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

by John W. Mefford

  Just as he turned to race back to his ride, I darted out of my stance, making a beeline for the same motorcycle. Hoping like hell none of the assailants would spot me and shoot me down in the middle of the street, I closed quickly.

  The driver jerked his head my way, his eyes hidden behind the tinted cover of his helmet. Revving the engine, he yelled something to his cohorts. Still on a dead run, I planted my left foot and dove headfirst. Out of nowhere, the graffiti guy leaped on the seat, wrapping his arms around the driver. Swinging my arm as the bike lurched forward, my finger hooked the passenger’s T-shirt.

  I dropped to the ground, my head bouncing off concrete. But I never released my grip. The man pulled right, forcing the motorcycle to wobble, but it kept surging forward, dragging me down the street, rocks and glass ripping away layers of my skin. Just as the two-wheeler clamored over a pothole, the T-shirt ripped, the guy flailing his arms against my fist.

  The next few seconds happened in slow motion.

  Screams mixed with whining engines filled my head. With my shoulder halfway out of its socket, the bike spun its back wheel, spinning a cloud of burned rubber. The sun’s reflection pierced my vision for a brief second as the man swung his arm downward. Then I saw something silver, sharp and serrated. My brain told my hand to let go, but it wouldn’t. Suddenly, the front wheel hit the road, propelling the bike while tearing the shirt some more. The blade missed my knuckle by an inch, slicing his shirt in half, dropping me to the pavement. The driver shaved more rubber, shooting pebbles into my face, as it finally gained traction and sped down the street. It hooked a right and disappeared before I could take another breath.

  I finally heard my lungs take in air, and I realized I hadn’t breathed since I’d leaped for the motorcycle. What the hell was I thinking?

  The scent of blood pinched my nostrils as sirens bounced off the buildings and cries grew in intensity.

  “Mr. Booker, Mr. Booker, how bad are you hurt?” Bolt grabbed my shirt and tugged, his breath spilling out in gasps, his voice pitched higher than usual.

  “That’s my bad arm,” I grunted, rolling onto my side.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I see blood. Help! We need help over here!”

  Valdez appeared. “What the hell were you thinking? They could have killed you.”

  “I wasn’t. It was stupid. I was stupid.”

  A paramedic dropped next to me.

  “I’m fine,” I said before he said a word. “Go save the others.”

  He paused.

  “¡Ir a salvar a los demás que fueron fusilados, joder!” Bolt yelled, a blue vein snaking down his temple.

  I lifted to a sitting position as Bolt went and found a bottled water and gave it to me. For a few minutes we sat in silence. Paramedics engulfed the macabre scene, trying to help those who’d been gunned down. At least a hundred cops descended upon the area. Eventually, two got around to asking me what I saw. Again, my sanity was questioned.

  I couldn’t put up much of an argument.

  Once all the gunshot victims were treated, I let them administer bacitracin and apply bandages to my wounds. Nothing serious enough to keep me from walking away.

  An hour later, Bolt, Valdez, and I broke free from the gory gun-shooting scene, ambling toward a bus a few blocks down. We caught up with Father Santiago, who felt the need to quiz me further about my decision-making. Standing next to a man drinking a can of Dr. Pepper while scanning the newspaper, I responded with my own question, directed at Valdez.

  “Four guys on motorcycles target a news stand in the middle of a restaurant district in the good part of town. Was someone sending a message?”

  He pointed at the man’s newspaper, where the same headline we’d seen earlier now had become far more personal. “It’s got to be the cartel. They’re flexing their muscles.”

  “Did you pick up what that guy painted on the bus?”

  Valdez and Bolt both shook their heads.

  “I couldn’t tell if it was a symbol or letters. Regretfully, I’m not connected into the police investigations,” Valdez said, removing a handkerchief and blotting his sweaty forehead. “Whoever is behind this, it is obvious they only mean to intimidate, like any other terrorist cell. Which means people will die. Who knows when it will end? If it will end. I’m afraid for our country. I’m afraid for our people and the kids who will find no other options than to work for these animals.”

