, his tranquil tone giving me pause, allowing the question to simmer.

  “I don’t love her. I can’t love her. But I also haven’t spent every waking moment of my life trying to plot retribution either. I’m at peace with it.”

  It sounded like the right thing to say, and saying it made it real. Maybe.

  The Father shifted his eyes to Valdez, then nodded back at me.

  “Okay, I might be exaggerating a bit. Let’s put it this way. My life was going pretty darn well until the moment I heard she had landed in Dominican Republic. Honestly, even if the Cromwells hadn’t hired me, I probably would have eaten the cost somehow and traveled to Santo Domingo to find her, bring her back.”

  For whatever reason, my mind flashed on an image of the last moment before Henry revealed the Dominican Republic information, interrupting an unexpectedly special moment. Connected at the hip as dusk enveloped our little party in the park, Alisa, my lone assistant/partner at Booker & Associates, and I had just shared a kiss. The kind that was soft, lingered an extra second, energy zipping between us, blurring friends and family who were playing soccer nearby.

  Alisa and I shared a distant past, a one-night stand back in college. We crossed paths years later when my long-time running buddy, Justin, opened a bar and Alisa became his lead waitress. When I started the PI business, she, more or less, got sucked into the whole thing. Not because she was drawn to the intrigue and excitement. Instead, she became enthralled with research and the sense of accomplishment she felt from parsing through mounds of information to find that one nugget that would help us break open a case. In other words, she quickly became my most valuable asset. But romance had never entered the equation. She had her private life and I had mine.

  Until a week ago.

  Following Henry’s disclosure, my mind entered a wind tunnel, and it was difficult to process everything until my butt hit the miniature seat on the MD-80. Even then, thoughts of Alisa were set aside, replaced by the volatile pings of emotion Father Santiago had detected.

  “Mr. Booker, are you with us?” Valdez asked.


  I’d been staring at the beams crossing the ceiling of the sanctuary. I quickly spotted Bolt speaking to two older women near the front of the sanctuary. “Just checking in on Bolt.”

  The Father chuckled. “Your concern for him is quite touching. But Sebasten has been on his own since he was a young kid, six or seven years old. He’s more capable of taking care of himself than many adults I know.” He raised an eyebrow, releasing a genuine smile.

  Shifting in my seat, it reminded me of my younger life when Momma would pull me by the ear to church every Sunday. My bony ass and the pew were not a good mix. I looked like a Mexican jumping bean, I was so squirmy. A similar feeling of restlessness came over me.

  “I’ve run into this woman you call Britney a few times. Just last week I spoke with her at the hospital,” the Father said.

  “Was she injured?” I said far too quickly.

  “She was there aiding a little boy. She told me he had broken his collarbone while jumping down the stairs of her school.”

  I let that sink in a moment, recalling that she’d been accused of having an affair with one of her high school students in West Texas, according to reports that came out after she’d escaped.

  “Father, you have to understand the type of person we’re dealing with here. No one is safe around her. She will manipulate anyone to get what she wants. And if life doesn’t go just the way she plans, she’ll do anything to get her way. Including killing. Do you know what it takes to kill another person? Not in self-defense, but to conjure up the idea and then to follow through on the act. It takes one sick mother…”

  “Fucker.”

  I looked to my left, and Bolt had slid into the pew, carrying a shit-eating grin. Then he realized the setting and our company. “Oh, forgive me, Father.”

  The Father nodded, resting a hand on Bolt’s head.

  “I understand your unease, Mr. Booker, given everything you experienced.”

  Unsure why everyone kept adding thirty years to my age by calling me Mr. Booker, I just rolled with it.

  “I get the feeling you’re not a believer,” I said with a smirk playing on my lips.

  His face stretched into a wide smile. “I like your play on words. I am a believer in the man upstairs, as you noted earlier. But I also believe in repentance and forgiveness.”

  While I knew the world was a better place because of people like Father Santiago, that didn’t mean I was in the mood to present a full-blown prosecutor’s case. That was Henry’s job.

  I tried to swallow, then realized the well had dried up. I smacked my lips a couple of times, attempting to drum up enough liquid to speak clearly.

  “I’d rather not debate her innocence or guilt. All I’m asking is for you to share with me her whereabouts, and I’ll take over from there.”

  “You need to know I’m not even certain it is her?”

  I remember Henry using the term “unconfirmed reports.” Was this what he meant by that?

  “I’m all ears.”

  Twisting his head, he gave me a confused look, then glanced at Valdez and the kid, who had already heard too much.

  “Feel free to share with me everything you know,” I said, holding up a finger.

  “Sí. I just saw a picture of this Britney Love person about two weeks ago while watching CNN Internacional. She had white skin, golden hair, styled like she was worth a billion pesos. She was attractive, but seemed a bit snobby. She had a distant look in her blue eyes.”

  “We heard earlier reports that she had changed her appearance. Not surprising that she’s not a perfect match to the picture from her old life.”

  He cleared his throat. “It’s strange, though. This woman from the hospital, she has some similarity to Britney Love, but it’s not a close resemblance.”

  A tiny prick nibbled at the base of my skull. Was it a tinge of doubt to the outcome of this expedition? I hadn’t given myself any other options. I’d known with a hundred-percent certainty that I would soon have her in my custody and would be working through the process of extraditing her back to Texas. The Father had poked a hole in my perfect little plan.

  But I wasn’t going to surrender my purpose that quickly.

  “She would do anything to remain free, trolling on those she can manipulate. Including changing her appearance.”

