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

by John W. Mefford

  I read his nametag: Dr. Farooq. He shook hands with Dax.

  “David is resting comfortably right now. He’s is no pain, just a little weakened.”

  Holding up a hand as if he was bracing for bad news, Dax’s eyes appeared glassy. “Is he going to die?”

  I twisted my neck his way, surprised at the morbid perspective, although I just wanted to hear that David would live long enough for me to interrogate him, learn about his financial investment business and, ideally, retrieve Jenna’s stolen twenty-five grand.

  “He’s suffered what we call a myocardial infarction, which is a result of the narrowing of an artery. Coronary arteries bring blood into the heart,” the doctor explained using his hands against his own chest. Dax was following his hand like a cat follows a red pointer—obsessively.

  “I believe his MI was mild, impacting a very minute portion of the heart muscle. We’ve found a partial blockage in a small artery. It’s a buildup of a fatty plaque on the artery walls.”

  “How could this have happened? David takes care of himself, and I make sure he stays in peak physical condition.”

  “Has he been under any recent stress lately?” Dr. Farooq asked, his hands gripping a metal clipboard against blue scrubs and white coat.

  Dax swallowed hard, and I could see his eyes glance in my direction. “David has had to deal with a fair amount of professional strain lately.” He coughed once. “He is one of the city’s finest chefs.”

  “Well, he needs to find a way to drastically reduce the stress.” Dr. Farooq pointed a finger, providing more of an order than a recommendation.

  Words pressed my lips, but I withheld the urge to speak my thoughts that admitting his guilt and paying off his debts might release David from a boatload of stress.

  Dax bit his lip and nodded.

  “From what he told me—and this is very common—heart disease runs in his family. His father died of a heart attack at age forty,” the doctor said.

  Taking in a deep breath, Dax brought a hand to his chest. I couldn’t deal with another heart attack.

  Dax eyed the white and gray tiled floor. “David is thirty-nine,” he appeared to say to himself. He looked into the doctor’s eyes. “Is he going to need surgery?” he asked timidly.

  Dr. Farooq shook his head and put his hand to Dax’s shoulder, calming him. “He should be fine with rest, relaxation, and medication. Through an IV, we currently have him on a beta blocker and what is called an ACE inhibitor.”

  Dax seemed confused, and I wasn’t far behind.

  “ACE stands for angiotensin-converting enzyme. It lowers the blood pressure, which means the heart muscle doesn’t have to work as hard. He’ll stay the night and should be able to go home tomorrow.”

  “When can we see him?” I asked, my eagerness splitting the aura of goodwill hanging in the hallway.

  The good doctor shot a look of indignation my way, then re-engaged with Dax.

  “He’ll need to start a regular exercise regimen, eat healthy, and have regular checkups, starting here in about two weeks.”

  “I’ll make sure he follows the instructions to the T. When can I see him?” Dax asked.

  “If you can maintain a calming environment, you can stay by his side all night, accompany him up to his room.”

  The doctor looked at me then back at Dax. “I’m glad we found this blockage now, before it got worse. A few months later, and we might have had a serious situation. All should be okay, though.”

  Dax stepped toward David’s curtain. For some reason, I didn’t trust either one of these guys. If I didn’t pull the information out of them tonight, something told me they might vanish by the time I waited for David to fully heal.

  Once the doctor disappeared around the corner, I followed Dax, soft-shoeing it about twenty feet behind him.

  Using a nice behind-the-back move, Dax zipped the curtain shut, the eight-foot-high cloth still fluttering as I approached the flimsy barrier. I took in a breath, thinking through how I might be received on the other side.

  I slowly peeled back the curtain.

  “You’re going to live until you’re a hundred thirty-nine, do you hear me?” Dax uttered while holding David’s hand.

  David noticed my entrance, his blue eyes shifting in my direction, dark circles lurking under those eyes.

  A rhythmic beeping sound turned my head toward the portable heart monitor machine in the corner, as fluorescent light bulbs hummed overhead, serving as white noise.

  “What do you want?” Dax’s protective side had returned.

