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

by John W. Mefford

  She was right. I hadn’t seen this many uniforms in one place since I graduated from the academy. I pulled out my phone and started walking back to the college campus, typing a text to Paco as I hopped a curb and strutted past my car, thankfully still in the space I left it.

  Dude let me hear from u. Need to know the scoop. Thx.

  Swinging open a glass door, I entered the massive main college building.

  “Excuse me.” I tried to engage the receptionist whose eyes remained locked on her eBook.

  “Yes,” she said monotone, apparently oblivious to the turmoil down the street.

  “Can you point to the quickest way to get through to the north side of the building?”

  White eyeballs peered above black-rimmed glasses.

  “Why?”

  “Because my mother—”

  “I don’t care. Here’s a map.” She used a pen to sketch a path through the maze of hallways and corridors.

  “Thanks.”

  I raced off, holding the map up like there was a treasure at the other end. When I finally found windows and a door in the distance, my phoned dinged. A text, from Paco.

  Looking at front of courthouse. U wont believe it.

  I flew out of the door and jogged down Elm, past Market. I could see the command center off to my left, everyone’s focus looking the opposite direction toward the courthouse. Squinting my eyes, I could see something, maybe someone near the top. I texted again while moving.

  “Where u at?”

  Just as I tapped send, a hand grabbed my arm.

  “Booker.” It was Paco. Standing at the corner of Elm and Record, I stopped and focused on the shirtless man hanging by a rope of some kind from the clock tower,

  “What the—” I couldn’t finish my sentence. The entire scene was surreal.

  Four gargoyles surrounded the clock tower, hunched over, with wings and rippled backs. Lights sprayed across their mean faces, and it seemed like they might come to life and soar off the rooftop.

  “The guy who called in the threat, do you know what he said?” I asked, not taking my eyes off the man.

  “Nothing official, although another beat cop said the guy was pretty calm and said a bomb would go off in thirty minutes.”

  “That’s it? No threats or racial statements?”

  “Well…the cop did say he sounded like a black guy.”

  Flipping my head toward Paco, my face contorted. “And how does a black man talk, do tell me?”

  “I’m just the messenger, amigo. I know if you’re from the street, you talk like it; black, white, yellow, it don’t matter.”

  As biased as the officer’s perspective might have been, a prickle invaded my spine and started crawling upward. A motivation came to light: revenge. So many kids of color lost their lives just a few days earlier. Could a family member of one of the victims from the bus bombing be compelled to seek retribution against another race? It seemed almost too obvious.

  Sudden activity caught my eye. People scrambled out of the building, cops on all sides waving them on to move faster; all ages, including young kids. Everyone appeared to be wearing dress clothes. A few males had on black tuxedos.

  Standing just inside the tape, apparently stationed at this location to ensure non-officers didn’t invade the pristine command center, Paco spoke into his shoulder radio, then turned to me. “Evacuating the building. They were getting ready to start a wedding.”

  An older woman ambled down the steps with the help of an officer, a large white flower hanging off her dress. The door swung open, and two cops had another woman in a white dress by either arm. She was fighting and screaming, trying to break free.

  I shook my head. “What is she doing, trying to get back in?”

  Paco wasn’t listening. Two other cops had joined him, exchanging information. Just beyond them, another cluster of ranking officers stood behind a van. Is that KY? Whatever.

  “That guy up there. It’s the groom.” Paco crossed himself again.

  “Holy shit. Oh, sorry.”

  He ignored me.

  “It’s not just any guy. It’s Ashton Cromwell, son of Fulton Cromwell.”

  Blinking lights sparked a rush of theories pinging my brain, and I tried to understand what this meant.

  “This Ashton fellow had to be the target. Maybe the whole wedding party.” I made the statement, then quickly realized I’d drawn a quick logical conclusion, maybe too quick.

  “Maybe,” Paco raised his arms. “Fulton Cromwell’s got his name on everything around here. He’s worth, what, a gazillion dollars?”