  “Ana Sofia’s skin color is much darker.”

  “Who?”

  “Lo siento mucho. The woman I’ve seen who looks a little like Britney Love, her name is Ana Sofia.”

  I let it resonate inside, thinking of the girl now suspected to be Ana Sofia. Adding the unfamiliar name on top of the Father’s doubt, the headache that had been temporarily cured by the Columbian coffee began to invade my frontal lobe.

  “Where can I find…her?”

  “Mr. Booker, why don’t you say this woman’s name?” Bolt tugged my T-shirt.

  “Long story.”

  “I know she is a bad woman. Whether she is the same woman Father Santiago has seen, I can’t say. But it doesn’t change anything. I was told a long time ago to face my fears, even if it was the fear of the unknown.”

  “I wouldn’t call it fear, Bolt. It’s more like being so pissed off you can’t see straight.”

  He giggled, nudging my arm.

  “But I get what you’re saying,” I said, turning to the Father. “So, where can I find…Britney?” There, I said it, dammit!

  “I’ve been to her school. I will take you.”

  His eyes narrowed a bit. Was he protecting this woman, thinking I might harm her? Being the island outsider, I realized I could only demand so much if I wanted any type of reciprocal assistance.

  “Fine. How far is it?”

  “I have some matters to attend to first. Plus, she must finish her school day.”

  I held back the urge to roll my eyes, thinking of…Britney leading a normal life, helping mold young minds. I literally feared for their safety. But I could wait a few more hours.

  “I want to be there when the last school bell rings for the day.”

  On the offhand she catches wind of our arrival, I wasn’t going to give her a single minute to slither away this time.

  4

  Momma always told me that patience was a virtue—her way of suggesting that I needed to dial down my insistence on resolving everything without understanding the motivations and desires of others.

  On that one count, even at age thirty-two, I hadn’t made Momma proud.

  Sipping a bottled water, I sat on the edge of my metal chair in an outdoor café about two miles from the church. I’d reluctantly agreed to wait until school ended before confronting Britney. My mind was already spinning with how to approach the situation, what to say, what she might do when she saw me, how I might feel when I laid eyes on her.

  I also knew there was a risk in waiting an extra few hours. Father Santiago could be warning her as Valdez, Bolt, and I ate our casual lunch. Outside of alienating those who had helped me, I didn’t see another option. Still, it was a risk, and that only added an extra twist in my knotted stomach.

  Lip-smacking sounds came from my right.

  “It’s nice to see you’re enjoying you lunch, Bolt.”

  He looked up while continuing to shovel the food in faster than he could chew.

  “I…I usually don’t get the chance to eat such fantástico food,” Bolt said with chipmunk cheeks. “¡La mejor comida de todo el mundo!”

  Unsure exactly what he said, I could see how important food was in his life. I was glad to help him out. It was the least I could do, despite him trying to steal my bag. I chuckled inwardly, knowing he’d quickly grown on me, even with his master sales skills. But more than anything, he was a survivor. That was something I could relate to, even three decades into my life.

  “Mr. Booker, are you going to finish your meal?” Bolt said as food spewed through his lips.

  I’d taken no more than a couple of bites.

  “You do not like our authentic cuisine?” Valdez scrubbe
d his bushy mustache with his napkin.

  He sounded slightly offended.

  Holding up a hand, I said, “It’s not that. The food is fine, and before I leave the island, I hope to truly enjoy one of these great meals. But—”

  “Mr. Booker is worried about meeting this Britney woman again,” Bolt said, gripping my plate while looking me in the eye.

  “Go ahead and knock yourself out.”

  He turned his head, and I quickly realized I’d uttered another American phrase that probably made no sense.

  I scooted the plate his way. “I meant to say, I’m not hungry. So feel free to eat my lunch.”

  “Gracias, Mr. Booker. You are the best.”

  A car backfired in the street, and I glanced upward. Suddenly, a ripple of screams came from just down the sidewalk. Then two motorcycles screamed in from the east, fishtailing in front of a small newspaper stand. Two men on each cycle, wearing all black.

  I spotted an automatic rifle.

  “Get down, now!” I grabbed Bolt’s shoulder and shoved him under the table just as the crackle of bullets echoed off the buildings. Valdez lowered to one knee, reaching inside his jacket.

  “Left my gun at home,” he said.

  People around us dove for the concrete, allowing me to better see the scene play out. One man with a backpack over his shoulder crumpled to the ground, both hands pressing against his protruding gut. I could see blood and anguish on his face.

  More screams, including a hysterical lady behind me who had started crying and yelling in Spanish.

  Staying low to the ground, I wove between two chairs and a table as the ambush continued. With all the reverberation, I couldn’t determine how many shots had been fired.

  A lady’s head snapped back. She’d been shot in the skull. She tumbled against a metal trashcan and fell face first to the unforgiving surface.

  Just then, I spotted a guy off the second cycle running to a bus that had stopped just before the gunfight. Was he going to mow down everyone on board?

  My chest exploded. Instinct kicked in, and even with no weapon, I knew I had to stop the insanity.

  Taking three giant steps, I leaped over a three-foot metal railing that surrounded the café patrons. Just as I landed, more gunshots rang out, and I dropped into a crouching position. The first gunman was still shooting at anything that moved on the north side of the street. Glancing right toward the bus, the second gunman had pulled out a can of spray paint and had just finished scrawling something in black. I could see people jumping over seats and each other in the bus, trying to move away from the side with the man in black. Squinting for a brief second, I couldn’t tell what he’d written—letters, a symbol, who knew?