BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense)

by John W. Mefford

“I think you’ve seen too many Quentin Tarantino movies, Tyrone.”

  He cackled again and finished with a long wheeze. I joined in with a respectful chuckle as I hung a right onto Gaston, the heart of old East Dallas, Mexican food restaurants on every other corner, and colorful Spanish signs for a grocery store, pharmacy, even a fitness center.

  “Hey, can you run a check on someone for me?”

  “No problem. Let me log into our system.”

  I heard what sounded like fingers pounding an ancient, sticky keyboard.

  “The city’s still refusing to upgrade workstations, huh?”

  “You know it. They’d rather pay out a million two to fill potholes at Victory Park than give us tools that actually help us do our jobs.” He emphasized the last five words.

  “Ain’t that the truth.” I still sided with the men and women in blue.

  “Name?”

  “Bradley David.”

  “Can’t think of a whiter name that Bradley David,” he said, then chuckled at his own joke. “The system is clocking. Damn, it gets slower and slower every day.”

  “Just remember you’re saving a Lexus chassis every day you use your old computer. What is it, a Compaq? Pre-HP merger, right?”

  “Don’t get me started on mergers, Booker. I got all the numbers on those frauds.”

  “Anything come up yet?” I curled around the massive Baylor University Medical Center and drove south into the heart of the city, approaching Elm. Stabs of pain now shot through my shoulder every ten seconds or so, and I pondered pulling into a vacant parking lot. I’d either have to spring for a Bluetooth or at least remember to bring my earbuds from home.

  “Hmm.”

  “What you got?”

  He ignored my question. “Why’d you say you were looking for this cat?”

  “I didn’t. He might have swindled a friend out of twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “I got two results showing up for Bradley David. One served six months for a DUI back in 2007. Told his parole officer back in 2009 he was joining the Peace Corps and heading to Africa. The other one was born in 1939 and he—”

  “No need to go any further.”

  I took the phone away from my face and curled my shoulder back and forth, then I scratched my chin.

  “You ever heard of this show called Suits?”

  “Shit yeah. My wife, Lucinda, loves that Jessica Pearson, the black bitch who runs the firm. Man, you don’t fuck with Jessica. Then again, you don’t fuck with Lucinda either. My ass has learned that the hard way.”

  Another Tyrone gut-buster and an even longer wheeze. I was beginning to laugh at him, not just with him.

  I envisioned the computer screen…David, Bradley. That made me think, what if…

  “Hey Tyrone, switch the names around. Try David Bradley.” It was a long shot, but with my access to this database now limited, I didn’t have time to ponder too many logical theories on the whereabouts of the slick man with Hollywood looks who apparently carried a completely bogus business card.

  “Two more popped up, but I think we struck out again.”

  “Hit me.”

  “Our first David Bradley is a schoolteacher in the Dallas Independent School District, and coaches track over at South Oak Cliff.”

  “Not white?”

  “Not any more than me.”

  Tyrone cracked up again.

  “Second, David Bradley has a single speeding ticket on his record from two years ago. He’s thirty-nine as of last month.”

  I twisted my sizable lips. “He might be my best shot at this point. What’s his address?”

  He ignored my question again.

  “By the way, I clicked on a link that opened an article from the Morning News. It says here that he co-owns a restaurant off Lemon. Hosted a benefit there six months ago for the family of a Dallas fireman whose own house was burned to the ground.”

  I think I grunted, and Tyrone kept feeding me information.

  “I’m staring at his mug shot.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “Think Harry Specter.”

  “Suits. Damn.”

  10

  All hell is breaking loose. Get yo ass back to the hood.

  I read Uncle Charlie’s text aloud, then quickly downshifted and hooked a U-turn on Routh Street, redlining the engine before sliding the stick into the next gear. Damn, the silver fox was smooth. I pondered a nickname for my new set of wheels as I weaved around slower traffic, momentarily forgetting I wasn’t behind the wheel of a black and white. This sucker hugged the road like nothing I’d ever felt.

