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

by John W. Mefford

Leaning over the bathroom sink, I cupped water in my hands and splashed my face. I looked into the mirror, noticing the cut of my fro. If I let it grow out at all, with my loose curls, I looked more like one of those cross-dressing prostitutes on Harry Hines. I touched my head, then scratched the equally well-kept goatee.

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

  Rolling my tired eyes, I slipped on a T-shirt, ambled into the living room, and put my hands on my hips. “Can’t you let a man sleep?”

  “Wake up, asshole, asshole, asshole.”

  I watched my colorful macaw, both in terms of feathers and mouth, shove his black beak through his cage, then twist his head and chomp down on the metal frame.

  “Big Al, you’re going to cut open your cage, you little shit. Hold your horses, I’ll feed you.” I released a disgusted breath as I opened the cabinet, pulled out his special food, and filled his bowl. He’d once had a urinary tract infection and they said if I didn’t give him this food, he’d get crystals in his bladder and die.

  “Yummy, yummy, yummy.”

  As predictable as a…macaw, Big Al picked up that phrase from Samantha, who thought he was the coolest pet of all time. He’d snapped at just about anyone who dared to stick a finger in his cage. Everyone except little Samantha. Maybe he knew where the line was drawn, because if he ever drew blood on my little girl, he’d be testing his survival instincts outside and alone as fast as I could open the window.

  Was I looking for an excuse to throw out the only roommate I’d had since college? Perhaps. Then again, Big Al was a nice diversion whenever I brought home a date and awkward silence filled the room. To me, he served a better purpose than a human roommate did. He required minimal cleanup, a small monetary investment in food, and he actually served as a colorful decoration with his sky-blue feathers, an almost neon-yellow underbelly, a black beard that reminded me of Pirates of the Caribbean, eyes outlined in black and white, and a little green tuff on top of his head that bobbed constantly.

  In my sparse, small-sized condominium, any decoration was good, even if I did have to grit my teeth through his incessant talking and repeating the same phrases over and over.

  I made myself some coffee, flipped on the TV, and propped up my feet on an old crate serving as a coffee table and ottoman. Momma said it had come from Africa, and she wanted me to always keep it in the family.

  Losing myself in the fake laughter and corny jokes of morning TV, I thought more about last night. The view from those binoculars had been too vivid. Watching a human being die will stick with you forever; seeing him toyed with…it’s just fucked up. I could feel my pulse tap a bit faster as pictures came to life in my mind—his eyes bulging, him snapping to attention and dancing like a crazy puppet while yelling and crying. Then, almost as if a chair had been kicked out from underneath him, Ashton dropped and hanged himself. Immediately thereafter came the explosion and ensuing pandemonium. Cause and effect.

  Pinching the corners of my eyes, I wished like hell I was on point as the lead detective on this case. I’d have access to all the data, starting with what the crime scene investigation team found.

  Questions peppered my brain: Was the bomb somehow triggered by Ashton’s weight? Was there any evidence to show Ashton was being forced to dance, causing the bomb to go off? With everything being controlled wirelessly these days, I wondered if someone, maybe the man who made the call to the division, might have been watching the whole scene. He wasn’t just toying with Ashton, he was toying with everyone in attendance. Part of me knew this bombing had to be connected to the one at the Boys & Girls Club, but could it have been a racially-motivated revenge killing? The target, Ashton Cromwell and his wedding party, were some of the most well-known public figures in the DFW Metroplex. Another piece of me wondered if the first bombing could have been set up just to throw officials a curveball.

  But I’d never seen a curveball cut like that before.

  I thought more about the bride, Britney. The emptiness she felt this morning wouldn’t be replenished. Ever. But her crazy, off-the-wall grandmother just made the night. Throwing out racial slurs left and right, talking shit about Ashton just minutes after watching his horrific death…what the hell was she thinking?

  She wasn’t. The old bag was probably suffering from Alzheimer’s or some personality disorder. The family needed to keep her away from the public. Her mouth was a walking weapon, a riot in the making.

