“If Miss Pearl could start, I wouldn’t be sitting, I’d be driving.” She began to pat the cracked dashboard, a black that had faded into a warped gray. “They always say to make sure your man is older than your car.” She held up a finger and released a quick chortle. “I’m ahead on that one, but just barely.” She giggled, rocking back in her seat.
Altering my stance, I took another gander at her. Her giggle had given her away. It was Nurse Ratched; at least that was her nickname. I’d last seen her when I’d visited—rather, attempted to question—the perpetrator of my client, David Bradley. He was nothing more than a smug con artist when I first met him, but Nurse Ratched had put me in my place, although doing so with a fair amount of humor.
“You haven’t seen anyone running around in the garage in the last several minutes, have you?”
“I’ve had my head down saying prayers to the man above just to get Miss Pearl to start one more time. Even if I don’t go to church on Sundays, I’ve been able to add a few tears to my plea. It’s worked every time for the last three weeks. Until now.”
I took another look around us. “Try starting it up one more time.”
“Okay.” She patted the dashboard twice. “It’s time to show them what you got, Miss Pearl.”
She turned the ignition, and all I heard was four or five rapid clicks.
“Damn,” I said, feeling stupid. I’d been spooked by a car with a dead battery. I glanced down the aisle and saw Alisa and Henry walking in our direction. I waved them on.
“Nurse…uh…” I was hoping she’d fill in the blank with something other than Ratched. But she didn’t take the hint. “When you tried starting your car a few minutes ago, did it backfire?”
“Hell yes…excuse my French. Awfully obnoxious, I know.”
I rubbed my hand across my face, then shook my head in disgust—at myself. I realized I couldn’t let my emotions run amuck like that. It would only impede our investigation and possibly get me killed. I was actually rather lucky that Miss Pearl had spit out the shots and not…
“There goes the theory about Metrick’s sidekick,” I said as Alisa and Henry approached the broken-down car.
“What theory?” Henry asked, throwing his coat over his shoulder.
“Oh, I’ve been tossing it around in my head since we heard the first shots.” I tried to force out a chuckle. “Turns out, this,” I rapped my knuckles on the roof of the car, “is our sniper.”
Nurse Ratched leaned out the door and fluttered her fingers. “It’s just little old me and Miss Pearl. She’s had better days, though.”
I found my car, and Henry and I helped jumpstart Miss Pearl, as it were.
“You’re good to go,” I said, bending down to the nurse’s height as she sat in the cloth seat.
Pressing her teeth against her lips, she tugged at the gearshift, and it ground its way into drive.
“Tell you what, my ex…anyway, a friend of mine has a cousin who owns a repair shop. I’ll call ahead and let them know you’re on your way. He’ll cut you a great deal to try to get a few extra miles out of Miss Pearl.”
She tapped the top of my hand. “You’re a doll, Booker. Now look out, I’m going to drive this mother like it’s our last ride together.” Razor-thin tires squealed as she disappeared into the garage.
Alisa walked up to me. “Does she know you?”
“Long story. I’m not even sure she’s a real nurse.”
“What are you talking about?” Henry said. “Of course she’s a nurse. She’s wearing the scrubs, she has that nurse hairstyle. Even her hands have that worn look.”
“Another day, guy. Let’s get to work and find the person who murdered our friend.”
17
Dust sprayed in Alisa’s face as the overstuffed box slipped through her fingers and thumped the metal desk.
“No harm, no foul,” she said, noticing a wayward curl dangling in front of her eyes. She forced out a gust of air to move it out of sight. “I think. Hmm.”
Standing next to the twenty-year-old desk in the petite Booker & Associates office, she peeled open the corrugated box that had a faded blue and gold logo of Mrs. Baird’s bread on the side. She recalled the old headquarters building down off Mockingbird. It had long since been sold off to some conglomerate from Mexico.
Bending the four edges back, a musty stench nearly made her gag. She took a quick step back and covered her nose, as if she were ready to dive into the deep end of a pool.