  Part of me wanted to be annoyed at Uncle Charlie for interrupting my work on my first case as a PI. But my mom’s brother typically wasn’t one to overdramatize situations. I’d try to run by David Bradley’s restaurant later.

  While Momma was always a bit more idealistic, Uncle Charlie seemed to appreciate all that life had to offer, but he wasn’t oblivious to reality either. Still in his mid-sixties, he always had a story to tell, a wise phrase to offer. Didn’t mean much when I was a little dirt rat running around the neighborhood creating grief for whomever I had in my sights. But as I entered high school the stories started to stick a bit more, and honestly, they helped motivate me to work harder, to focus on making something out of my life, and not let my surrounding environment define what kind of man I’d be. With my dad essentially nonexistent, Uncle Charlie became my male role model.

  “If you don’t try, then you’ll never succeed. So get off yo ass and try again and again and again.” I’ll never forget that phrase, the last part of a speech he gave me one night when I came home from practice and I did nothing but complain about my life—too much schoolwork, coaches chewing me out in the middle of one-hundred-degree workouts, and too many temptations staring me in the face.

  I wanted to be like Mike. Mike Hampton, the coolest cat in the hood, who somehow got a hardship driver’s license at age fifteen and was rolling in a Hoopty Monte Carlo SS, while the rest of us were still using our legs, or at best, a hand-me-down bicycle to hoof it across the neighborhood. I knew Mike smoked a little weed, maybe even did a little dealing on the side. But, like so many teens who thought they deserved a free pass down Easy Street, I justified Mike’s proclivity for all things illegal, only noticing his cool ride and a good-looking girl on his arm. The wisest man I’d ever known, Uncle Charlie had never gone to college or worked his way into a prominent position at some Fortune 500 company. I’d once asked Momma about that and she said he’d once gone through a “dark” period in his life and came out of it a different person. Later, I’d overheard other family members say that Uncle Charlie became addicted to cocaine, started dealing, got arrested three times in six months, and then had to spend two years in Huntsville.

  He’d always wanted me to have a better life, had dreams of me going to college, graduating even. The first in our family. I owed him a lot, and the only thing he asked for in return was to make him proud…day in and day out. To not only be there for my family, my little girl, and my friends, but also my community.

  The day I graduated from the policy academy, the badge pinned to my chest, I saluted the police chief while Uncle Charlie stood and saluted me. At first, it was a tad embarrassing, then the crowd started clapping, and I could feel an instant gush of pride and accomplishment. I marched over and hugged him, and he whispered in my ear, “You’ve only started the journey, Booker. Remember what got you here, and make us proud every day.”

  Catching the lights just perfect for a change—driving about ten miles per hour over the speed limit will do that—I found myself crossing the unofficial border into South Dallas, I-30, in no time. Instinctively, my car and I were drawn to Fair Park, home of the Cotton Bowl—a stadium I once played in during a high school playoff game—the state fair, and Music Hall, the best arts venue south of downtown Dallas.

  I could hear my phone clicking and clacking in the passenger’s seat, but as I drove down Grand Avenue, my eyes
were fixated on the scene at the upcoming cross street, Cullum Boulevard. The whole flipping intersection was shut down, as protestors marched in a circle, holding up homemade signs. Even through my windows, I could hear blaring voices over three or four bullhorns.

  “No justice for our kids, no peace for black America,” they chanted, mostly in unison, rocking back and forth, some pounding their signs to the concrete, others raising a defiant fist to the sky.

  I felt my chest constrict, my breath shorten. This had to be a response to the bomb that killed the innocent people, mostly black kids, a few days earlier. The black community wanted answers, and given the insidious message called into the division just minutes before the bomb exploded, it appeared that old wounds had split open.

  Finding a safe zone for my car in a grocery parking lot across the street, I felt my phone vibrating. I answered it as I strutted toward the crowd of people determined to make a statement, and cops who hoped that’s all they wanted.

  “Booker, why didn’t you pick up your phone?” Uncle Charlie sounded agitated.