  Paco asked a buddy for his binoculars while I pondered motivations for this setup. Someone or some group wanted to create a production out of this. Hanging that poor guy from the clock tower, waiting for the cops and press to show up…this wasn’t just about committing a violent act.

  “Take these.” Paco handed me the binoculars, then turned and covered his mouth.

  I brought the specs up to my eyes, focused on the tower, then found the man.

  I’d never seen such sheer terror on a person’s face, snot and tears smeared everywhere, and although he probably wasn’t thirty years old, he looked sixty-five. His triple-bagged eyes matched those of a raccoon. Water found wide crevices that snaked across his face. He swayed left and right. I noticed the noose around his neck, but it wasn’t tight.

  I moved my vision downward, his shirt tattered and torn off his chest.

  “Shit.”

  I blinked, not wanting to believe what I saw was of this world, in the twenty-first century.

  “Is that a cross etched on his chest?”

  “Damn straight,” Paco said, his lips white from being pressed together so tightly. “I just don’t know how—”

  “Looks like a blowtorch was used.” I closed my eyes ever so briefly, my heart smacking my chest. I wanted to save this guy, to help in some way.

  “Those are police binoculars, hand them over. Now.” A hand snatched the set out of my grip.

  Sims.

  A blank stare morphed into a cynical, toothy grin.

  I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t cause a scene, not here, not now.

  He raised up the specs. “Like I said, only real cops use these.”

  My eyes narrowed, as resentment curled my fists into bowling balls.

  “Booker, he ain’t worth it.” Paco knew where I was heading, even if I didn’t.

  Technically, I was a cop, suspended without pay.

  “So, I’m on the outside looking in, but he’s still gainfully employed? He’s not even sitting behind a desk.” My voice carried a wave of resentment and I stared off to the side to ensure I kept my composure.

  Seconds later, a brush of wind slapped my face, knocking me out of a hypnotic trance, and I saw that man, Ashton, dangling, squirming. Someone tapped my shoulder.

  “You want to use mine?” A short, balding man with gold, round glasses offered me his binoculars.

  “Uh, sure. Thanks.” I found the man on the tower again. I couldn’t imagine what his fiancée was thinking, let alone his parents, and all the people likely watching the streaming video off some website.

  From the command center, I heard someone yell, “We spotted wire. We spotted wire. Get your men down. Now! Do you hear me? Get your men down!”

  With the short, balding man tugging at my arm, I lifted the specs to my eyes. Ashton’s eyes suddenly bugged out, and his body lurched, almost like he’d been zapped by a Taser. Strangely, he started kicking his legs all around, like he was running in place, or possibly dancing. His brain must have been fried. It looked silly, if it wasn’t so twisted. He didn’t seem to be in control of his body, and he screamed and sobbed at the same time. What was happening here?

  Without warning, Ashton dropped three feet, the noose taut around his neck. Seconds later…

  Boom.

  Bricks and pavestone exploded, and Ashton disappeared from my vision.

  13

  Crouching d
own, everything stopped for a single moment, all my senses taking a snapshot at the same time. Red and gray dust mixed with chunks of pavestone arced across the street, and mangled metal and steel protruded from a gaping hole at the top of the clock tower. I took in an odd mixture of car exhaust and tangy barbeque—until a thunderous reverberation echoed off buildings in the distance, as if someone had hit the replay button on YouTube.

  Bewildered, shocked faces surrounded me, including some in blue uniform. Startled people backpedaled, arms, purses even a couple of broken umbrellas covering their heads.

  I moved forward, dodging civilians and uniforms alike. A few ran like their lives depended on it, one ramming my right shoulder just before he tripped over a curb and skidded face first on dust-covered concrete. I couldn’t blame them. I kept moving forward.

  “Booker, where you going? You can’t go there.” I knew Paco was looking out for my best interest, but no one was listening to any instructions, me included. I kept moving forward.

  A fireman wearing a hard hat with bits of red crumbles on top blew his whistle like it would cure everything. Even in the coolness of the night, the man’s pink face glowed, and he darted around like a chicken with its head cut off. Maybe he’d been too close to the explosion, and he couldn’t hear the whistle. I spun around him and marched forward.

