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

by John W. Mefford

  Pretending to read a bulletin stapled to a light pole across the street—something about missing cats, los gatos—I watched a man wearing a ball cap slowly pace back and forth just inside the iron gate entrance into the compound.

  If I was a smoker, I would have sucked in half a pack by now, my brain cranking through theories of what I was witnessing. This was Britney’s house, or Ana Sofia’s, depending on which side of my brain, or other body parts, were winning the blood infusion battle. I chewed the inside of my cheek and tried to fathom how Britney/Ana Sofia could afford to run a school and live in a Dominican Republic palace. The Britney I’d known had family roots from the flatlands of West Texas, not Caribbean royalty, if there was such a thing.

  I took a final glance at the address on the piece of paper and stepped off the curb, paused for a moment to let two luxury sedans drive by, then walked toward the ornately designed iron gate. Halfway across the street I realized the intricate design highlighted the number thirty-five. Strange, since that wasn’t the address.

  A few steps away, the man in the cap turned and faced me, then pulled out his phone and spoke while keeping his eye on me. Seconds later, he pocketed the phone.

  “I’m here to see Br…uh, Ana Sofia,” I said, wondering if he’d understand the English. He adjusted the bill of his black cap, and I noticed the white cursive letters of NY on the front. Flipping a key into his palm, he unlocked a chain that roped through the two sides of the iron gate. “Señorita Campos is expecting you, Señor Booker,” he said, enunciating each word in slow motion.

  Father Santiago had never shared her last name. Ana Sofia Campos. It kind of rolled off the tongue. Maybe that’s why she used the name…if she was Britney, somewhere under that darker complexion.

  “The front door is just around the corner there,” he said, extending an arm.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  The view from inside the gate was stunning with pink, red, and yellow blossoms scattered throughout the lush landscaping, surrounded by exotic vines and shrubs outlining the home—white stucco with a mahogany trim. The detail and finish were topnotch, as good as I’d seen in Preston Hollow back in North Dallas. Angling right, the pavestone driveway poured into a side area, where a six-car garage hulked on one side of the surface, the home’s entrance on the left. Craning my neck, I could see an Olympic-sized pool in the back and a separate area where water snaked down a formation of rocks, spilling into a smaller, kidney-shaped pool, the entire area enveloped by tropical vegetation. Somehow, the entire grounds gave off a vibe of tamed wildness.

  A few months ago, I would have described Britney in similar fashion, at least when we…Why am I even going there?

  I came close to knocking myself upside the head, then found the front door and stabbed the bell, taking in the sweet fragrance of yellow blossoms growing off the vines that lined the arched front entry, at least twenty-feet high. I took in two deep breaths and still had time to hear the end of the bell’s elongated chime.

  “Damn, this place is ostentatious,” I said to myself. I could picture my business partner, Alisa, standing to my right, her eyes pulled so far in her head I would have thought she’d been bitten by a zombie.

  I think I cracked a smile as the door to the palace opened.

  “Mr. Booker, buenas noches.” Another man wearing an NY cap. This guy was shorter, as round as a basketball. I couldn’t tell where his chin ended and his neck started.

  “Señorita Campos is waiting for you in la biblioteca.”

  “The library,” I said, casting a gaze around the foyer, full of marble, bronze statues, and a chandelier that appeared larger than my Saab 9-3 back home.

  The basketball waddled away, and I followed him through a living room, then down a hallway lined with pictures of athletes in uniform, mostly baseball players. We hooked a left, passing a bar, then a glass-enclosed wine cellar.

  “Here you are,” he said.

  Entering the room with stained panel walls, I saw the back of her head as she looked out into the backyard the size of a football field.

  “Mr. Booker, thank you for accommodating my wishes. I truly appreciate you coming,” she said, finally turning to face me, her hands gathered in front of her skirt.

  Part of me wanted to say, “Drop the bullshit acting,” but I hesitated. Something about her seemed oddly familiar, yet foreign at the same time.

