“By the way, I took myself off Kim’s homicide case. As much as I wanted to be the one who nailed the asshole who killed her, I’d be putting the conviction in jeopardy. The defense would dig up dirt and say I was biased against their client, based upon my past relationship with the victim. They’d be right, at least partially.”
“I know you, Henry, and you would never falsely convict a person for a crime he didn’t commit.”
He nodded. “But you know how the justice system works. Once it’s game-on, they throw everything that’s not nailed to the floor at you. Kind of like politics.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” I scratched my goatee. “Didn’t you say that your parents thought you were destined to be the head honcho, our DA? And the only way that happens is if you run for office, you political animal.”
He released a light chuckle. “Not sure if I have that in my blood. Holding fund-raiser dinners, making promises to people I might never see, that’s not who I really am. But I do know I can lead the office. I practically do it right now, with Newsome out there campaigning for mayor the last six months straight.”
A light fist tapped my shoulder—my good one. “You won’t believe this shit,” Alisa said, who instantly brought her hand to her mouth, as a few heads turned her way.
I rested my hand on her shoulder, unsure if I was ready for another dose of bad news. “Everything okay? You didn’t hear from Bolt or Samantha, did you?”
She waved a hand and shook her head in tandem. “Nothing like that. But the news does have a great impact on our lives.” Her arm formed a circle, including Henry and me in it.
“Crap. What now?” Henry asked.
Alisa leaned into the middle of our circle. “Kevin Chambers, the mayor pro tem, who’s—”
“Right, running against Newsome for the top office. It’s a dead heat from what I’ve read,” Henry said.
Alisa took in a breath, her way of biding time so she wouldn’t rip into Henry for interrupting her thought.
I gave her a supportive wink.
“Anyway, I was just watching a live news conference over there on the TV. Chambers just stepped down from the race.”
Henry shook his head, but I spoke up first.
“Why?”
“He cited health reasons, but I heard the girls talking at the nurse’s station—hell, there’s more gossip over there than at Justin’s bar.”
I gave her a keep-it-coming signal, waving my arm.
“They say that Chambers might have cut a deal with the Feds. He’s been caught getting kickbacks on city contracts. And part of the deal was that he drop out of the race.”
“Damn, who needs inside sources in the DA’s office when you can walk right up to a nurse’s station at Parkland?” I said, eyeing Henry. “Looks like your boss might be the big dog of Dallas. And there might be a vacancy just above you.”
“That’s actually not the biggest news,” Alisa interjected.
Henry did a double take. “What could be bigger, at least on that topic?”
She glanced over her shoulder, and I followed her eyes. One of the uniforms assigned to play gatekeeper down Metrick’s hallway gestured with his hands as he spoke to another officer.
“Spill it, girl,” I said to my partner.
“Chambers endorsed Police Chief Scott Ligon to run in his place for mayor. In fact, Ligon was standing right next to him at the news conference, and he said a few words. Like a player coming off the bench in the fourth quarter to win the game.”
Henry and I just stared at each other as my mind swirled with what this meant for our little group with enormous pressure and expectations. Could our role as special investigators have had anything to do with what we’d just heard? I couldn’t see how.
“If Chambers is dirty, won’t his endorsement hurt Ligon?” Henry said, his brow furrowed.
“The election is in two days. If no media outlet has reported it yet, Ligon is probably clear of that collateral damage. Two days, that’s all he’s got to last.”
“Is this even legal, given the election laws in Dallas County?” Henry’s hand jabbed home the point, as if he were standing before a jury of his peers.
“According to the talking heads on TV, yes. Some political wiz from SMU said there’s a little known statute that says if a candidate resigns due to severe health reasons, he can be replaced by a candidate of his choosing.”
“Haven’t you heard the stories of when a senator dies, his next of kin can take the office? It’s happened in our country. This situation with Chambers is somewhat similar,” I said.
“I’d believe it if it wasn’t so fucking crazy,” Henry said, jamming his fingers into his mound of thick brown hair, as he shuffled left and right.