  Holding up a hand as a peace offering, I spoke quietly. “Dr. Farooq just wanted me to tell you that he’d drop by to check on David tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.” I relayed this information completely based upon my knowledge of a typical doctor’s schedule. I hoped I was right, but its main purpose was to serve as an icebreaker.

  “Thank you,” David said, his voice a bit weak. He motioned Dax for his water, then sipped from a straw.

  I padded to the left of the bed, thinking I was being inconspicuous, as much as a six three, two hundred ten pound guy can be.

  “Oh, don’t think you can sweet-talk your way in here and start peppering my David with all of your false accusations.” Dax swung his finger left and right.

  I backed up a step, held up my hands. “Dax, let’s not get all worked up. The doctor said David has to keep it on the down low.”

  Shifting a bit in his bed while trying not to move the arm attached to an IV needle and bandages, David glanced at Dax. “It’s okay. I can talk for a moment.”

  Getting a better look, I could see David’s strong features, and his resemblance to that Harvey Specter character from Suits. Prominent cheekbones and chin, clean-shaven, and a confident gaze, even if he was wearing a throwaway nightgown. He even had a skin-toned mole just above his lip. The resemblance was uncanny, if not for the hair. David’s thick, brown locks with streaks of blond were parted on one side. Not the same look or vibe as Harvey’s tower of gel, a pyramid of well-coiffed hair that told everyone around him to admire and not to touch.

  David’s younger half relaxed his posture but kept a hand on David’s arm.

  “I represent Jenna Parsons,” I said calmly.

  “Represent? You’re an attorney?” David asked.

  “I’m a private investigator.” I paused, but David didn’t flinch. Whether it was the drugs, or his natural disposition, he appeared unruffled.

  “I’m actually a cop, and I do this on the side.” Dammit. For some reason, I felt like I had to add punch to my presence. That wouldn’t work much longer.

  David remained resolute, although Dax licked his lips and swallowed.

  “I have evidence that shows you talked Jenna into giving you twenty-five thousand dollars for purposes of investing into a REIT, one that doesn’t exist, from what I’ve researched.”

  Dax’s eyes slowly morphed into crumpled confusion.

  David turned his head. “It’s a real estate investment trust. Just another tool in the tool box of a financial advisor.”

  “But you don’t have a license to sell REITs, do you, David?”

  Reaching left, he grabbed the Styrofoam cup and sipped water until we heard a slurping sound. He removed the straw, shook the cup, and chewed a mouthful of ice. My eyes never left his.

  “Booker…”

  “Adams.” I think he made a mental note to look me up. Touché.

  “Mr. Adams, do you know how much capital it takes to open a restaurant like Marvel?”

  By answering a question with another question, he was essentially providing me the answer: no.

  I responded, “Given what I saw, the lighting, architecture, the incredible detail outside and in, the pieces of art apparently created just for your restaurant, I’m sure I’ve never seen that amount of money in one place. But I bet you have.” I sent a direct shot across the bow.

  David took in a deep breath. Was he debating whether to free his conscious and tell me th
e truth, or just bide more time to dig a new tunnel, hoping it would eventually lead to freedom?

  “I’ve got a saying that I live by, because everyone who has money in this world lives by it, whether they do it consciously or not.”

  “What is that?” I crossed my arms and immediately felt biting stings across my chest and abdomen. Given my audience, I didn’t flinch, and I didn’t move my arms.

  “Image…is everything.” Tilting his head, he splayed his arms and held them in that position far too long not to be considered a cocky move. Come to think of it, that was a perfect impersonation of his look-alike, Harvey.

  “Have you ever seen the show Suits?” It was slightly off-topic, but I had the time, and the curiosity.

  “I’m not a lawyer, if that’s why you’re asking me about that TV show. I’m a chef, and a damn good one.”

  David answered like the Harvey character, telling his version of the truth but not the entire story, I was almost certain.

  “By the way, what happened all up in there?” Dax flung his wrist in the direction of my tattered shirt. “I don’t recall this new fashion statement back at Marvel.”

