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

by John W. Mefford

  He let her glowing smile warm his heart as he flicked the leash. Bentley resumed his powerful stride, practically dragging Richard down the path.

  Two quick claps.

  Richard’s throat clamped shut, as his pulse hammered in his neck. Before he could swing his body around, an object struck his head, and he fell to his knees. Motes of light flickered around him as a searing pain ripped through his skull. Losing all of his strength, he watched the leash drop to the sidewalk and Bentley dash away.

  Where was Bentley going? His owner and friend was being attacked. Richard didn’t have to think too deeply about it. Bentley was running home, as he had every time he’d broken away from his owner’s grip.

  Richard felt sweat pouring down his face, dripping off his nose and onto the sidewalk. It smelled of copper. It had to be blood. His blood. As he reached for the back of his head, a man’s hand took hold of his wrist and snapped it behind his back. The man grunted and slid Richard’s hand through a hole of some kind. Felt like sharp plastic. Then the man twisted his other arm around and shoved it through the same slit, pulling it tight.

  A kick to his back, and he fell face first onto the concrete. Unable to cushion his fall, Richard’s nose cracked upon impact. More blood, and now he could hardly breathe. His eyes peeked open, and he saw an enormous brick lying next to him on the sidewalk. He tried turning, so he could see his assailant. Hoping, praying the man would look him in the eyes and find an ounce of compassion and let him go.

  But he didn’t have the strength, and that’s when he knew his own death was imminent. He sucked in a wet breath and imagined the warm touch of Bernice on his arm. God bless that woman. He regretted not loving her to the fullest every day of his life, his career be damned. She’d been a saint for all these years, and when his time had come to retire, he found one excuse after another, like a petulant child. For thirteen years, he put off her wishes. She only wanted to share breathtaking moments with him. And he had been so blind and so stupid.

  Without warning, another blow to his head. He tried to cry out, but the pain was from another world, as tears spilled from his eyes, mixing with his blood. A kick to his back, and then another, and another. The man wouldn’t stop kicking him. What had provoked such anger?

  More kicks to his groin and stomach, forcing out what precious oxygen he’d just inhaled.

  As the brutal pounding continued, knowing he could only cling to this life for a few more seconds, Richard finally relaxed. He became oblivious to the agony. Bernice’s beaming smile filled his heart. She’d been such a loyal, loving companion. And they had come so close to fulfilling her dream of traveling the world. He’d let his selfish obsession of his career take priority over her, the love of his life, even beyond a normal retirement age.

  Now he had to let it all go.

  Richard released a final breath. Even at age seventy-eight, his was a life wasted.

  6

  All I could do was stare at the two enormous piles of…stuff. I scratched my goatee out of sheer awe.

  “So this is what Uncle Charlie has been paying you to do in your spare time?”

  Bolt shifted his dark eyes over to my uncle—who was thumbing through some loose papers in a box—and looked back at me. “He pays the dough. I just did what he said. Who am I to question the logic?”

  “Nice.”

  My mom’s brother, who looked ten years older than his age, with scraggily gray hair peppering his afro, was a hoarder of the worst kind. Over the years, his apartment had morphed into a maze of narrow passageways, walls of …stuff lining the walking lanes. I stood just outside the kitchen. Off to my right, the first bedroom was practically sealed shut with…stuff, piled floor to ceiling. If I wasn’t in awe, my body would have naturally shifted away from the bedroom. But I couldn’t shift away. The living room was filled in the same manner, aside from a small inlet where Uncle Charlie now stood.

  “Mr. Booker, don’t you see? We’ve cleared out the kitchen and entryway and organized everything into two rooms,” Bolt explained.

  “What are you, his agent?”

  “Roc Nation, baby,” he said while crossing his arms in front of his chest.