“I’m diving into something,” she said. Blocking the air passages to her nose, she again approached the box and pulled a wrinkled section of old newspaper off the top. Her eyes were drawn to a story about the Unabomber. She could recall hearing stories about the reclusive nut-job and, as years passed, his nickname being used in comedy sketches. Searching for the date on the paper, she turned it over and read a headline: FBI Charges 5 Mafia Bosses in NYC
Then she spotted the date in the upper right-hand corner.
“Almost thirty years ago exactly,” she stated, already officially in awe of Judge Fischer’s meticulous nature to save important facts about his work.
Alisa had known that Bernice, with the help of her nephew, was going to drop off her late husband’s manuscript, a memoir that was supposedly about three-quarters complete. But this box had a lot more than a few pages of manuscript included.
She then recalled Bernice’s comment about the manuscript. “Why that man would want to relive the job that essentially held him hostage for decades is beyond me. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever understand men. At least Little Ricky, that is.”
When Alisa followed up by asking if she knew about any of the details in the manuscript, Bernice quipped, “Why in the world would I want to read about the same boring cases that I had to listen about for all those years? It’s only a reminder of how much more important his caseload was than me. Am I still bitter about us not getting to spend our retirement years traveling the world, experiencing a whole new life together? I guess so.”
Just then, Alisa noticed a note written on the side of the box: You can have the whole box, Alisa. I didn’t want to pain myself. I’ve already sifted through enough old memories to break my heart five times over.
Alisa touched her chest, knowing Bernice had made an imprint on her life. She wondered if it was simply a healthy dose of sympathy, or maybe she could envision a woman from that era steadfastly believing in her husband, waiting for his attention. Even decades.
Damn, she was glad to be so self-reliant. She’d been swept right off her feet just once…and that ended in a marriage where her husband cheated on her within twenty-four hours of walking down the aisle.
Lesson learned. Life changed.
Then again, aside from Bernice’s mixed emotions in the advent of “Little Ricky’s” death, her dedication and affection were cute. No, they were to be admired in the current day of tossing away true love like it was available in the next grocery.
A quick thought of Booker swept across her mind. She’d tried for the last few years to ignore her natural desires, not even allowing herself to admit her magnetism to the Dallas cop, Justin’s best friend. But working with the guy, watching him in action, had stirred her emotions far more than she had thought possible.
Wasn’t that kind of crush reserved for silly teenage girls? Certainly not for independent women in their thirties.
She’d allowed her mind to drift a few times, wondering how she and Booker might progress. Could their relationship evolve into something as meaningful as what Bernice and her husband experienced? Or would it always hover as a surface-level infatuation, on both sides? She knew he was smitten with her. In some respects, he didn’t seem like the same brash, tough-nosed PI. Once she’d cracked his shell, she’d seen a soft side made of that cushy stuff found inside a Twinkie. Well, when they’d shared a couple of passionate kisses while locked at the hips outside her apartment door, she knew he wasn’t a hundred-percent soft. His physique was enough to make any woman s
woon, with bulges in all the right places.
She fanned herself, letting a smile escape her lips. But were they right for each other? While he was a complete stud, most people would probably view her—at five years older than one of the most eligible bachelors in Dallas—as nothing more than a cougar. She felt her face, her skin not as pliable as it was just a couple of years earlier.
Booker was more of a player, not a guy you’d settle down with, right? He’d be too tempted by every pretty skirt that walked by—his psychotic ex-girlfriend, Britney, was a perfect case study.
She closed her eyes for second, bringing a hand to her forehead. She admitted that she longed for Booker. But dammit, that didn’t mean she couldn’t be proud of what she’d done with her life, her ability to stand on her own. She was an independent woman, regardless of whether she and Booker walked arm in arm around White Rock Lake, watching white caps on a brisk fall day.