  I looked down at my torso, where frayed edgings of gray cotton outlined countless holes, some almost an inch in length. Dark spots of blood had soaked into my T-shirt, which, up until a couple of hours ago, was one of my better looks.

  I wonder if I could write that off as a business expense. Mentally, I added “find a competent accountant” to my growing list of small business tasks.

  Metal rings strummed across the hanging bar as a sixty-something nurse entered the space, thumbing through papers on a clipboard, a pen wedged between long fingers.

  “Okay, which one of you is scheduled for the proctology exam?” Her scrubs were purple, her hair closer to blue, as best I could tell under the poor lighting.

  All three of us went silent.

  Lifting her head, she removed her reading glasses, eyeing Dax, then David. She stopped and pointed at me. “You.”

  “Me? I’m just a—”

  “You’re the man for the proctology exam. Grab a gown out of the closet over there, strip off those clothes, and don’t forget to tie the back. Or not.” She looked me up and down.

  Did she just wink at me?

  “I’m kidding,” she said, then seemingly out of thin air, pulled a folded piece of cloth from under her arm and tossed it right at me, most of it hitting my face. “I’m not going to make you rummage through a closet. There it is, so put it on. The doctor will be back in at ten. He gets a little aggressive when people aren’t on schedule.”

  I tensed up all over, although I kept telling myself it wasn’t necessary. They had the wrong man. I think my mouth hung open, unsure how to handle this woman. I looked at Dax and David.

  “You picked a strange time to get a proctology exam,” Dax said.

  “I didn’t pick this time, or any other time,” I said with my voice pitching higher.

  I glanced around the enlarged area, half expecting armed guards wearing full riot gear and dark shades to march down the corridor and force me to put on the damn gown with the gap in the back.

  “You can’t be serious about this. Are you?” Leaning forward to plead my case, I narrowed my eyes at the nurse.

  “Serious as a heart attack.” She paused, then put her hand to her mouth and started to giggle. A few seconds later, it had erupted into a convulsing, howling laughter.

  Glancing back at the Double Ds, I recalled a few fellow cops sharing stories about a nurse at Parkland who loved playing practical jokes on unsuspecting patients and anyone associated with them. It was her way of keeping everyone lighthearted.

  “You’re that nurse?” I squinted, searching for her nametag.

  “Nurse Ratched at your service,” she said, obviously paying homage to the crazy nurse running the asylum in Jack Nicholson’s break-out movie, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

  “Ratched, right.”

  We all had a good laugh, and it reminded me that twenty-five thousand dollars wasn’t worth a person’s life. I could wait a couple of days for David to rest up. And then we’d have to get down to serious business.

  Ten minutes later, two orderlies and the nurse with the wicked sense of humor unlocked the wheels on David’s bed and pushed him out of the bay, Dax clinging to his side.

  David noticed that I’d observed Dax’s attentiveness.

  “Who needs a Brenda, when you have a Dax?” he asked.

  David was full of one-liners, but he finally acknowledged the ironic similarities between his life and that of his straight look-alike, Harvey Specter.

  “Two days, we’ll talk again. If I don’t get real answers, authorities will be contacted,” I said.

  “I’ll be at Marvel. I’m not running away.”

  I wondered if that was Harry Specter talking, or the elusive David Bradley.

  19

  I pulled out of a bustling Parkland parking lot and took a right on Maple. It didn’t matter the time of day, even if it was a holiday, the biggest hospital in Dallas attracted the most desperate and, at times, demented patients on a regular basis. I admired everyone who sacrificed their lives to work at Parkland, including the legendary crackpot herself, Nurse Ratched.

  Come to think of it, I never actually saw her real name. And the myth continues.

  Dealing with the chef shell game in the middle of superhero fantasy world at Marvel, the green-eyed, possessed cat shredding my chest, the pursuit of Bradley, his heart attack, a fun-filled evening conversing with the JCPenney cover boy, Dax, and the interaction with Parkland’s legendary figure—I was tired as hell.