The elevator dinged behind us. We jammed our bodies into a tight space and began the descent down to the underground garage, allowing the three of us to individually let this latest news about Ligon’s run for the mayoral office marinate a bit. Along with three other hospital employees, we got off at the lowest floor. We let them disperse into the sea of cars and tire squeals.
“Oh, man.” Henry rubbed his face. The three-minute ride downward looked like it had aged him ten years. “I don’t know what to think. I can’t think. Too much shit. Too much drama. Too much crime….against our friends.”
He gave a tired glance to Alisa. “I’ll try to get those files to you within the hour.”
“And Paco’s phone?”
“Right, if not the phone, the contact list and calls from his phone.”
Despite what we’d just heard about Ligon, or maybe because of it, I couldn’t keep the information away from Henry any longer, and I asked him to hold up a moment. Alisa was at my side, a question on her face.
“You have that look,” Henry said, his phone now at his side.
The knot deep in my gut that felt more like a twisted hairball had begun its ascension, like it usually did on this topic.
“What do I need to know, Booker?”
“Ever heard of a guy named Vincent Sciafini?”
Henry’s eyes narrowed as he eyed a Mercedes driving around the bend and up the ramp.
“Maybe, but I can’t place it. For some reason, my mind goes to Joe Campisi.”
My lips formed a straight line, recalling the historical significance Campisi played in the JFK assassination and related conspiracy theories over the last fifty years, and how his infamous Dallas restaurant was sucked into my last saga a few months ago that involved a crazy sniper.
“I’m surprised Cindy didn’t mention him.”
“Uncle Vince?” Henry snapped his fingers and pointed at my gut.
“I guess. She told me a while back she’d only met him once when she was a kid. Not sure he’s the kind of relative your parents brag about. Then again, they may have no idea.”
His eyes turned serious. “Tell me more.”
I blinked a couple of times. “He’s based in Chicago, but his tentacles reach Dallas.”
“Tentacles. Not the kind of term used for someone recognized by the Better Business Bureau.”
“The businesses he runs don’t really follow SOXA compliance.”
“He’s one of them? What’s the connection?”
“Chicago crime boss is the title I’ve given him. But you could just as easily describe him any number of ways that involve crime, murderer being at the top of the list.”
Henry took a step back, running his fingers through his hair. “Jesus, Booker, you trying to give me an early heart attack?”
That hairball creeped to the back of my throat. “In the last year, I’ve interacted with Sciafini on several occasions, most of which were not by my choice.”
Henry’s brown eyes nearly squinted shut, as his chest inflated. “You’re connected to the mob? Now I’ve heard everything. Tell me there’s more to this story. Tell me it’s gray, at least.”
“Much more. By the way, gray is the new black,” I said with a strong dose of sarcasm. “First off, you s
hould know that I’ve tried to keep everyone close to me from hearing any of this, just to protect them, and in your case, your career.”
“Thanks. I think.” He leaned forward, ready to hear more apparently.
I took in a full breath. “It all started with my first case.”
Henry snapped his fingers couple of times. “Wait, didn’t that have to do with Justin’s sister? She was duped out of a bunch of cash.”
“That’s where it started, yes.”
“And then, if I recall, correctly, you figured out that David Bradley and his little buddy Dax were behind the scam. I guess I didn’t pay that much attention because it all seemed to work out. And what’s really interesting is that Justin and David are business partners in the food truck business.”
“Sciafini owns David, essentially.”
“David’s one of the best chefs in the city. I know he made some bad decisions on the financial scheme, but now that I think of it, I don’t recall him being charged.”
“Deals were made, Henry.”
A slow nod of his head.
“Initially, it helped me get information on that scumbag dirty cop, Sims. But it got deeper after that.”
“How deep?”
I could feel my neck stiffen. “Deep enough that when Sciafini’s daughter was kidnapped, he flew me up to Chicago to find her.”
“You? In Chicago?”