  “I got your message. I’m here now.”

  Scanning the scene, I saw the typical folks leading the charge when anything sniffed like racial injustice. But I knew this wasn’t typical. And neither was the crowd. Five, maybe six hundred folks cut a huge swath in the six-lane intersection, their volume and sentiment more apparent with each step that I took closer.

  “This group is pissed. The community is pissed,” Uncle Charlie said, his voice filled with more emotion than usual. “Kids, black kids mostly, were blown up, sent to heaven way too soon. It’s just not right. Now that the message the bomber left at your division was made public, we know who was behind it. Whether they are neo-Nazis, members of the Ku Klux Klan, or some other radical white group, they didn’t just march around and preach hatred. They acted on it.”

  I bit into my lip, knowing Uncle Charlie’s assessment made sense, especially if you lived on this side of I-30. He used the term “they.” I hadn’t thought about it much…whether it was a lone nut job or a group.

  “I know it’s only been a couple of days, but everyone in our community wants answers. They want the bomber found, taken off the street, and put to trial. I get it. But everyone wants this person caught, black and white alike,” I said.

  “White people didn’t see their kids blown up on TV.”

  I wasn’t going to argue the point. Emotions, even from the most even-keeled folks, were hovering near the boiling point.

  “Where are you?” I stretched my neck, trying to locate Uncle Charlie’s mostly silver head of hair.

  “I’m on the outskirts, down south of the main group, on the sidewalk. With my cane and all, I can’t risk getting knocked over. That would embarrass the whole cause.”

  “I don’t see you.”

  He ignored my comment.

  “But you know I don’t blame every man and woman dressed in blue around here. You guys got a helluva job. Helluva job.”

  “I think I see my partner, Paco. I’m going to try get the scoop from him, ensure we can keep this peaceful.”

  “Hey, why aren’t you in uniform today? Don’t tell me they finally woke up and promoted you to detective?”

  I could feel pride and hope in his voice, but it wasn’t the time to relay what happened with Sims and my new career path in the private sector. Even in a normal setting, I wasn’t prepared to have this conversation, at least not until I’d notched a couple of victories as a PI.

  “Just got the day off, that’s all.”

  We ended the conversation, and Uncle Charlie said he’d continue to observe and let me know if he saw anyone getting out of hand, regardless of color.

  There looked to be about twenty officers on the scene. I swept by the side of the protestors and waved toward Paco. He nodded and walked to the side of his squad car. Just as I extended my hand, I heard a voice from the crowd call out: “You’re nothing more than an Uncle Tom. Ass-kissin’ traitor.”

  I must have turned my head or paused slightly.

  Paco knew me. “Ignore them, Booker. They’re just all riled up about this bomb. They’re angry, and they’re trying to get under our skin.”

  I couldn’t see Paco’s eyes behind his mirrored sunglasses, but his face twisted in a way that showed his concern for me, his soon-to-be former partner. Skin color had everything to do with this. There were other black officers on the scene, but at least a few of the protestors had singled me out because I wasn’t black enough. I put a hand on Paco’s shoulder; we shook hands, and I tried to dismiss the cutting slur.

  “What’s the status of the situation?” I asked, the smell of sweat and Paco’s pungent cologne invading my senses.

  “This suspension thing…I know you’re still one of us.” Paco smacked my arm and released a chuckle, like he had to remember that it was still okay to share information with me. Instantly, I felt an awkward stiffness in my neck, but I didn’t reveal my thoughts. In the next few weeks my suspension would turn into a forced resignation, and pulling information even out of the strongest of cop friends, including my former partner, apparently would be nearly impossible.

  “Protest started about two hours ago, about twenty or thirty folks walking the sidewalk over there.”

  He pointed toward the side where Uncle Charlie was supposedly standing, but as I scanned the crowd, I still couldn’t spot him. I did see four news vans, each representing the local network affiliates.