  Glancing at the digital clock in my dash, it read 1:25 a.m. If I were working a normal night shift, it would be starting in about a half hour. But my life hadn’t been normal in days, which felt more like weeks given everything I’d experienced…and everything the people of Dallas had endured.

  I cruised under a green light, the streets mostly empty, and cracked the window, a cool stream of air whipping across my forehead. I wondered how I’d deal with not being part of the DPD down the road. In a few weeks, maybe six months, would I regret all of my decisions? Decisions that would change the course of my life forever. I’d always been part of a team, our camaraderie and ability to always have each other’s backs was our glue. United by our collective focus to make this city better, I’d formed a bond with my fellow officers and many of the citizens. One that I believed would never be broken.

  Until it was. If I’d shown a bit more patience with the system, would I be dealing with the Double Ds, driving in an unmarked, civilian car in the middle of the night contemplating whether I’d made a hasty, emotional choice? It wasn’t about the right career move; it was more about where to focus my passion. After Samantha, and on some days Eva, my heart was with the people of Dallas. With all of its exposed abrasions and flaws, the city had grown into a place of relevance in the country, the world. I’d like to think I helped bring that about in a small way; at least I did when I wore the blue uniform each day.

  I passed one of Dallas’ swanky hotels and noticed a few revelers outside, a group in burnt orange, the other in crimson red. Texas-Oklahoma University weekend. The big game was tomorrow, but the whole weekend was a party. Good to see something normal for a change.

  I hit a stoplight at Oak Lawn, my stomach still twisted in a knot as I mentally walked the fence about my decision. The blue uniform—I’ve never been so proud to wear a uniform, even more so than when I wore the green and gold while starring at James Madison or rode the bench at UT. The DPD uniform represented civility and our pursuit of making lives better.

  Uniform or not, I knew the current community felt fractured, or at least strained. And I think my sensation of helplessness, of watching the city splinter apart as I watched from the other side of the fence, had allowed an acid of regret to grip my gut. I could taste it in the back of my throat.

  Perhaps I was afraid of the unknown. But that
wasn’t like me. Pulling the seatbelt away from the wounds on my chest for a moment, I recalled the incident that led to my career move—Sims beating up George in the most brutal manner. Was that racially motivated? With Sims trying to craft that imaginary story, then nearly blindsiding me with a baton punch, I couldn’t help but feel…betrayed. That was it. Sims was a cop, not my favorite of all time, but we’d all taken the oath to serve and protect the community, and the unspoken oath to be there for each other. But I knew he would have literally stuck a knife in my back, if given the chance.

  Fuck Sims. If I’d told the lie about what I’d seen and kept my badge, how would I be feeling right now? Like a low-life traitor to the people, the ones who paid our salaries, who relied on us to maintain civility.

  I didn’t need a uniform or a badge to carry on my journey. I could already see the additional challenges I’d have to overcome in certain areas, but I was also getting used to having a certain amount of freedom. I could make this work…for me, for the people.

  I would make this work.

  Two long horn beeps, and I jerked my attention back to the road and eased away from the light. A convertible full of Oklahoma University students screamed by, the guys flipping me off, and one girl lifting her shirt, flashing her boobs. I chuckled, and she blew me a kiss as they zoomed away.

  With my senses a bit sharpened, I noticed a midsize dog dragging a leash while running across patches of grass into a cluster of trees off to the right. Reverchon Park. At almost two in the morning, dogs don’t usually run wild across the city, even in a park, with a leash attached.

  Where was the owner?

  Downshifting to second gear, I made a sharp turn onto Turtle Creek, which fed into the park. Rolling down my window as I cruised by at about ten miles per hour, I squinted to where I’d last seen the dog, light-colored, a decent gait, possibly a Labrador retriever. For years, nearby residents had asked for better lighting in and around the park, one of the gems on the north side of the city. With Katy Trail, one of the most well-known walking, jogging, and biking trails in all of Dallas flanking the south side of the park, wannabe athletes would often use Reverchon Park as a resting place, given the huge canopy of trees and general aesthetic beauty.