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

by John W. Mefford

  “Maybe for you, but not the way I roll.”

  “Ahh,” he said, straightening the pleat on his trousers.

  I was waiting for a bah humbug, but it never came.

  “You draw the line too cleanly between good and bad, black and white.”

  I brought my eyes down to my hand and turned it over. “I don’t know, I’m pretty open to mixing the two. Black and white, that is.”

  “Eh. Funny. I’d laugh, if I remembered how to,” he said, glancing my way. “You know what the fuck I’m talking about. The world is full of gray. No one is all bad or all good. We’re all a mixture.”

  I found his philosophical ramblings curious, if not out of character. Had Sciafini finally begun to observe others as human beings, not assets? Possibly seeing a grain of good in everyone? I didn’t want to openly laugh.

  “Can’t say I disagree completely. I guess it depends on the percentage of the active ingredient.”

  “Huh?” His brow buckled like a leather accordion.

  “Good and bad are elements in everyone’s personality. I think we both agree on that. But at what percentage?”

  He nodded. “I’m following you. Like my Emily. Ninety-nine point nine percent pure sweetness. But she does have a tenth of a percent of her mother in her.” Tilting his head, the heavy bags under his eyes jostled.

  “My Samantha has a similar distribution.”

  We both nodded. The mutual admission was completely surreal. I had to blink twice to remind myself I wasn’t dreaming. Then again, if I was dreaming about the saggy-faced leader of the Chicago crime syndicate, I needed serious therapy or a long vacation. Maybe both.

  It had been a few months since I’d sat across from Sciafini in his limousine, as it made the trek from O’Hare into Chicago proper. He had convinced me to investigate the kidnapping of his daughter, Emily. As was his style, his words had been direct. But behind those words was an anxious, frightened man. I recalled that smallest amount of vulnerability to his tone, although the stench from his fish-like breath had nearly brought tears to my eyes.

  Today, the scent of dirt hung in the air. With no breeze to speak of, I was fortunate to have a smell blocker right next to me.

  Lifting my eyes, I looked beyond the man who ran his world like a ruthless dictator—this morning’s swing down memory lane notwithstanding—and spotted one of Sciafini’s two bodyguards standing next to their rented four-door sedan, sipping coffee. His head swiveled back and forth as the coffee’s smoke curled into the cool, damp air. He wore a dark sports coat over a bright blue muscle shirt, his eyes obscured by mirrored sunglasses, even though the sun was cloaked behind the thick blanket of clouds.

  I couldn’t tell if it was Beavis or Butthead. I’d always had trouble distinguishing between the two mainstays in Sciafini’s life, even in their boss’s office high atop the Wrigley Building in downtown Chicago. I’d never once heard their names, not from each other, anyone else around the office, or Sciafini himself. He’d either gesture or grunt, and they would grunt back and complete the task. Between their similar fireplug physiques, identical attire, even their dark, chiseled hair, they looked like a pair of dumbbells.

  Swinging my sights around the park, I wondered if the other one was trolling the grounds like a secret service agent, on the lookout for anyone who might pose a threat to Sciafini. Or, more likely, he’d gotten distracted by another set of squirrels.

  “I can’t say the same about Dino,” Sciafini said with his arms crossed, staring straight ahead.

  “Say what about Dino, or Dina?”

  “It’s Dino, dammit!” he growled, smacking a hand to the wooden bench.

  Sounded like Dad hadn’t come to terms with the decisions of his grown-up child.

  “You can choose to believe what you want.” Frankly, I didn’t give a damn about any of it. I’d asked for the face-to-face to get a reading on whether there was any chance Sciafini could be involved in the three homicides in the last two weeks. No evidence pointed in his direction. Not even a whisper of an association. But I’d learned in the last year that scum like Sciafini rarely made a move without a specific goal in mind.