  He glanced at Bolt, who for once had nothing to say. None of us did. Fighting back against a cartel or terrorist cell was like fending off an F-5 hurricane. Inevitably, the destruction would win out.

  The bus squealed to a stop, a foul odor of exhaust replacing the smell of blood and death. I draped an arm over Bolt’s shoulder as we stepped on board, ready to face another killer, knowing she might be more cold-blooded than the men I’d just encountered.

  5

  Laboring up an inclined dirt road, Father Santiago held up a hand, then stopped and leaned against a tree, his chest rising in quick order.

  “Lo siento…mucho,” he said in gasps. Resting his hands on his knees, he let his head drop forward, as drops of perspiration trickled to the ground.

  Part of me wanted to suggest that he loosen his collar. I wasn’t Catholic, and I didn’t understand the symbolism and rituals. But I had to respect his dedication to his faith.

  “Un momento,” he said.

  I peered over a ridge and could see three one-story buildings carved into the hillside, each with front porches, the area enclosed by a wide-planked, white-painted fence. A wooden sign stood about ten feet off the grass.

  “La Academia de Aprendizaje,” I read out loud.

  “The Learning Academy,” Bolt said.

  The Father finally got his breathing under control, and we finished the last leg of our hour-long trek. A beeping sound blared across the small campus, then kids of all ages poured out of the buildings, moving in an orderly fashion, all wearing a uniform: powder blue shirts and navy blue shorts. Some of the kids walked past us, just at the outside gate, others milled about between the buildings.

  “Lots of happy kids. The future of Santo Domingo,” the Father said proudly, a smile on his face.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a woman exiting the center building holding the hand of a young girl, maybe five or six years old. Samantha’s age. Cloaked by the porch’s shadow, I could only see the woman’s lean build and carefree but confident gait.

  I swallowed a dry patch, my pulse thumping in my head.

  Just then, she emerged into the sunlight, and it felt like the knife I’d seen earlier had punctured the wall of my gut and someone was twisting it. Britney, although she was a brunette, her hair chopped short.

  As she angled away from the building, she caught sight of us and waved. Feeling like my sandals were nailed into the ground, I didn’t move, unsure if I wanted to tackle her to the ground, or hug her and ask how she has been all this time we’d been apart.

  She once took my breath away; now she stripped me of reason and action.

  The Father waved back, then led our way through the gate. I followed behind Valdez and Bolt. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, for all the wrong reasons, and because I’d known what she’d done.

  Still fifty feet away from us, she stopped and spoke to two other kids, and I eyed her from head to toe. What the hell? Who is this woman?

  Picking up the pace without trying, a toxic mixture of anxiety, disgust, and bewilderment chipped away at my stomach lining. At ten feet and closing, she lifted her head, and part of me wondered if she might finally notice me and take off running—if it was Britney. With the tentacles of a lethal box jellyfish, doubt crept into my mind.

  “Hola, Padre,” she said far too casually, messing up the hair of a male student, who smiled in response. Even with cuts on my face, bandages on my elbows and knees, her vision swept right past me, as if I was a tourist, or even a tree.

  “Ana Sofia, it’s a great day to learn, is it not?” the Father sa
id, leaning in and kissing her on the cheek.

  “Every day is a great day to learn.” She turned to the boy, placing a hand on his back. “Marco, please tell the visitors what we repeat every day.”

  Showing off two gaps in his front teeth, he leaned his shoulders back and barked out, “Aprenda algo nuevo todos los días.”

  Bolt cupped a hand over his mouth and leaned toward me, whispering, “Learn something new every day.”

  “Got it,” I said softly, my eyes still zeroed in on everything Britney, or a close resemblance to her.

  Ana Sofia was the same height as Britney, although she looked a tad shorter because she wasn’t wearing her usual designer heels. Ana Sofia looked like a schoolteacher, wearing a khaki skirt, just above the knees, and a white blouse that sported the school’s logo. But it wasn’t low-cut and see-through, like so many outfits I’d seen her…or Britney…wear.