“Well, I worked with two local PIs—former cops—Jack Daniels and her slightly twisted partner, Harry.”
His eyes searched the concrete as Alisa curled her hand around my arm.
“Henry, this isn’t easy to admit. I know you think I’m above all the trash, but at times, I’ve been forced to swim in sewage plant water.”
He tried to smile. “Dude, you don’t owe me a thing. We were a team back in college, and look at us now—we’re still a team. I know what you’re all about.” He reached over and gave me a pat on the shoulder. “Why are you telling me all of this now?”
“Sciafini is in town. I met with him, questioned why he was in Dallas.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because he hates cops, and he’s bribed every official this side of the Mississippi River. He’s scum.”
“You think he could have something to do with these murders?” Henry’s voice pitched higher.
“It’s possible. No proof, but with him, there hardly ever is.”
Pop, pop!
We all instantly dropped to the ground.
“Holy shit! Where the hell did the shots come from?” Henry yelled.
Ignoring his question, I shifted Alisa behind my back and motioned Henry to move behind a stone column. I scanned the garage, searching for a gunman, wondering if the killer had somehow gotten wind that we were closing in on him.
But how was that possible when we didn’t think we were close to finding the killer? Unless Metrick was the killer…or somehow associated with the killer. Maybe this shooter was the one driving the car that almost ran me over. It still seemed so reckless, whereas a sniper shooting tended to be methodically planned. He must have known we were looking in on Metrick, knew what cars we drove, and possibly had followed one of us to this part of the garage.
I reached around and touched Alisa’s arm.
“What are you doing?” she asked with her typical sass.
“Just checking to make sure you’re still there. Keep your head down and crawl over there next to Henry.”
“Where are you going?” she asked incredulously.
“Just go.”
I reached for my shoulder holster. Nothing but my cotton shirt. Dammit. I couldn’t stop my impulse, my brain somehow knowing I needed my Sig Sauer. But it was tucked away in the safe at home.
My eyes never blinked as I tried to narrow down the area where the shots had come from. I moved left off the raised sidewalk near the elevators and huddled behind an SUV with clear windows—strange not to find every car window tinted in Texas. Peeking through the glass, I did another wide scan of the garage, still questioning the origination of the shots. While I could detect distant sounds of a horn honking and the squeak of tires, the area around us was silent and still.
Targeting a minivan about thirty feet away, I didn’t contemplate the possible absurdity of moving toward a man with a rifle while I carried no weapon. But I’d be damned if we were going to just sit here like ducks in a pond and wait to get our heads blown off. And if this fucker had anything to do with Paco’s death, I had to get eyes on him, his car. Ideally, I’d get the chance to take him down
With what, Booker? Your charm?
I shoved that annoying thought aside and made a beeline toward the red minivan, my frame no higher than three feet off the ground. A step before I reached the van, my frickin’ boot stumbled over the parking curb, and all my weight slammed into the metal door, denting it. It felt like a foot-long, serrated blade had jabbed my shoulder and was twisting and tearing at muscle and tendons.
Gritting my teeth, I pulled my eyes just above the window. Nothing. Had the killer left the scene on foot? He could be just waiting for me to show myself so he could kill me with one shot to the head. I turned and faced the elevators for a moment, my free hands trying to hold my injured shoulder in place as sweat trickled down my sideburns. I spotted Henry and Alisa both leaning around the column, flailing their hands, yelling something in a whisper. I couldn’t detect what they were saying, but they were unnecessarily risking their lives. I swatted at them. “Get back,” I said in a loud whisper.
Just then I heard an engine purring, the sound growing louder by the second. A four-banger, possibly a high-end sports car, was driving down our aisle.
I tensed up, wondering if the killer had the balls to attempt to kill us in some type of drive-by shooting—something a gangbanger might try to pull off. One who had a lot of money. This was Metrick’s world…drug dealing and all the violence that fed off that infestation.
Was there any way all of this killing and attempted murder could be tied to a gang war, or maybe a battle over a drug-dealing operation?