  It would have been worthy of a loud chuckle had I not been able to picture Bolt in a similar job about ten years in the future. He’d be working four cell phones at the same time, swinging deals with Nike and Gatorade in one afternoon, followed by a negotiation session for his new client, the first pick from the NFL draft, with a general manager on the swankiest private golf course in the NFL city. Or would it be the local soccer field? Regardless, he had all the natural qualities to play that role, although I wasn’t convinced that would be best for Bolt. Who was I fooling? If it wasn’t for his boyish looks, with a little basic training, Bolt could figure out the agent profession now. He was that sharp.

  But I couldn’t let him know that. His confidence already bordered on cockiness, and he was looking for any excuse to blow off school and move straight into the money-making phase of his life…, well, the time when he’d make much bigger money than he was earning from my uncle, anyway.

  Shifting my eyes back to Uncle—

  Wait. He’d disappeared from his perch in the living room.

  “Where the hell did he go?” I said, stepping toward the mound of clutter. An open microwave door nearly clipped my chin, and I stumbled back.

  “I’m over here, Booker.”

  Stepping up on my toes, I searched for an opening to the other side, but all I could see was a junkyard. “Where are you, Uncle Charlie?”

  “Right here. You think I turned into a ghost?”

  “Mr. Booker, let me show you our ingenious design.” Bolt walked into the narrow inlet, then dropped to his knees. It seemed like the clutter had devoured him.

  “I’m down here,” he said with a muffled voice.

  Leaning over, I could see his teeth and the whites of his eyes, his frame muted by a beam of light coming from behind him. He flipped on his knees and crawled through a tunnel about three feet in diameter. When he got to the end, he popped up. I could see his ankle.

  “I made it,” he said.

  “I’m not sure that carpet has been cleaned in twenty-five years, Bolt. You might want to disinfect your hands.”

  “Very funny, Booker,” Uncle Charlie said.

  “I don’t get it. You’ve had Bolt helping you for the last month. All you did was reshuffle the disorganized mess.”

  I could hear Uncle Charlie cough. “I assure you, this is anything but disorganized. How else do you think we can fit everything in here?”

  Glancing just in front of me, I found a bucket of decorative rocks sitting on top of a stack of yellowed newspapers. Sealed boxes of cereals were separated by license plates. Sticking a finger in between the pile of metal, I could see various colors and logos.

  “Don’t tell me you have license plates for each of the states?”

  “Hell no,” he said.

  “Good.”

  “I’m missing three states—New Hampshire, South Carolina, and Alaska. You know anyone who lives there who could send me their old plates? I’ll pay top dollar for them.”

  Squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, I tried to think through his rationale. “You’re basically operating as junkyard eBay. Except, you don’t sell anything, right?”

  A few seconds of silence ticked by. I could only hear whispers between Bolt and Uncle Charlie.

  “I plead the Fifth,” Uncle Charlie said.

  More whispers. “He told me to say that.”

  “You guys are quite a pair,” I said. “You ought to take your act to Hollywood. But it would take a twenty-car train to haul all of your shit there.”

  “Eh. More sarcasm from the boy who used to be my favorite nephew.”

  “I’m just giving you shit, Uncle Charlie.”

  “I know. Same back at ya.”

  Anxious to sit down with Alisa to continue brainstorming theories and start listing the questions we needed to ans
wer, I checked the time on my phone. We’d planned to meet at our closet-sized office in less than an hour, just enough time for her to consume her second cup of mood enhancer—coffee.

  “Uncle Charlie, can I use your restroom before I drop off Bolt at school?”

  “You’ve never asked before. Why this time?”

  Clearing my throat, I said. “I’ve always been able to make my way to the restroom before. I wasn’t sure it was still accessible.”

  I could hear Bolt trying to contain his laughter.

  “Boy, you think I’m stupid enough to block access to the bathroom? Jesus, Booker, you must really think I’ve lost it.”

  Scanning the room another time, I tried to temper my opinion. “I know you have a method to your madness.”

  A few minutes later, I stood at the entryway to the apartment. Bolt slipped his backpack over his shoulders.

  “Thanks for the payday, Uncle Charlie,” he said.

  “No problem. We make a pretty good team, don’t we?”