  I wondered if visiting his son in Dallas was as simple as it appeared, or if Sciafini was intentionally making a move. And even if he was spreading his operation southward—which still seemed far-fetched—why would it be necessary to murder two cops and an appellate judge?

  I could see his jaw flex a couple of times. “Dino…was a good kid growing up, but I always knew something was different.”

  He swallowed, closing his eyes briefly, then spread his arms across the bench, as if he was biding time to let his emotions simmer.

  “He played with other kids, but he just didn’t seem to click real well. Didn’t make close friends. Well, he had a couple of good ones in high school, but…”

  This was beginning to feel like a therapy session. But I could play the role if it kept him talking, offering insight into his motivations for being in the area.

  “Turned out to not be good friends, I assume?”

  He puffed out a breath, and I caught a quick waft of something foul.

  “He just told me this yesterday, over lunch. Can you believe it?”

  “Believe what?”

  “Those boys were his first two…I can’t even say it.”

  I knew he wasn’t referring to tennis partners. Or, maybe in the Sciafini family, kids were expected to prove their worth by knocking off one of their friends.

  “That was years ago. Everyone lived through some awkward years as a teenager. Time to move on.”

  “Yeah,” he said with little energy.

  He rubbed his thumb across the top of his opposite hand, as if he had arthritis. I spotted a wedding ring, and I tried to change the topic.

  “You and Isidora. You guys got married, huh?”

  Somehow, a seventy-something man who was starting to look more like a guy who lived in an Egyptian crypt, minus the bandages, had landed a vivacious former Miss Italy. Oh yeah, I knew why. Money and power.

  “Yep. She actually married this old bag of bones.”

  He’d said what I was thinking for the second time in our conversation. I found it disturbing.

  “Just a couple of newlyweds,” I said.

  “Making fun of my age.”

  “Hell no, just your age difference. Why didn’t Isi tag along? I’d figure she’d eat up the Dallas shopping scene. You could have brought Emily, made it one big family affair.”

  “She wanted to, but she had other commitments.” His eyes shifted toward me. “As for Emily, she doesn’t need to be near any of…this scene.”

  I was almost certain he was referring to Dino. But could he instead be protecting the women in his life from his killing plans? I let it rest for the moment.

  “Does Isi stay busy spending your money?”

  “She holds her own.”

  I needed to test the waters. “So you’re kind of saying that you’re on the lookout for new streams of revenue to keep the Sciafini empire afloat.”

  He let out a chuckle.

  “Now, you of all people are trying to give me financial advice? What a joke. And no need to worry, the Sciafini set of legitimate businesses is operating in the black. Well into the black.”

  His red-rimmed eyes looked in my direction. I maintained a blank stare.

  “So when are you planning to—”

  “Look, Booker, I ain’t stupid. I know why you wanted to meet with me.”

  “You’re a lot of things, but stupid isn’t a term I’d use.”

  He ignored me. “You’re wondering if I’m looking to carve out a piece of the Dallas pie for one of my new business ideas.”

  “You could be looking for a new infusion of ideas. Maybe you’re funding a think tank that works on creating innovative concepts that businesses can be built around. That’s the joke.”

  He poked the side of his head. “This mind has more business ideas than Silicon Valley. I don’t need a
think tank to come up with my ideas.”

  The Sciafini ego had landed. Just what I was hoping for.

  “Chicago’s a cool city. But Texas has no income tax,” I offered.

  “Oh really? I didn’t know that.”

  Now I knew he was hiding something. This guy probably had the entire IRS code memorized line by line. But if I couldn’t get him to admit he was trying to grow some roots in Dallas, then I wasn’t going to bring up the murders. Not yet. I didn’t want to scare him off, especially when he thought I was only chasing the business angle.

  Suddenly, I felt something near me, and I turned to see Butthead staring down at me.

  “You should get a bell and attach it to your neck.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Check that. I really don’t see a neck, just a square head sitting on top of square shoulders. Are they even attached? I’m speaking of your head and shoulders,” I said, clearly egging him on.