  Sipping my coffee, I picked up my smart phone and thumbed through my contacts, searching for someone who might offer a snippet of information. The blur of my virtual Rolodex caused me to drift away, and I wondered if my effort in this bombing case could make a difference.

  Scanning the F’s in my contacts, I pulled up F-U: Felix Upton. Twisting my lips, I recalled the guys razzing Felix a fair amount at the academy. We’d kept in touch just in passing over the years. There had been a memo a couple of months back stating Felix had just recently made the jump to the CSI team as a junior member.

  “What the hell, I’ve got nothing to lose,” I said out loud as I tapped the green button and brought the phone to my ear.

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

  The phone rang three times. “Hush, Big Al, this is important.”

  “Yummy, yummy, yummy.”

  I wiped my face, wondering what I’d say on Felix’s voicemail.

  “Hey, Booker.”

  Scooting up on my couch, I nearly spilled my coffee. “Uh, hey, Felix.”

  “Didn’t think I had you as a contact, I guess?”

  I recalled his sardonic wit.

  “Yep, you got me there.”

  “What can I do you for?”

  The sounds of a buzz saw emanated through the receiver. “Are they finally giving the CSI team more space? Congrats, by the way.”

  I heard mumbling; Felix was instructing someone on…where to install the sconces in his media room. I must have misunderstood.

  “Uh, thanks, man. I’ve actually got the day off. Working with contractors, spicing up the homestead a bit,” he said with a humble tone. It had the opposite effect.

  I turned to Big Al, a confused look on my face, pondering how much of a bump in pay Felix must have received when he got the new CSI gig.

  “Is your wife in charge of design, and you’re just making sure the contractors don’t break the china?”

  A pause.

  “No, it isn’t like that.”

  He sounded defensive, or offended, maybe both.

  “I didn’t mean anything. Just, you know, some women like to be in control of the house. Is your wife…uh…”

  “Sara.”

  I wasn’t winning any brownie points.

  “Right, Sara, she still teaching at my old school, James Madison?”

  More muffled discussion. He did a better job in covering the phone this time, and I only heard every other word, something about timely cleanup, Sara getting home. Hmmm. Maybe the wife had assumed control.

  “Nah, she quit over the summer.”

  I leaned forward, expecting to hear the word “and,” followed by a substantive response of some kind. It just fell flat, somewhat like my attempt to bond with Felix.

  “Hey, I’ve got something pretty important I’d like to discuss with you. I’ll buy you a coffee when you have a few minutes to spare.”

  I pressed my lips, wondering if he’d take the carrot.

  “You don’t need to buy me anything.”

  Stated with a mocking tone, I could see his hand waving in front of his body, and I could feel blood rising up my neck.

  “The guys here are taking an early lunch.”

  I heard someone in the background yell out, “Vamanos, andale!”

  “We can meet for lunch at—”

  I jumped in, just in case he suggested some place expensive, given his new tax bracket. “Angry Dog. Red brick building in Deep Ellum. Heard of it?”

  We agreed to meet in one hour, although Felix’s response
s sounded more pretentious with each word that left his mouth. I knew he was an odd duck, maybe insecure from the hazing he’d received over the years, but I never pegged him as a snob. Just didn’t fit him.

  Without much time for a formal workout at the condo’s gymnasium, I improvised. Sliding my phone into its charger/speaker, I tapped the start of my playlist, just to get me in the groove. First up was a trio of Jay-Z hits, all with different female performers. He teamed with Alicia Keys a few years back on “Empire State of Mind.” Next, I listened to Jay-Z and Rihanna on “Umbrella,” and then it ended with Jay-Z sharing the mic with Beyonce over a decade ago on “Crazy in Love.”

  Damn, that rapper was one lucky son of a bitch.

  Having just knocked out two hundred sit-ups, I flipped over, put my feet on the couch, and started a set of push-ups. I hit fifty, then paused as perspiration dripped off my sideburns to the floor. I pressed out another twenty-five. Approaching the makeshift bar I’d bolted at the top of my bedroom door opening, I thought I heard a knock on my door, but I didn’t bother checking. The new song from U2, “Invisible,” had just kicked off, and I was feeling it. Curling my fingers around the metal bar, I raised myself up. On my way down, I lifted my knees to avoid dragging my feet—no cheating for Booker T. Adams. I cranked out thirty chin-ups and was then interrupted with a flurry of door knocks.