Didn’t have time to contemplate the angles. The engine revved a couple of times, and I could feel my chest reverberate. The car must be a stick shift, and it was close. I knew I couldn’t stop a bullet, let alone two tons of metal, but I had to get a visual of the person behind the wheel and of the car itself, preferably the license plate.
On pure instinct, I dropped to the ground and rolled under a nearby pickup—the last car on the aisle. It was bright red. I even caught a waft of that new car smell from down below. Shifting my eyes, I watched the sports car approach and slow down. Wide tires, two doors, black with silver accents. The driver gunned the engine twice more. I could feel my heart pounding my chest. I glanced toward the column where Alisa and Henry were hiding. No sign of them, which was good.
Only able to see about two feet off the ground, I kept my eyes peeled to the driver’s door. If it opened, it probably meant he’d spotted me and would lean down and stick a rifle down my throat. Seconds ticked by, but it seemed like minutes. Was he purposely making me sweat it out? I couldn’t predict his next move. Thus far, he’d been unpredictable.
Just then, tires screamed off the concrete, as smoke and fumes infiltrated my lungs. The car fishtailed for a moment, then shot out of its stance. I quickly rolled out from under the truck and lunged upward as the car—an Audi of some kind—propelled up the ramp. The guy in the driver’s seat had on blue scrubs, his elbow casually leaning on the open window. I ran to my right to try to catch a glimpse of his plates.
LUV-YUR$
“What the—?”
“Fuck,” Alisa said from just behind me.
“It was just a doctor. Doubt he was the sniper,” Henry said. “But we didn’t dream that, did we? We all heard the shots, right?”
Fed up with gunshots, visions of my buddy lying in a pool of his own blood, and chasing down an ex-teammate who’d tried to kill me, I took a quick glance at Henry and Alisa. “Stay he
re.” My jaw muscles rippled as I snorted out a breath. I began jogging down the aisle, tightly packed cars on both sides, searching for anyone inside a car or hiding behind it. Was I just begging for the gunman to put a hole through my neck? Possibly, but I’d wasted enough time dicking with this asshole. I had to know now if he was the killer or just some prankster getting his jollies by making us dance. As I made my way farther down the aisle, I could envision some punk-ass kid giggling behind a set of braces, his pizza face pressed against his dad’s hunting rifle that he’d borrowed just to “have some fun.”
Punk-ass kid.
My pace picked up, propelled by a fury building inside, my body tense, prepared for a confrontation, almost wanting it. Anything to release the pressure and the anger I felt against the smarmy, spineless asshole who’d killed innocent people, including Paco.
A clicking sound off to my right.
My first thought was someone pulling the trigger of a gun with no ammunition. But maybe they were reloading. I hit the ground and rolled to the nearest car, then stopped myself. A quick scan of the area—no sign of shoes or legs. I could only hear my chest pumping out air. I held my breath, but after ten seconds my heart begged for oxygen, and I let it out slowly.
A good half-minute clocked by and not a peep from anywhere. Now I questioned if my mind had imagined the noise—maybe it was just one of those unexplained sounds. I pushed up from the surface, glanced around, then walked toward the end of the aisle.
Click, click, click, click.
Flipping to my right, I slammed my hands to the trunk of a rusted compact car. I heard a shriek. Peering through the back window, I could see a woman sitting in the driver’s seat, both hands in the air.
I circled to her side and pointed to her closed window. She mouthed something back to me. I shrugged my shoulders then jabbed my finger at the window. She leaned to her left and slowly cranked the window lower.
“It’s that old?” I asked, taking a look inside.
“Just turned twenty last week,” the woman said, her dyed-blond hair sweeping across her face. She wore pink scrubs and looked to be in her sixties.
“You can lower your arms. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a private investigator.” I removed my badge and brought it closer to her face. “Why are you just sitting in your car?”
BOOKER Box Set #2 (A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense): Volumes 4-6 Page 67