  Staring at her face, the cheekbones seemed like they’d shifted, her jawline a little less pronounced. Her eyes. Gone were the sparkling sapphires, replaced by a mesmerizing amber, which, as I just noticed, nearly matched her skin. I gave her figure another onceover. I’d never seen her with such a deep tan.

  Bolt stuck an elbow in my rib, and I quickly realized Ana Sofia had extended her hand.

  “Mr. Booker, are you going to shake the lady’s hand?” the Father asked.

  She gave me a quick shake and a quicker nod, turning to the boy, who said, “La señorita Ana Sofía, tengo que ir a mi clase de matemáticas.”

  “Marco has a math lesson he needs to take,” Bolt said in my ear.

  The boy jogged to the far building, as the little girl held tight to two of Britney’s fingers.

  “What do you teach?” I asked, drawing looks from my traveling party, the pause of silence a bit too long.

  “A little bit of everything,” she said with a strong local accent.

  “Ana Sofia is the head master and owner of La Academia de Aprendizaje,” the Father said.

  Wiping a layer of perspiration from my crumpled forehead, I gave the Father an irritated look. The experience was surreal, in the worst kind of way, and here he was putting on a sales job.

  “I only want to help these kids gain knowledge, grow up to be engineers and doctors and writers, to contribute to society.”

  Shutting my eyes for a brief moment, I could feel sunrays against my face, the scent of grass clippings in the heavy air. Taking in a couple of breaths, I tried to make sense of everything I’d witnessed. I couldn’t.

  “Are you from Dominican Republic?” I asked directly.

  “I moved here when I was twelve. My parents were rather nomadic when I was young, like little Maria here.”

  The little girl looked up at Ana Sofia and smiled, then she began to sway her head back and forth. “Tengo sed, señorita Ana Sofia.” Little Maria pushed out the F sound, reminding me a bit of Samantha a few months ago.

  “She’s thirsty,” Bolt said.

  “I had that one,” I said.

  “I’m so sorry for letting you melt in the sun. Please come inside. I’ll let Maria help serve everyone some limonada de hielo.”

  “Ice lemonade,” I said to Bolt.

  “Great idea,” the Father said as the congregation shuffled toward the porch. “Ana Sofia, you must show me your new digital library. You spoke about it when I last saw you at the hospital. By the way, how is that boy doing with his collarbone?”

  “Pablo says he feels like a girl. He wants to remove the bra, as he calls it.” She giggled and squeezed her eyes a bit. That was Britney, at least her behavior.

  All along, I’d prepared myself for the unthinkable, realizing Britney would do anything to survive. But the longer I was around this person, it almost felt like an imposter had stolen some of the mannerisms and caring tone of Britney. How could that be?

  I felt a tug on my T-shirt.

  “Aquí está su limonada, Señor Booker,” Maria said.

  Lowering down to my knees, I took the drink from Maria, who curled a lock of straight hair around her ear. “Gracias, Maria.” She smiled, rocking back and forth on her heels, then turned and ran back to the tray full of cups.

  She quickly grabbed another lemonade, but just as she lunged a step, the plastic tumbler crashed to the floor, spilling the sticky substance all over the wood surface and Maria’s sandaled feet. Instantly, the little girl burst out in tears. I walked over and offered some assistance.

  “Está bien, está bien,” I said, kneeling next to her.

  She glanced at me, but then shut her eyes and squeezed more water from her eyes, her feet seemingly bolted to the floor. I’d felt the same way outside a few minutes earlier, minus the tears.

  Spotting a sink off to my right, I unrolled a mound of paper towels and dampened them under the tap. Two seconds later I was cleaning her feet and sandals. “Está bien.” It’s okay, I said, and then she grew quiet, releasing a couple of gasping sniffles.

  “Yo también quiero ayudar,” she said, taking a wad of paper towels from my hand. She kneeled on her knees and began to soak up the sticky substance off the wood floor.

  “All finished. Muy bien,” I said, smacking two hands together.

  Maria smiled.

  “Can you say thank you to Mr. Booker?” Ana Sofia leaned down at her waist toward the girl, her face no more than a foot from mine.