  He grunted and showed his teeth.

  I recoiled. “Related to George Washington?”

  “What da fuck you talking about? I ain’t no fucking president or whatever.”

  “Clearly.”

  He curled his beefy hands into fists, hulking over me.

  Popping both hands off my legs, I lifted from my seat and let out a chuckle. “Vincent, I think you need to feed your…accountant more often.”

  “I don’t count. I just do what Mr. Sciafini says.”

  Hearing Butthead speak more than two indecipherable words reminded me of something. “Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all’?”

  His eyes blinked.

  “I guess that’s a yes. Well, I think you need to look at it from a different angle.”

  He twisted his head, like a dog who’d just heard a high-pitched noise.

  “If you can’t converse with other people, please save the human race and don’t procreate.”

  “I ain’t no pro.”

  I just looked at Sciafini.

  His eyes shifted up to Butthead, and he smacked his lips, as if he’d long resigned himself to the fact that his two minions weren’t a threat to win Jeopardy. “I got places to be. We’re finished here.”

  They began to walk away, then the old man turned back to me. “Did our little therapy session help you feel better?”

  The fact he was asking that question got my attention, but now wasn’t the time to throw out more accusations, especially since I couldn’t back it up with any evidence. “I don’t agree with how you run your life. In particular, your business practices.”

  “You’ve made that clear. And I don’t give a shit what you think about how I run my business. If I own it, I can do anything I want with it. Anything.”

  “Technically, that’s true, aside from any legal entity that might have certain expectations about following laws. But that’s their battle to fight, not mine.”

  “Good. Glad we have an understanding.” Sciafini started to turn away.

  “Hold on.”

  Jerking his head back around, his elephant skin drooping under his eyes wagged a half second later.

  “Don’t think for a minute that I’m okay with you extending your business operations into Dallas.”

  “Ha. Booker, Booker, Booker.” He shifted his eyes, appearing to look for the squirrels up in the tree. “You’re paranoid. Why would I want a small piece of Dallas when I own Chicago?”

  Sciafini didn’t wait for my response. He turned and shuffled a few steps, then lengthened his stride as he made his way toward the car on the other side of the park. He coiled his oversized body into the backseat, while his matching dumbbells took the front, both donning their matching sunglasses.

  For a guy on a simple visit to catch up with his adult kid, I wondered why he needed bodyguards, or assistants, or whatever function they served, at his beck and call. Maybe they were cheap labor, nothing more than a guilty pleasure for someone who didn’t like opening a door or dialing a phone number. I knew they’d carried out other deeds for Sciafini that weren’t nearly as mundane or innocuous.

  At this stage of his life, Sciafini’s undiplomatic ways were habitual. Kind of like smoking. And once you were addicted, it was a bitch to stop. Actually, for him…he’d never change. Couldn’t change. I’d seen enough of his arrogant bullshit to know how his mind worked, regardless of how much sugar he coated on his words.

  I could feel it in my bones. Sciafini was lying through his rotten teeth. I just couldn’t determine if he’d already crossed the line, knocking off cops and judges.

  I turned and watched the squirrels scamper down the trunk of the tree, one in pursuit of the other, from the best I could tell. A quick thought came to mind—was Sciafini in pursuit, or was there a possibility he was the one being chased?

  10

  Captain America: You bitches finly readee 2 talk?????

  A few seconds passed, and the man who symbolically carried a shield of justice for millions tapped his foot on the carpet as a coworker walked by, glanced at him, and then stuck her nose so high in the air it looked like she was trying to stop a nosebleed.

  “She thinks she’s all that. Put on this earth to make it a better place. She’s nothing more than another political chameleon, ready to sell her soul to the pimp on the next street corner,” he muttered to himself.