  “Sure. I’m eager to understand what you’d like to discuss. I have something I’d also like to cover with you.”

  “Very well,” she said, avoiding eye contact while walking to a small bar tucked in the corner of the room. “A drink? We have this new Chilean red I’ve wanted to try.” She raised a bottle, the spiked corkscrew positioned in her other hand. It glared off the light spilling in through ten-foot windows.

  I assumed the “we” included her fiancé, or maybe she was referring to her New York Yankees team of bodyguards.

  Holding up a hand, I said, “I stick with the virgin drinks until I finish the business of the day. Bottled water will work.”

  Part of me wondered if she should have known that…known me.

  Reaching up to remove a goblet from the rack of glasses, I couldn’t help but catch her calf roll into a ball of muscle. A slideshow of images popped in my head, and I could practically feel the silky texture of her legs that used to make my heart pop an extra beat.

  I just felt a quick flutter in my chest, and I forced my eyes upward. She turned her head, her lips pressed together, as if she were sealing them shut so they wouldn’t release her true thoughts.

  With her wine poured, she handed me the water, then she extended her glass, apparently waiting for me to return the toast. I paused, considering my options. I’d purchased a set of handcuffs on my way over with the hope and expectation she’d be in my custody by the end of the night, making our way to the American consulate.

  “To the pursuit of happiness,” she toasted.

  “To life,” I countered. “At least for those who still have the opportunity to breathe. Because we both know you can’t attain happiness when you’re six feet under.”

  No response.

  A wave of heat rushed up my neck. I could feel my jaw muscle flex and I realized my entire body was rigid with intensity. Breaking the silence, hard-soled shoes clipped off the floors, heading in our direction—someone moving at a fast pace. My elbow flapped against my rib cage, my instincts seeking the protection of my Sig Sauer. But it was in a safe tucked away in my closet back in Dallas. I turned the angle of my body, ensuring I wouldn’t be attacked without me seeing the thug Britney had hired to finally kill me…something she’d promised me in her final Dear John letter.

  Rounding the last turn into the room, the man wearing cowboy boots quickly noticed my defensive posture, and he walked straight for me. At the last second, he held out his hand.

  “You must be the man Ana Sofia has told me about. Mr. Booker T. Adams?” he asked with a strong Spanish flare. His grip was firm, his forearm oddly strong. He held his gaze, as if he was trying to affirm some predetermined assumptions about me. He appeared to be troubled. A blue vein scaled up both sides of face, dumping into pouches of baggy skin. One bag twitched randomly, which made his glassy, red-rimmed eyes less noticeable. But I noticed.

  I nodded and reciprocated the handshake, noticing his Wrangler jeans, a black and white Western shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The thirty-something man moved past me in quick order, walked over to Ana Sofia, rested a hand on her back and kissed her on the lips. I didn’t feel any type of jealously or anger, but I found myself studying her every movement, still wondering if this was indeed Britney Love.

  Just then, I spotted her nails digging into his rib cage.

  I quickly recalled Britney leaving a trail of nail marks down my chest and across my back. We had that type of raw passion. Or was her emotion actually some type of sick, pent-up aggression at me or men in general?

  “Tenemos que discutir por qué trajimos
al señor Booker a Santo Domingo,” the man said, bringing a hand the size of mine to his stressed forehead.

  “Él acaba de llegar. Se piensa que es mejor que compartimos juntos para que pueda entender su dolor y nuestra urgencia,” she responded, placing her hand against his chest.

  Ana Sofia shifted her eyes to me, obviously wondering if I could understand their dialogue.

  Outside of my name, I could only see that my presence had a purpose in their lives. And I didn’t think they wanted to kill me, at least not right away. I uncorked the water, slurped another mouthful of water, eyeing the far wall, ceiling-to-floor shelves full of books. It even had one of those rolling ladders on a track. Damn, this place was Disney World.

