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

by John W. Mefford

  “Honestly, I may not be sitting here, caring so much, if I didn’t think for a moment that my daughter was on that bus. I’m no Superman.” I chuckled, thinking about the high school football headlines, all of it seeming even more ridiculous right now.

  She released a giggle. “So, she’s your Kryptonite?”

  “Samantha is my everything. She’s not my weakness, she’s my strength.” Another memory from that day, a time when I thought I’d lost her, and my eyes bubbled a bit of water.

  We ate the last of our lunches, as a couple of cardinals either fought or played or both in the tree next to us.

  “Feisty,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Spirited.” Britney might have been speaking of herself, but it reminded me that we’d yet to hit the one topic I wanted to discuss.

  “Your grandmother. She’s feisty…uh, rather, spirited.”

  “She’s always had a direct way about her. Living around a bunch of rugged men will do that to you, I suppose. I heard what she said that day. It’s rather embarrassing, and I’m sorry if she offended you. I think my brothers admitted that we all think she’s got Alzheimer’s, but she refuses to go to the doctor.” She shook her head and sipped from her straw.

  “Is it true?” She had been direct with me, and I felt like that allowed us to be transparent with each other.

  “By it, you mean, him cheating on me? No. Never. Quite frankly, after we got engaged we spent every moment with each other. Like I said, we were best friends.” She brought a finger to the corner of her eye, but I wasn’t sure if her eye simply itched or if she’d plugged another round of tears.

  “The Cromwells are a rich, powerful family. Fulton Cromwell started his gas business thirty-odd years ago. You don’t make a billion dollars without making a few enemies.”

  She didn’t hesitate with this answer. “The police detectives and FBI asked me the same question, in ten different ways. Fulton is a giving person, a philanthropist. He and Muffin—”

  “Muffin?”

  “Her real name is Henrietta.”

  I nodded, grinning a bit.

  “Yes, Muffin. She and Fulton have put money toward several arts facilities, and many other causes. He sat on the Board of the UNCF, you know, the United Negro College Fund. So, they’ve also made a lot of friends.”

  “Still, though.”

  “Honestly, they are a loving family. I never once heard them talk despairingly about anyone. “

  “So, you were looking forward to joining their family?” I crunched the inside of my cheek. I wasn’t trying to put her in the crosshairs, but I just did.

  She smirked, sat back in her chair. “I loved Ashton with all my heart, whether he came from the Cromwells or any other family. I got lucky, though, because his family is one in a million. They treated me so kindly. Still do.”

  “Sorry I went there.”

  “I understand.”

  I thought about continuing the line of questions, asking about possible prenuptial agreements, but frankly, I couldn’t see the point of prying further.

  Despite my opposition, Britney insisted on using her plastic to pay the bill. I put up a valiant fight, but she admitted money wasn’t a concern. “Muffin has ensured me that I shouldn’t worry about money, not now or in the future. So, this lunch is really nothing.”

  As she added in gratuity and signed the receipt, I had this strange feeling that I now owed her something. I just couldn’t figure out why…or what.

  27

  Keeping one eye on the front counter, I perused my options on row four of a 7-Eleven: a single roll of toilet paper, high-priced and over-packaged chewing gum, and ten different kinds of beef jerky. Glancing behind me, I noticed a rainbow of colors and suddenly developed a craving for their signature drink, a Slurpee.

  Recalling when Justin and I were fourteen and fifteen years old, after a hot football practice, if we’d saved up enough dimes, we’d ride our bikes to the local 7-Eleven and concoct the most unique Slurpees ever. Two years in row, the day when 7-Eleven celebrated their company anniversary and handed out free Slurpees, we hoarded ten or eleven cups and carried them out the door using our T-shirts as a pseudo bucket, laughing our asses off. On the anniversary date the following year, a new policy was posted on the door, ending our hope of cornering the Slurpee market.

  On my way to Marvel for a planned meeting with David Bradley, I’d stopped at this particular 7-Eleven to check out one of the suspects from the hate crimes list Tyrone had provided. His name was Zain Battier.

  Keeping it simple, I pulled the lever on Cherry and Coke, inhaled my first frozen mouthful and walked to the counter, where three employees milled about. One was female, so I immediately ruled her out. The other two were Caucasian, but I couldn’t spot nametags.