She should be confident of their relationship—even as hard as it was to put a label on it—and not worry about the next pretty face or snide remark from someone who viewed Alisa as an “older woman” throwing herself at the younger, buff gentleman.
Thankfully, Booker respected her, and she thought it had a lot to do with how she approached her role in the PI firm. Her name wasn’t on the business cards just yet, but he’d grown to treat her as a partner, respecting the gray matter underneath her endless bed of uncontrollable curls.
She took in a deep breath, and a familiar, wretched, moldy smell invaded her senses.
“What do we have here?” she asked, lifting a glass frame from the box. She wiped a layer of dust off the front of a picture. “Looks like Judge Fischer from forty years ago.” With thumbs curled around suspenders, he stood proudly next to a silver-haired man holding a gavel. The signature written on top read: Judge Joseph Wapner – The People’s Court.
Good to see Little Ricky not take himself so seriously all the time. She set the picture aside, making a mental note to show it to Bernice, hoping it might help take some of the edge off of her resentment.
Alisa pulled out two baseballs, one with a bunch of signatures, countless fountain pens, two gavels, a nameplate…
“Wait, Judge Fisher. They forgot the ‘c’ in his last name,” she said. Probably why it was in an old box.
Her hands found a two-inch stack of papers bound by a thick rubber band. The title page read: Richard Fischer – One Judge’s Journey.
She thumbed a few pages. All hand-typed, old red ink smattered across countless pages.
She read the first three pages, then sifted through a few more and read another four pages. She repeated this exercise a couple of more times, her intrigue growing with each page she read.
Taking a quick glance back at the title page, she saw a note scribbled at the top, this time in black ink: ver. 1.
Curious to see if more information was shared in a future version, she stuck both hands in the box, finding more personal items, certificates, awards, even a discolored Dallas Cowboys pennant from the year they won their first Super Bowl in 1972. When she picked it up, it felt like it might disintegrate in her fingers. She laid it carefully off to the side. Even if Bernice said she didn’t care about all of these memorable items, one day she’d probably get a kick going through everything.
“There we go,” Alisa said, lifting a different copy of One Judge’s Journey. She found the story that had abruptly ended in version 1 on page thirty-four, and then she started reading. Her mouth became parched, but she kept on, her heart clocking a bit faster with each paragraph.
Two thumps startled her as Justin burst into the office, tapping his wrist.
“Chop, chop, missy. Crowd’s churning downstairs. Everyone’s calling for their favorite waitress.”
She’d already dropped her eyes back to the brown-tinted pages and pored through another three paragraphs.
“Are you even breathing?” Justin asked.
She raised her head, her mouth hanging open. “Huh? Sorry, I’m just—”
“Customers are getting restless, Alisa.”
She couldn’t stop herself. She had to keep reading. She flipped the page, jabbing her finger to the page.
“Alisa?”
A couple of more sentences.
“Alisa, dammit. I got a business to run.”
“Shut the fuck up, Justin,” she said, bouncing out of the chair, searching for her phone on the messy desk. “You might have bedlam on your hands, but I’m dealing with real shit right now. People are dying so fast we can’t keep up. Remember Paco?”
Justin nodded and buried his hands in his jeans.
“Reach out to a temp agency, pull someone off the street…whatever. But I’m calling Booker.”
<><><>
Glancing back over my shoulder to ensure the area was clear of cops and everyone else, I ducked under yellow police tape, pushed the door shut, and took three steps, using the flashlight on my phone to light up the vestibule of the old church.
The vibe of the dilapidated structure felt different than before. Taking three steps forward, I could still see the graffiti sprawled on walls and even the ceiling. But it wasn’t screaming at me, not like before. A full moon outside cast an array of jagged shadows through broken glass. One shadow, on the wall next to me, was shaped like an enormous machete, with shark-like, serrated teeth. The angle of the shadow made it appear as if the ominous blade was in motion, ready to swipe down and chop off my arm.