  Bolt nodded, then gave Uncle Charlie a high five. The old guy cracked a smile.

  “See you soon, Uncle Charlie,” I said, starting to head down the stairs.

  Uncle Charlie spoke up. “Hey, you got connections at DPD, right?”

  I paused at the second step, my mind instantly recalling my back-seat conversation with the chief of police. Ligon had given me carte blanche to pursue just about any avenue I desired to find who he believed was the cop killer. Despite his never-ending, ego-boosting praise, I knew finding and stopping the killer would provide me about ten minutes of good faith once the case ended. I was more connected to the men and women who actually protected the people, not their careers, like my former partner, Paco. We’d saved each other’s lives, broken bread in each other’s homes, shared everything. Even after the DPD pushed me out the door and word spread that my reputation wasn’t worth a shit, Paco and a handful of others stood by my side. You can’t buy that kind of loyalty. Check that. Loyalty can be bought, but there’s always a price to pay on the back end.

  I nodded and turned my head. “I’m sure someone would answer a phone call from me. You need me to try to take care of a ticket for you?”

  “Nah, man. If I do the crime, I do the time.”

  “Real quick, then. I got places to be.”

  “Okay, Mr. Hotshot PI.” He rubbed his whiskered face, which sounded like he’d just shaved off a layer of wood with sandpaper. “I just wondered if you knew anything about all this crazy shit going on with the cop who was killed behind the bar two nights ago?”

  I felt a prickle at the base of my skull. “Why do you ask?”

  “’Cause that’s how I roll, you know that. Word gets around in these parts, and there’s some buzz out there.”

  “Any scoop to share about the buzz?”

  Uncle Charlie craned his neck outside the doorway, perhaps making sure Bolt wasn’t in earshot. He’d already shuffled down the first flight of stairs.

  Uncle Charlie leaned in closer, lowered his volume a tad. “White cop killed by a brother.”

  I wondered if Uncle Charlie had planted a bug in the chief’s SUV. Not really, but damn, it was strangely ironic. “Why would you go there? Not sure there’s evidence to support that.’

  “Can’t say. I just hear the chatter. Could be hot air, could be a smoldering fire. I don’t know. I’m just a dumb old man.”

  I stepped back up to the landing. “Hey, Bolt. Start the car and turn on the radio. I’ll be down in one minute.” I tossed the keys down about ten steps, and he snatched them out of the air, his eyes as big as soccer balls.

  “Kick ass. I get to drive,” he said, disappearing down the two flights of stairs.

  Leaning over the railing, I hollered, “You can’t drive without me in the car. And don’t cuss. It’ll get you in trouble at school.”

  I turned to see Uncle Charlie trying to cover his grinning mouth, a handful of teeth that didn’t match.

  “What?”

  “He’s a little like you, Booker. Curious as hell. Wanting to grow up faster than the adults around him are ready for.”

  I didn’t have time to travel down memory lane. I stuck a hand in my pocket, moving the topic back to the murder of Officer Derrick Miller.

  “What’s this so-called chatter telling you about the murder?”

  He tried to stick his finger in my ear. “You got a tooth growin’ in there? I said, ‘White cop killed by a brother.’ What part of that don’t you understand?”

  I wondered if there had already been a leak among the small number of folks who knew about both cop murders. Maybe someone had something to gain by planting a seed in just the right place. Who knew? Any theory was plausible at this time.

  “Any justification being thrown out there, or was it just random, if any of these rumors have legs to stand on?”

  “Hard to say.”

  I paused, hoping he’d say more. Then I remembered whom I was talking to. When I wanted more information, Uncle Charlie turned into an introvert. At other times, he enjoyed sharing a plethora of stories and opinions.

  “‘Hard to say’ as in you’ve heard people talking about the justification for the murder? Or ‘hard to say’ as in the rumor is just that, nothing but vapor?”

  “Hard. To. Say.” He pointed a finger behind me.

  Shooting a glance over my shoulder, I found a beaming teenage kid. “Mr. Booker, I can’t be late for school. I’m giving a speech about what started World War I.”