  I reached the littered street directly in front of the old courthouse, a throng of first responders whizzing by me, paramedics carrying an empty stretcher, cops in protective gear, even a handful of plainclothes men, more sirens, car alarms firing off all around the scene. I noticed one of the detectives lagging behind, an older, heavyset guy who couldn’t keep up, his heels pounding the pavement, veins snaking across the side of his face and neck, looking like his heart might split open. More cops running all over the scene, arms extended as if they couldn’t see two feet in front of them. It was a colony of chaotic ants.

  I closed my eyes, recalling the day that turned black, the bus explosion, scattering bits and pieces of people’s lives…and the people themselves.

  Through the haze of dust and confusion, my eyes locked in on white—the bride. Huddled on the patch of lawn adjacent to the courthouse, surrounded by debris, the blond bride pushed up with both arms just as I reached her. Lifting her head like it weighed a hundred pounds, anguished, bloodshot eyes stared at me, a trickle of blood coming out of her nose, her face smeared with green grass stains.

  “I’m, I’m, I’m…”

  Her voice quivered, and her arms wobbled a bit. I put both of my hands on either shoulder and waited for her voice.

  “I’m okay. Go help others.” My heart sank for this woman who had almost became Mrs. Ashton Cromwell. On her wedding day, she’d just seen her fiancé tortured and blown up. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen any evidence of Ashton, no body or appendages, on my way up to the building. I glanced all around me, hoping I’d spot anything around us before she found parts of her fiancé.

  “Get the hell out of here, it’s not safe,” someone yelled in my ear and kept moving.

  Twenty feet away, I spotted a blue uniform blending in with the grass. It moved. The person in the blue uniform moved, exposing a person under her. The older lady in the long dress. Must be the mom of the bride or groom.

  Gently releasing the bride, I darted toward the officer and woman. Halfway there, my heart dropped to my feet. Eva.

  I ran closer, low to the ground, as Eva rolled off the older woman, who was mumbling about something. I put a hand on each woman. Eva seemed a bit woozy.

  “Eva, my God, are you okay?”

  Moving her arms away from her head, her eyes squinted shut, she knew it was me.

  “Booker?”

  She had a nasty gash just above her left eyebrow, dirt and tiny remnants of pavestone sprinkled in her bloody cut and all over her pretty face.

  Just then, I spotted a four-foot piece of rusted rebar stuck in the turf just a couple of feet from the ladies. For just a moment, my mind imagined what could have happened—a piece of steel piercing Eva like a skewer—and a tidal wave of emotion flooded my senses. Just as quickly, I snapped out of it.

  I swiftly touched her arms, shoulders, inspected her body, her head with its thick mane of coarse, brown hair. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  Slowly, she rolled onto an elbow and touched her cut, then winced. “No, I think I’m okay. Just this cut. Well, my eyes sting like shit from that fucking dust.”

  Just hearing her spirited reply brought warmness to my heart.

  “Keep your eyes closed until we get you to an—”

  Thwack.

  Something hit my arm.

  “Can you two lovebirds help this woman up?” The older lady to our right flailed her legs liked a beached tortoise, upside down, one of her heeled shoes smacking my dusty leather jacket.

  Eva nodded, and I scooted over to the woman, who I knew would be distraught. Silver-rimmed glasses were bent across her nose and face, but I didn’t see any blood.

  “Are you hurting anywhere, Miss?” I noticed most of her white corsage on the ground a few feet away, smashed. I gathered up five pieces and handed it to her, knowing the grieving process would start any moment.

  “Hurt? I was fine until this Mexican bitch jumped me from behind.”

  I blinked, wondering if somehow the words had originated from another person. I glanced at Eva, my eyes now wide as saucers. She only squinted, and I hoped the noisy whistles and yelling had drowned out the old woman’s biting comment, as bizarre as it was.