  “We’ve learned that some of the younger protestors posted pictures of the protest on Instagram, and the crowd grew quickly. They became more agitated, defiant. They walked into the intersection, daring a car to hit them. We showed up, re-routed traffic, and we’re trying to keep things contained and calm.”

  “Shit.” I shook my head, knowing the last thing we needed was another death, any type of violence.

  “They’re mad, and they want action,” Paco added.

  I counted four cameramen roaming through the crowd. This would make the local newscast without a doubt. Given the bombing, I wondered if this protest story would be carried nationally.

  “We know some of them just like to protest,” I said, turning my head from Paco to the crowd. “But I think a lot of them are scared. Scared of the past.”

  Paco nodded. “Frankly, they’ve got good reason. A freakin’ psycho blew up that bus.” He crossed himself then raised his head upward. He’d always worn his emotions and Catholic faith on his sleeve.

  I continued his thought. “And that psycho spewed out racial hatred like it was 1964. He taunted us by leaving that message. It wasn’t good enough to kill those kids anonymously. He wanted to make a statement.”

  I found myself trying to think like the killer, as if it was my job to understand his motivation, develop a profile, piece together evidence, and hunt him down. Dozens, if not hundreds of men and women were working this case, I was certain. Yet, whether it was because for a few anguishing moments I thought my daughter had perished, or I felt protective of my city and my people, I felt completely involved in this case.

  Glancing at my attire reminded me I wasn’t one of the men in blue. A burgundy-striped Hugo Boss shirt clung to my chest, the sleeves rolled up just below my elbows. I’d left my black leather jacket in the Saab. Again, I felt like an outsider. But could I use that to my advantage?

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a few of the protestors break from the formation and approach the cops who had on riot gear, standing just in front of red and white sawhorses. Three cops stood shoulder to shoulder, dark masks covering their faces, both hands gripping what looked like tear gas grenade launchers. I couldn’t tell if the cops were saying a word, but their uniform and intimidating posture seemed to stoke the fire from the ten or fifteen folks yelling at them.

  A person with a camera on his shoulder was catching every word and response. It probably played out like a reality TV show.

  “This isn’t good,” I said out loud, realizing if I stepped in, it w
ould only incite resentment on one side and outright anger on the other.

  My phone vibrated again in my pocket. Keeping one eye on the escalating confrontation, I read the latest text from Uncle Charlie.

  Lady wearing all black lost son in bomb xplosion.

  Nudging Paco, I had him read the text. He turned away from me, swung his head toward his shoulder, and relayed the information to the officer in charge of the scene.

  Suddenly, the woman in black raised her wooden sign and swung it at the head of the cop just in front of her. He partially blocked it with his elbow, but his protective mode kicked in and he took a step forward, thrust his arms against her, and she fell to the ground. Within seconds, protestors ran over and surrounded the woman, who appeared to be crying uncontrollably, not from the fall, but more likely from the gut-wrenching loss she was trying to cope with.

  I took two steps in that direction, but Paco quickly grabbed the back of my shirt.

  “Booker, you can’t get in the middle of this. It wouldn’t help, not at this stage.”

  I stopped moving, knowing my partner spoke the truth. My gut twisted into a prickly ball of anxiety as I prayed for cooler heads to prevail.

  But they didn’t. Protestors of all ages jumped up and down, shouting expletives at the cops, jabbing fingers in their direction. A spark had just ignited a brush fire, and it was impossible to stop. Two more protestors, both younger men, moved closer to the riot police, now about ten strong. You could see the cops lower their knees, appearing like linebackers ready to take on a blocker.

  I just hoped they remembered their training, to maintain a calm, defensive mindset. We’d all been taught that most of these situations stayed violence-free if the cops didn’t respond to the taunting verbal threats, even if the protestors tried to make it personal, like the Uncle Tom comment earlier.

  A rhythmic thumping fluttered in my gut. I glanced left, and a low-flying helicopter cleared the trees and buildings at the Music Hall, headed in our direction. I read “Fox 4 News” on the white veneer of the helicopter. The press now attacked from the air; might as well douse the hot stove with gasoline.