  “Mr. Booker, I do apologize for my rudeness,” the man said. “I needed to discuss with Ana Sofia where we were in the process of acquiring your services. I believe—”

  I choked on my water, then had to wipe my mouth with my bandaged arm.

  “You want to hire me to help you?” I held out a finger as my mind tried to comprehend something I could have never predicted, at least not in the dozen other scenarios I’d thought were possible. “Am I supposed to start laughing now or have the cameras not started rolling yet?”

  Ana Sofia lowered her head, while the man rested his hands just above his belt loops.

  “I think we need to start from the beginning,” she said, gently patting the man—her man—on his chest. “Let’s have a seat and discuss. Please.”

  She extended her hand, and I obliged for now, plopping down in an overstuffed chair that molded to my body like it was custom made.

  They sat on a sofa, barely an inch separating them. Ana Sofia placed a hand on his thigh and squeezed it.

  We opened our mouths to speak at the same time. Then, “I’m sorry,” we both said in unison.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “You’re the guest.”

  I nodded twice, once again wondering if I should be reading between the lines on every phrase that left her perfectly shaped mouth. Looking at the man, I said, “For starters, I never got your name.”

  “Where is my head? I’m just out of it,” he said.

  “It’s okay, honey. He’ll know soon enough.”

  My eyes shifted between the two of them like a tennis match.

  “I’m Juan Ortiz.”

  “That helps. Juan and…” I purposely withheld the second name.

  She leaned forward just a tad, her lips almost mouthing the words to me. I let her hang for a good five seconds.

  “Ana Sofia,” she finally said, a hand against her chest. Then she turned and smiled at Juan, who seemed confused.

  I kind of got a kick out of that exchange, which, by watching her squirm, immediately tilted my scale back to the Britney theory.

  “Juan is a retired baseball player.”

  He couldn’t be that Juan Ortiz, could he? Scratching my goatee, I envisioned him in pinstripes, the kind worn by the New York Yankees. Number thirty-five, the pitcher with the fastball that was once clocked at a hundred miles per hour. It made sense, the number on the front gate, the staff wearing Yankee baseball caps. The compound oozed money. If my memory served me correct, I believe he’d signed at least two contracts north of twelve million dollars each. And the money in baseball was all guaranteed.

  I’d met a few celebrity athletes in my day, but it wasn’t Juan who drew my attention. I eyed Ana Sofia, wondering what the hell she had planned for Juan Ortiz, or his millions in cash.

  “Congratulations on your career. You were on the team that won the World Series title over the Phillies?”

  His head bobbed just once, his lips straight, as if it was a struggle to think about those days.

  “You boys can talk sports another time,” Ana Sofia said. She inhaled, seeming to gather her thoughts, then continued. “Mr. Booker, we’ve had a traumatic incident occur within our family.”

  “You’re married?”

  Shaking her head briskly, she batted her eyelashes, which were void of makeup. “Not yet. We’re engaged, but living in the same home, sharing our lives, it certainly feels like we’re married. Juan’s previous wife died in a car crash. They shared a very special boy, Esteban.”

  Juan brought a hand to his face, and he wiped away a round of tears. Anyone with kids would have felt empathy for the star athlete. I was no different, although with my background, I also became inquisitive.

  “Your boy, is everything okay?”

  He shook his head, his chin quivering, as more tears escaped his eyes, which appeared worn and distraught. He nudged Ana Sofia.

  “You can’t imagine how difficult this is for Juan. And for me,” she said.

  Inching up in my chair, I popped my fingers against each other. “I’m listening.”

  Another deep breath by Ana Sofia, the rise of her chest catching my eye for a second.

  “Esteban has been kidnapped.” Curling her lip, she glanced at her fiancé then dabbed the corner of her eye.

  “When did this happen?” I asked.

  “About two weeks ago.”

  “Fifteen days, almost exactly.” Juan wiped his eyes and looked at his watch. “Sometime between nine and ten o’clock at night. He was on his way home from playing in a baseball game.”