  “Would you like a hot dog, hot tamale, or any nachos to go with that?” A tall, thin man with a hook nose swayed his arm outward, leading my eyes to the glass encasing filled with prune-like hot dogs and a pot of nacho cheese crusted at the top, a mustard yellow color.

  “Uh, not today, thanks.”

  I swiped my credit card and tried to create conversation out of thin air.

  “Too bad about the Rangers this year, huh?”

  The guy had already looked beyond me to the next customer in line. “The Rangers, right. Bad season altogether. Manager quit on the team, but I still blame the players. It’s just fucking baseball, man. They gotta trade that bum at shortstop, Andrus. Get rid of him and every one like him.”

  It wasn’t a stretch to associate those convicted of hate crimes with racism. Or maybe it was because they were rejected by their mommies when they were kids. Whatever. I’d heard numerous theories from various psychologists and sociologists who’d spoken to our department over the years, trying to find excuses for certain human behavior.

  “You got to hand it to Adrian Beltre,” I said with an overly positive tone. “Just became all-time hits leader for every player from the Dominican Republic.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Frickin’ spics,” he said with his head down, facing the register.

  Just as my Spidey sense moved to full alert, the female shouted instructions.

  “Zain, the Slurpee station is a mess. Clean it up, refill the straws, cups, lids, the works. Customers are rolling in.”

  Looking at the charming guy in front of me, I saw that he didn’t twist his head in response. Then, at the far end of the employee area, the other employee replied. Zain was in a wheelchair. “I’m on it, Adriana. I’ll get the boxes from the backroom first.”

  Zain scooted around the corner and cut left into the backroom. My mind was still trying to figure out why Hook Nose had made such an inflammatory comment in front of a Latina woman.

  Seconds later, I stood at the doorway to the backroom. Zain whirled out, nearly clipping my knee.

  “Oops, sorry about that. I got shit to do,” he said zipping by with two boxes on his lap.

  Following behind the runaway train, I caught up to him at the Slurpee station. I noticed my cup was already half empty. Damn, that icy slush was addictive.

  He sensed my presence without looking my way. “Yes sir. How can I help you?”

  “Zain Battier?”

  “That’s what the nametag says.” He glanced down at his red jacket, then noticed his long brown hair covered it up. He flipped it behind his shoulders. “Now you can see it.”

  With his hair parted in the middle, he reminded me of Steve Perry from the old rock group, Journey. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  Looking my way for a brief moment, Zain continued filling up the straw bins.

  “As long as you make it quick and don’t interrupt my work, ask me anything you want.” His voice now sounded slightly guarded.

  With no other customers around, I figured now was my only time to get to the point.

  “I’m following up with people who have been convicted of hate crimes. I’d like to know how you spend your free time, any groups that you’re ass
ociated with?”

  He released a breath, but he didn’t seem very agitated. “I can’t say I’m surprised. With all the bombings in the last ten days without a specific suspect, I knew authorities would eventually come and talk to me.”

  That told me he had yet to speak with the FBI. Interesting.

  “I finished up my probation last February, but nothing has changed since then. By the way, who did you say you’re with?”

  A shout from across the store. “Zain, after you’re done with the Slurpee station, we need to heat up another pot of nacho cheese, please.”

  “Sure thing, Adriana. Where was I?” Zain was a classic multitasker and never stopped moving. Tossing aside an empty box, he peeled open a smaller one crammed with packaged napkins and began tearing apart the wrappers.

  It appeared he’d forgotten about my credentials and that was fine by me. “You talked about probation ending in February.”

  He licked his lips, but kept his eyes focused on the task at hand. “Five years ago, I was lost in so many ways. It’s a miracle I’m alive, and not because of the car accident.” He shot me a quick glance, popping his hand on the side of his wheelchair. “I had developed some pretty extremes behaviors, and my opinions weren’t far behind. I’m the youngest of six kids. Catholic family, go figure.”

  I nodded.

  “I think my parents retired from parenting by the time I was ten. After that, they did a lot of traveling and I drifted off, hanging out with kids older than me, doing stupid shit, like stealing from places like this.”

  I think he was referring to 7-Eleven.

  “Eventually, I found myself hanging out with guys who didn’t give a crap about education, blamed the world on anyone who wasn’t just like them.”