  Grabbing a towel, I wiped my face and jogged to the door.

  “Yo.” I swung open the door and spotted a female, one eye checking the clock over by the TV. I had twenty minutes to get to Angry Dog.

  “I knew you were in here, rocking out, doing your muscle thing.” Wearing a pink cloth robe that extended just below her rear end, Cindy, who shared a condo with four cats three doors down, waltzed into my apartment like she owned the place. We’d been through this routine way too many times, some when she was sober, and many times when you could smell the booze on her breath before I opened the door. Nearly every time, she had some excuse to bug me; I think it was with the sole purpose of strapping me to the bed and banging the shit out of me. But I wasn’t in college, and I wasn’t looking for a booty call, especially not from Desperately Seeking Cindy.

  She flipped around, the bow in her robe belt accidentally/purposely sliding apart. Her body wasn’t bad, but this was just not where I wanted to go.

  “Hold on, Cindy.” I took two steps forward, closing my eyes. “You need to close up shop before you expose yourself.”

  When I stopped, she had both hands on my chest, flexing my inflamed pecs. I opened both eyes and looked at the second biggest problem with Cindy. Her face bunched up like a ball of aluminum foil. I tried not to outwardly wince. Meanwhile, perhaps by plan, while her face had distracted me, she’d slid her hand down inside my sweats.

  “Whoa!” I jumped back.

  She tapped her finger to her chin. “You’re not a boxer or briefs guy. You’re wearing the hybrid version, trunks.”

  She proceeded to laugh, or what I call it, cackle. Fingernails on a chalkboard.

  “Look, Cindy, I’ve got somewhere to be.” I tapped my wrist, eyed the microwave clock just over her shoulder. I only had fifteen minutes to get to the burger joint.

  Her face drew a blank, but then a focused stare. She took one step back, her eyes shooting lasers into mine. Awkward.

  “Cindy, can’t this wait…”

  She threw her head forward, flipping her sopping-wet locks right at me, then flipped them back behind her head like she’d just holstered her weapon.

  “Really?” I said with a purposeful annoyed tone as I wiped splattered water off my face, neck, and arms.

  Still penetrating my core with her disturbing glare, she twirled around, executing, as best I could tell, a perfect pirouette, which only resulted in her hair jutting out water like a sprinkler in my direction.

  Two quick steps and she was leaning on my chest. She was wet Velcro.

  “I just thought you wanted to be as wet as I was.” She raised both eyebrows and attempted to lick her lips in a seductive manner.

  It just didn’t work. Not today, not any day, not anywhere.

  I put my hands on both shoulders. “Cindy,” I said in a direct, but gentle tone. “This is not going to happen. You’re a nice girl. You’re a good friend.”

  I stretched it a bit. I didn’t need a vindictive stalker in my life, especially one who lived just three doors down.

  “So, let’s cover ourselves up and go on home.” I put my hand on her back to guide her back to the front door.

  She took two steps then spun like a running back, making a beeline toward the kitchen area.

  “What now?” Raising my hands, I smacked the side of my sweats. I was getting pissed. “Cindy Valentino, you need to leave.”

  She got to the counter and rested her ample rear end against the edge of the concrete counter top. She crossed her arms, a smirk taking over her face.

  Was she negotiating with me through her body language?

  “Okay. Maybe one day we can meet at the gym, work out at the same time.” I had to throw her a bone, just not the one she was hoping for.

  “That will work. Plus, I need two cups of sugar. Got any?”

  She winked on her way out the door, knowing she’d gotten the best of me in this little duel.

  I took a quick shower and dressed in jeans, a gray V-neck T-shirt, and a pair of boots, black Doc Martens with a silver buckle. They fit my size fourteens perfectly without sacrificing comfort. On a cop’s salary, I generally watched every penny I spent and had been able to avoid credit card debt. But I did splurge a bit on shoes—Eva said that’s one thing we had in common.