  Without being obvious, I tried to swipe a glance at her skin. It was so smooth and velvety I wanted to touch it to see if it was real.

  “Gracias, Mr. Booker,” Maria said, then she ran over to a computer where Father Santiago and Bolt were standing. Valdez had made a trip to the bathroom, leaving the leggy brunette and me alone at the far end of the room.

  My jaw opened, all sorts of phrases ready to spill out, some sweet and caring, others filled with vitriol.

  “What part of America are you from?” she said, like we’d just been introduced at a social event.

  Narrowing my eyes, I searched for the real Britney. For a moment, I thought I saw her, but it was difficult to look beyond the chopped hair and dark, magnetic eyes.

  “I don’t want to create a disturbance here at your…uh, school, but I need to ask you some questions.”

  “I see. Not in the mood for pleasant small talk.” She interlaced her fingers, placing them in front of her body, then licked her lips…just a bit too slowly.

  Was she screwing with me, whoever she was?

  “Mr. Booker, come see how this computer works. I can look down from the sky and see the top of this building,” Bolt said, sidling up next to me. He looked at Ana Sofia and shot her a quick wink.

  Damn, that kid was a player.

  “Give us one minute,” she said, holding up a hand. He shrugged his shoulders and walked back to sit at the computer station.

  Valdez had just ambled into the room, using his T-shirt to wipe his glasses.

  “Mr. Booker, I do have something I’d like to speak with you about.” Her volume had been cut in half. She held out a fist, then slid a small piece of paper between my fingers.

  “I’d appreciate it if you came to our place for dinner this evening.” She held her gaze, her tone serious. Grabbing the paper, I saw an address.

  “Our?”

  “My fiancé, Juan Ortiz, and I both live there. We have an important matter that we’d like to discuss with you.”

  I nodded for a good ten seconds, replaying her words. Did she somehow know I’d be at her school this afternoon?

  The Father must have said something. I eased my neck around, wondering what else he’d relayed to her. I also wondered what kind of bullshit story she’d given him. Just because he was a man of the cloth didn’t mean he wasn’t also a man of cash.

  “Give me a couple of hours to finish up here. You can join us at seis?”

  Despite air conditioning smacking my face, I felt a line of perspiration at my hairline. Could she be sending me into some trap? Maybe she was biding time to make her ultimate escape, and she’d pai
d a group of local thugs to shank me. Clean and easy, at least for her.

  Another thought hit me: how the hell did she get the money to run a frickin’ school? I knew she bankrolled a fair amount from her future in-laws from the prenup agreement, but I was certain they’d stopped paying her monthly stipend months ago.

  “¿Tenemos una cita?”

  A nudge at my side. Bolt appeared, smiled at Ana Sofia, then flicked his hair to one side while leaning in to me. “You guys have a date?”

  “It’s not what you think. Just talking.”

  “I know there might be a history…but keep me in mind if things don’t work out.”

  I wanted to remind him that if she was indeed Britney, his first date with her might finish with his neck sliced open. But I tried to remember our setting and her oddly normal demeanor.

  “Thanks, Bolt. I’m sure I’ll be back at the brownstone before your bedtime. Maybe I can read you a story.”

  His thick eyebrows met in the middle and gave me a playful shove. “Come on, dude.”

  I forced out a laugh. “Whatever, dude.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, ensuring he had that Justin Bieber look. “I watched an American movie once at a small picture show. The actor said, ‘Don’t blame da player, blame da game. Boom.”

  Bolt’s Rico Suave act aside, I prepared myself to be played by the biggest playa I’d ever known.

  6

  Ten-foot stucco concrete walls surrounded the corner lot in the Los Rios section of Santo Domingo, a higher end area just west of the National Botanical Garden. While Bolt had informed me this morning that the line of social and economic affluence started at Rio Ozama and only increased moving further west through the city, that notion had already been shot to hell once today. Gunmen had sprayed a flurry of bullets into a harmless crowd, killing at least six, wounding many more, dragging me behind one of their motorcycles just for kicks.