  “Let me get you a glass of wine, honey,” Ana Sofia said, rising from the couch. “It’s that new Chilean wine we—”

  Pinching the corners of his eyes, Juan said, “No quiero una copa de vino de lujo. Sólo dame una cerveza.”

  He wanted a beer. She seemed pained by his response, but quickly set aside the longer bottle and opened a mini-fridge under the granite countertop and pulled out a yellow bottle with a blue label. I read “Carib Lager” on the side.

  “Here you go, honey.”

  The former major leaguer downed half the bottle like a professional. “Sorry if I was rude, dear. I’m just so stressed by everything that has happened with my Esteban.”

  She rested her hand on his thigh, a little higher this time. “He’s our Esteban, don’t forget that.”

  He nodded, then took another swig of his beer and stared at the bottle. It was nearly gone.

  The glare of the western sun invaded the room, diverting my eyes for a moment. It allowed the last couple of minutes of conversation to resonate, my mind searching for the reason why I was sitting there.

  It hit me like a wrecking ball slamming into a dilapidated building. Britney must have somehow planned to get me to Santo Domingo. Without taking the time to piece together the precise timeline and hold a few terse one-on-one conversations, I couldn’t be certain how she’d pulled it off. But as I stared at the woman who looked like Britney’s distant cousin, supposedly with different blood running through her veins, I couldn’t think of a different scenario that made any sense at all.

  She didn’t want to harm me. She wasn’t running from me. While she was using an assumed name and somehow had managed to change her appearance, Britney only wanted me to find her soon-to-be stepson.

  Saying the theory to myself sounded absurd, on more levels than I could count.

  I had to ask questions about whom she was and why she felt like she could trust me. I couldn’t just sit here and pretend they were a normal client. Hell, I already had a client…to find Britney, bring her back to stand trial.

  Mission accomplished, at least the first of the two goals. But had I essentially been baited into traveling to Santo Domingo to rescue the boy? Or was there more?

  Eyeing Juan Ortiz, I could feel his suffering. I couldn’t hijack the conversation just yet.

  “I’m not saying I’ll take on any case. I’m currently pretty booked in that department,” I said, glancing at Ana Sofia. She quickly leaned forward and brought the glass of wine to her lips and took a sip, her eyes watching the wine swirl in glass.

  “Ana Sofia has said you are the best private investigator in America. She did her research and read about you on American websites. Is this a lie?”

  I released a
single chortle. “I’m not aware of a national survey that shows me ranked in the top ten of American PIs, no. And I haven’t made the cover of Time or Newsweek.”

  “I can see are you a modest man. I was humble when I played ball too. Then I would mow down the opponent with a fastball, high and tight, and then their knees would shake. That’s how I got respect.”

  I nodded, thinking Juan and I might view the world through a similar lens, although his was platinum lined with diamonds. I was okay with a more practical version.

  Then I looked at our other similarity. We’d both slept with the conniving, murderous bitch. I knew it, but he was obviously clueless. I took in a breath, realizing there was a possibility this person wasn’t Britney. My mind continued to swing wildly between ninety percent Britney and ninety percent Ana Sofia.

  “How much progress have local authorities made in trying to find your son?” I asked, sticking with the kidnapping angle for now.

  They both looked at each other.

  “Did I say something that upset you?”

  “We haven’t gone to the authorities,” Juan said, fidgeting with the end of his jeans.

  “We were told that if we went to the authorities, they would kill Esteban. We just couldn’t take the chance,” she interjected.

  “There’s more,” Juan said, nudging his significant other. “Too many police and army members are corrupt. If they were involved in finding Esteban, they’d sell him out just like that.” His fingers snapped louder than I’d ever heard. He had used his pitching hand. “I don’t want to take that chance. I didn’t know who to turn to, who could help. That’s when Ana Sofia said she found you. You will help bring home my boy, won’t you?”

  I’d doubted that Juan Ortiz had ever had to plead to get what he wanted, at least since he started earning seven figures a year.