  “Really? I’ll be right down.”

  I turned to Uncle Charlie, whose eyes shifted over my shoulder again.

  Flipping back around, I said, “I’ll let you drive, if you give me a couple more minutes.”

  “Given our experiences in my homeland, you know how much of an asset I can be for an investigation.”

  There was more than a shred of truth in that statement, but I couldn’t risk his life again. He needed to focus on his studies and his corner kick, not dodging bullets from a drug kingpin in some abandoned warehouse.

  “You’re not the PI. You’re the student. Remember our little agreement?”

  He held up his hands, taking a step back. “I’ll get in the driver’s seat and adjust the mirrors and seat.”

  Bolt ran back down the stairs while I tried to inhale. “Never thought about the learner’s permit when I signed up for this.”

  “You’re not having buyer’s regret on bringing that boy to Dallas, are you?”

  “What? No, nothing like that. Have you driven with a teenager lately?”

  “This is payback, Booker, and I’m lovin’ every minute of it.” Uncle Charlie slapped his knee he was laughing so hard.

  “Real quickly, and be serious. Why are you throwing out this rumor of a brother killing the officer?”

  “I’m telling you, it’s the chatter.” He shuffled forward, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but in the hood, the rumors that fly are like Twitter. Some of it is newsworthy, but most of it is a bunch of time-wastin’ crap.”

  “What’s your gut tell you about this rumor?”

  “I wouldn’t put money on it, but I heard someone knows more than he should.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone from your past.”

  <><><>

  Coasting to a stop on the side of the rectangular brick building, a man in a red jumpsuit approached my car while wiping his face with a dirty blue towel.

  I punched the window button and said, “Can you tell me where I can find Metrick McHenry?”

  “Por favor continúe con el lavado de coches, señor.”

  I think he wanted me to get my car washed before he’d tell me. I guess they worked on commission. Holding up a finger, I pulled a five-dollar bill from my wallet and held it outside the window.

  “¿Dónde está Metrick McHenry?”

  He smiled, then snatched the bill out of my hand and stuffed it in his pocket.

  “Wait, what are you doing? Metrick
McHenry works here, right?”

  “Por favor continúe con el lavado de coches, señor.” He pointed at the one-way drive to my right, and then turned on his heels to walk away.

  “Hold on.” Shifting the manual transmission into neutral and pulling the brake, I opened the door, lifting from my seat. “Hey, man. I need to—”

  Honk!

  A guy with a mullet sat behind the wheel of a pickup looming about ten feet off the ground. The color was hard to make it out since the body was covered with three inches of caked-on mud.

  “Okay, okay,” I said as the guy with my money disappeared through a door of heavily tinted glass. Above the entry hung a red-lettered sign: Red’s Car Wash.

  Without a lot of great history with oversized trucks, I decided not to push back. Maybe Metrick would be at the other end of the car-wash procession.

  Bordered by a thick row of hedges on one side, the curved drive took me to what looked like a hot dog stand. I pulled under an extra-large umbrella—red, of course—where a portly gentleman spent five minutes trying to upsell me into a fifty-dollar car wash. I tried telling him that I wasn’t keen on forking over even five dollars for a car wash, so all of his voodoo sales tricks wouldn’t work.

  He finally let me out of jail. He scribbled something on my windshield with a grease pen.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Cheap ass,” he muttered under his breath.

  I tapped the brake and gave him the eye.

  “You heard that?”

  “Yeah, I heard that.”

  “Don’t tell my boss, man. I’m just a guy trying to make a buck.”

  “Is Metrick working today?”

  His eyes shifted toward the car wash entrance. “Who wants to know?”

  “Who do you think, dumbass?”

  “What? I wondered if…you know, you were working for someone.”

  Even in the modern era, there was something seedy about car washes. Or maybe it was just Red’s Car Wash.

  “Metrick?” I asked.

  “Keep moving. You’ll run into him. Next,” he said waving at the truck behind me, his eyes apparently seeing nothing more than dollar signs.