  I reached for the woman’s hand. She paused, then took hold, while tossing the flower petals off to the side. She had the grip of a bodybuilder. I eased her up to her feet, and she dusted off her arms and hair.

  “I told that granddaughter of mine to stay away from the likes of Ashton Cromwell. All his money, his daddy’s money, it can only lead to trouble with a capital T,” she spouted off with a thick, country accent. I tried to place it, possibly West Texas.

  Was this woman for real? Her granddaughter had just watched her husband-to-be killed, and she had zero sympathy.

  “Putting my little Britney through this disgusting ordeal. Their engagement was a joke, that asshole, Ashton, putting his little rich dick into everything that moves, and my Britney now has to endure all of this.” She threw up her arms, disgusted.

  But so was I, wondering how the hell this brash woman had the balls to speak so derisively about Ashton. I leaned closer, sniffing for alcohol on her breath. She tilted back and twisted her face.

  “You trying to kiss me, boy?”

  I didn’t know what to do. Eva was now on her feet, one eye partially open, her hand braced against my shoulder.

  “Did she—”

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  The last thing I needed—anyone needed—was my feisty ex-fiancée punching the lights out of Grandma. I swirled around and noticed cameras on shoulders pointed in our direction, at least a half dozen, and a few more with still cameras.

  Suddenly, two young men in tuxedos ran up, their eyes darting between the old woman, Eva, and me.

  “Grammy, are you okay?” the curly-headed one said.

  “Of course I am.” She wiped more dust out of her hair. “I’d be perfectly fine it if wasn’t for this two-bit—”

  “Grammy, Grammy,” they said in tandem, obviously aware of her trash mouth. They turned her around and escorted her away, and I could still hear her mouthing off. The curly-headed one looked over his shoulder and mouthed to me, “Thank you.”

  I waved and nodded at the same time.

  Five minutes later, Eva sat on the back of an ambulance, an oxygen mask over her face, as a paramedic continued cleaning the wound on her forehead. Her neck twitched. She thought she was tough, but I could tell when she hurt, at least physically.

  “Do you need to go to the emergency room and let a doctor sew you up?”

  She lifted her mask, and gave me a cute half-roll of her eyes. “You know I’ve bee
n a cop as long as you, right? I’ve been in my share of scrapes.”

  “I thought you might have added another one to your resume a while ago.” I chuckled at the thought of Eva going postal on the foul-mouthed grandma, and I could feel a release of tension from my body.

  Eva smirked in her special way, the one that reminded me of Samantha.

  “Didn’t know you were working this shift,” I said nonchalantly, noticing the scene had become more controlled, the uniforms going about their jobs and trying to put the horrific images in the back of their minds, at least for the time being.

  “I didn’t know you’d just show up. I’m not used to running into you at crime scenes with you in your civvies.”

  I think she winked at me.

  Taking in a deep breath, I knew that drama could bring people closer or tear them apart. For the second time this week, I could feel myself drawn to my daughter’s gorgeous mama.

  The same woman who swore she never wanted to see my face again. The same woman I left at the altar.

  “You want to take me home in that new, fancy car of yours?”

  I recalled how I’d procured the Saab, seeing Jenna for the first time in years, her obvious flirtation and my reciprocal mutual feeling—but no action. No way in hell was I was sharing that with Eva.

  I’d enjoy being on her good side, at least for one night.

  14

  “Wake up, lazy asshole, asshole, asshole. Wake up, lazy asshole, asshole, asshole.”

  The squawking sound of my…roommate, and his peculiar fixation with the word asshole reminded me that I’d slept in my own bed, minus my ex-fiancée, minus my current client, probably best on both accounts.

  Slowly, I opened one eye, then the next, the morning glare seeping through cracks in the blinds out in the living room. I rolled out of bed and noticed the time, just a shade after nine. Considering I didn’t get home until almost three in the morning—then stared at the ceiling pondering the protest-turned-riot, the second bombing in the last week, and if, or how, I could somehow make a difference—surprisingly, my brain wasn’t running through sludge.