The church felt even more macabre than thirty-six hours earlier. A chill lingered in the still air. As I walked along the warped planks, creaks and tiny squeals sliced through eerie silence, as if lost souls were crying out, trying to share their hidden secrets. Edging into the sanctuary, pops and creaks echoed around me, even when I paused for a moment.
This place is empty, right?
I moved my left arm downward and felt the comfort of my leather holster, which held my Sig Sauer P226. I’d dropped by my condo after leaving the hospital. I didn’t want to take any chances. Now I wondered if I’d have to use the weapon.
Shifting the angle of my flashlight around the sanctuary, my eyes tried to look past the rubble and piles of trash, searching for movement, human or otherwise. Undoubtedly, creatures of all types called this place home, or at least rented it on a temporary basis. Up in the corner, my flashlight swooped over an intricate spider web, and two creatures scurried across the silky substance the moment my light flashed on their abode.
With no sign of people, I stepped over bags of trash and dodged boards with nails sticking straight up, exiting the sanctuary through a side door. It was darker in the hallway minus the moonlight. I paused for a moment, staring at the entry into the room where I’d last seen Paco.
I swallowed back a dry patch, looked up and down the hall again, and then walked into the room. With my gut twisting inside out, I tried to purge my mind of the gory image—Paco sprawled on the floor next to the desk, puncture wounds covering his body, dried craters of blood. I could hear my heart thumping in my chest, and I forced my eyes to look away, stare at something nondescript. I found a random book on a nearby shelf to focus on for a moment.
I had a purpose to my visit, so I forced myself to turn back to the door. Starting at the doorway, I scanned every inch of the walls, shelves, and floor, observing all the graffiti, trying to determine how fresh it was, decipher what it meant. It was a long shot, but ever since I’d stepped inside these four walls to view the crime scene, something about the room seemed different. I couldn’t swear it was something I’d seen, or smelled even. And I knew my instincts could be skewed by the gut-wrenching moment of seeing my lifeless former partner and friend.
Blood was still smattered all around the room. Maybe it was possible the CSI techs would find the perp’s DNA in there somewhere. How long would that take? My brain ached trying to fathom how Paco’s murder could have any connection to the ones suffered by Donley or Miller or the judge.
And I couldn’t forget the body on the
street, Henry’s friend from work. Kim was thrown over the side of her lavish condo like a cigarette butt. She was no cop or judge, but she did work in the DA’s office. If nothing else, the timing didn’t sit right.
A blue tic-tac-toe graphic caught my eye, situated next to the door. The outline of a hand shooting the middle finger was in the center box. “Nice,” I said to myself.
Shuffling left, I spotted a few symbols, one that looked like a Jewish star, and then a Swastika positioned on both sides with arrows pointed inward and the words FUCK YOU JEWS!! written on top.
Someone has some issues.
Moving down the wall, I came across a few “good time” phone numbers…guys undoubtedly trying to get their friends in trouble. I recalled me and my buddies doing something similar as teenagers to Justin…only we used the name Justine. When he replayed the story to us of creepy old men calling his house, his pretty boy face turned fire engine red.
I then spotted a few phrases written in huge print: Life is a bitch…then you die sat just above Love is blind, love is beautiful. At least there was one person who’d been in this room who wasn’t completely warped. I found another one written perpendicular to the floor, just next to a corner: I just made you turn your head to read a phrase that adds no value to your life. Loser!!!
“Damn kids have too much time on their hands,” I said aloud, and the room echoed my voice.
After finishing my inspection of the walls and ceiling, I focused specifically on the area most heavily saturated with blood. I kneeled just next to the area outlined in chalk, the general shape of Paco’s body. Gritting my teeth, I forced my brain to filter the emotion and focus on the evidence. I could see more closely the angle of the blood splatter. The assistant ME had ascertained a sharp object did the damage. They weren’t sure how many times the weapon had punctured a hole in his body, but the number was easily double digits, maybe close to triple from all the blood that was produced.
BOOKER Box Set #2 (A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense): Volumes 4-6 Page 68