  His heart pumped blood through his body so fast he could picture himself dragging logs up ski slopes, hurling himself over bales of hay, trudging through rushing rivers of mud. He’d participated in the original Tough Mudder race out of Pennsylvania for the last ten years straight, an eleven-mile course full of challenges. It had become addictive in so many ways. For a moment, he questioned if that obsession was truly the healthiest thing for him to do.

  But he’d won every single race. And winning mattered. It didn’t just matter, it meant the world. It meant justice. It meant life or death.

  Where the hell are those two slackers? he thought. His phone stayed silent, and he could feel his jaw clamp down like a Rottweiler’s would on a piece-of-shit homeless man’s leg. Sticking a finger inside his button-up white shirt, he came close to ripping the button right off. The combination of excitement and rage made it difficult to maintain his composure in the office setting. He needed to let it all out. Again.

  Buzz.

  He flipped the phone around and read the text.

  Iron Man: Sorry, dude. Had to get rid of king prick; u know him he could talk to a wall

  Captain America: Sounds like nothing more than another excuse; we had an agreed upon time; have you heard of word called commitment????

  Iron Man: Dude, i aint da boss man; i was ready to go, carved time out of my sched like we said. Im on board. That should be as obvious as…I dont know. Just damn obvious.

  The man shook his head, once again realizing he wasn’t dealing with the sharpest people in the world. But they had learned to share a common bond. And for that, he could overlook minor cranial deficiencies. Most of the time.

  But he couldn’t put up with tardiness or incompetence.

  Captain America: Im about to go postal if she dont show her mug on this group text

  Iron Man: I hear ya. Not sure she’s into this like u and me. What u think?

  With his forearms anchored to his desk, he started punching in letters, then suddenly felt something warm against his neck. Turning his head slightly, he—

  “What the hell?” He lurched backward, jamming his ribs into the desk.

  “What are you doing?” the woman said in a sultry voice, still bending down to his level.

  He tried not to run his eyes up and down her perfectly proportioned frame, all five feet eleven inches of her taut body. She had a powerful physique, but somehow she moved like a slinky panther. Her jet-black hair hung straight, clinging to her shiny, silver dress that stopped just above the knee. She held a unique power over him, one that seemed to rob him of any logical thought.

  But she had also
interrupted the most important project he’d ever undertaken. Its value to the community was impossible to measure on a monetary basis, although in the long run, money was part of the equation. His cause was priceless and those who had joined his quest felt the same.

  “Hi…Kim.” He had trouble formulating anything resembling a sentence. His head spun in circles as if he’d just downed six shots of tequila.

  “Are you doing something naughty on that phone of yours?” she asked, moving her lips closer to his face, his senses fully engaged.

  His eyes searched for someone above the wall of cubes. Where had everyone gone?

  “Uh…no, just talking to friends. You know how it is.”

  She giggled, then pushed off his thick chest to lift herself to a standing position, leaving a trail of her sharp perfume, a hint of citrus that opened his sinuses.

  “Actually, I’m really not into the friend thing. I think you know what I’m into. The question is, are you into the same thing?”

  Damn, her sensuality was relentless.

  “Kim…I…uh, want the same thing, I think.” He hadn’t intended on saying that, but the words just spilled out.

  She twisted her head slightly, tapping her gray-polished fingernail to her chin. He couldn’t help staring at her skin. It was flawless, like a computer-generated image.

  “I’m not sure you’re ready for…this,” she said, running her hands down her hips. “My expectations are high. I only choose those who can, let’s say, move the needle, if you catch my drift.”

  He nodded, then forced himself to swallow. The back of his throat felt like sandpaper. Thoughts pinged his mind, most in conflict with each other. They seemed to be made of marble, popping each other as if someone had turned on a blender. It kept building and building. The mental noise wouldn’t stop.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it began to ache, and he could feel the tingle of sweat dripping off his sideburns.

  “Uhh…” he growled.

  “Oh. My,” she said, causing him to stop and look up at her. “I knew you were intense, but I had no idea of the fierceness behind your intensity.” Her eyes widened, and her face lit up.