  As I shut the door behind me, I prepared myself for a conversation that I knew would not be easy.

  15

  Sitting in my Saab in the parking lot next to Angry Dog, I touched the warm leather seats. The shiny, gray leather crinkled a bit near the curve of the seat, but that was to be expected in a five-year-old car.

  I felt the last of the onion rings slinking its way up my throat, and I lurched just a bit. Sliding back the center console, I riffled through CDs, business cards, even my receipt contract with Jenna. No sign of my Tums. I flipped open the glove compartment and found every Saab manual and maintenance proof of payment, but not the colorful, chalky tablets that tamed my indigestion on a regular basis.

  I could hear Eva now. “When are you going to learn? We all have our limits, even you, Superman.”

  Friends and most of my family would never let me forget the nickname or the headlines written about me over a decade earlier. Ever since the world went digital, old newspaper clippings never wilted away in a closet. A colleague would find one online, take a snippet, and email it to the whole division, management included. Worse yet, they’d print off copies and put one under the windshield wipers of every car in the lot.

  Superman Saves the Day.

  That headline followed one of my biggest games as a Trojan. I passed for three hundred yards and three touchdowns, all in the second half, in a 24-21 comeback victory over our archrival, South Oak Cliff. Most had forgotten that I threw three interceptions in the first half and one was a pick six. At halftime, my coach didn’t say a word to me. On our way out of the locker room, I told the team if we didn’t win the game, I was going to give up football. Everyone played their asses off, and I got the headline.

  It was part of being a quarterback, I learned. Too much praise when we won, and at times too much finger-pointing when we lost.

  I glanced in my rearview mirror and shook my head. Two bearded hippies were arguing with a tow truck driver about their Harleys being loaded onto his rig. They looked like members of ZZ Top: dark shades, sleeveless leather jackets, and faded peace sign tattoos all over their hairy arms. Blocked in initially by the motorcycles and now by the tow truck, I gave them five more minutes to figure it out.

  I released a belch, easing the surge of reflux moving up my throat for the time being, and I thought back on my bacon double cheeseburger,
my lunch with Felix. It might have been the strangest conversation I’d had in a long while, Cindy Valentino notwithstanding.

  “Okay, Booker, I heard about your suspension. Don’t know how or why, but you reaching out to me only means you want something from me,” he’d said as soon as I’d plopped into my seat.

  We sat across from each other in a booth, brown vinyl. Felix leaned back, one arm draped over the seat, crossing his legs. He felt in control.

  “Do you mind if I order a drink first?” I asked.

  He flipped his head and opened the menu.

  The waitress brought Felix a bottled light beer. I considered this part of my working day, and I drank tea, allowing me another jolt of caffeine. I took my first sip.

  “The bombings. I need information,” I said.

  He looked away and chuckled. “You and every other uniform west of the Mississippi.”

  I stared into his eyes, wondering if he’d recently gone through special sensitivity training given by Sims.

  “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to make you feel awkward,” he said monotone, which meant he had purposely tossed me a zinger.

  Wow, old FU had learned to give as much as he’d taken over the years. Good for him. Given what I needed, he could be “the man” for now.

  “You’ve been in the CSI unit for what, two months?”

  “About ten weeks, why?”

  I glanced at his clothes. Very green, very preppy, even a collar turned up. I think he might have had his hair permed. Very GQ.

  “No reason. Just jealous.” I aimed to build him up as much as possible. “I thought my daughter, Samantha, was on that bus.” I raised my eyes. Even saying the words made my heart thump with more velocity.

  Curling his lips inward, he glanced down at the table. Perhaps I’d just melted some of his icy bravado.

  “Right. I forgot you were on the scene.” His intensity had dropped a couple of notches. “Sara and I have tried to have kids the last two years. She’d do anything to have a daughter.”

  “I’d do anything for my daughter.”

  “Samantha, she’s okay?”