  “Our environment can certainly influence how we turn out,” I added.

  “Thankfully, it wasn’t a lifelong thing. After I was arrested for beating up those kids and sent to prison, I actually was forced to get help. I found out I was bipolar; I’d used drugs and alcohol to cope. In prison, I was forced to deal with it, joined a support group. I know you never hear this, but prison was the best thing for me.”

  The system had actually worked for this guy, at least that’s what he wanted me to believe.

  “Glad it worked out for you.”

  He shrugged, but didn’t stop working. “More or less. Funny thing is once I was released from prison, not two weeks later, I got blindsided from a guy driving a Mercedes who was high on heroin.”

  I’d seen so many lives turned upside down by addiction and mental disease. My lips drew a straight line, one of empathy.

  I said, “Doesn’t look like you’re just feeling sorry for yourself. It’s good to deal with life and move forward.”

  “Yeah, I’m still going to counseling religiously. That’s my foundation. I got my GED, and now I’m taking two courses a semester at El Centro downtown.”

  “Got any major in mind?”

  “Yeah, I think I want to be a psychologist, focusing on teenage mental illness and addiction.”

  I was pretty certain this guy was legit. I patted his shoulder, and once again thought about the quote from my Uncle Charlie. “That’s really cool.”

  “I’m also rehabbing from this injury, getting stronger each week. By the time I graduate, I hope to walk across the stage to accept my diploma.”

  “Thanks for opening up,” I said.

  Zain lifted his head.

  “Booker,” I added.

  Zain cracked a grin. “Right, Booker.”

  “I think we’re good.”

  “By the way, I’m sure you heard Chase mumbling his crap about Hispanic people. He’s rude as hell, and we all know it, starting with Adriana. She once bitch slapped him in front of twenty customers. That’s probably why he mumbles now. But, all things considered, he’s pretty harmless. He’s an obnoxious asshole to everyone who walks through the door. If you’re looking for a hater, he’s the guy.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t mean he’s the guy who planted the bombs and killed all those innocent people. Let’s just say he needs some serious counseling. I’d pay to see Adriana bitch slap him once a week just to keep him in line.”

  Walking out the door, I crossed one more possible suspect off the list. Only forty-two remained. But part of me wondered if anyone among this group would have a connection to the bomb blasts. The person or group responsible could be from out of state, another country even. Or possibly someone who went over the edge because of a personal upheaval. Given that perspective, the true list of possible suspects probably stretched down to the Gulf of Mexico.

  Taking in a full breath, I tried to ignore the worst-case scenario.

  I turned the ignition on my silver Saab and dialed up Jenna to let her know about my pending meeting with David Bradley. While it had not been explicitly stated by David or Dax, I needed to advise her to not get her hopes up for seeing her money again.

  Driving to Routh Street, I prepared my psyche for the greatest con job ever.

  28

  “With great power comes great responsibility,” David said, a hand to his chin, appearing to stare into the intricate web just above our table. “That’s a quote from the Spiderman movie.”

  “I figured as much.” I hadn’t been sitting in the Spiderman section at Marvel restaurant for more than five minutes, and my instincts had already sensed an attempt to derail this conversation into something that had nothing to do with David admitting wrongdoing and writing a twenty-five thousand dollar check to Jenna Parsons.

  “I grew up reading Marvel comics. I lost myself in heroic stories about Iron Man, Captain America, Hulk. Want to know who my favorite was?” David asked, lifting a Marvel themed glass containing a chalky blue substance.

  “Hit me.”

  David turned out his hands, moving his head to the side. “Spiderman, of course.”

  Dax returned from the bar with my drink, tonic water on ice.

  “Thanks.” I took a small sip to ensure he hadn’t spiked it. I couldn’t afford to let my guard down around the Double Ds. They were like a vaudeville act from the 1920s—a song and dance routine, throw in a little comedy, a change of costumes. Unlike the typical acts of those days, I couldn’t envision either David or Dax acting as the straight man.

  I chuckled at my own mental play on words.

  “Did I miss a joke?” Dax asked.

  Ignoring him, I wiped condensation off the tumbler and took another drink. I wasn’t going to let David ramble on without addressing the purpose of our meeting. But I also didn’t want to induce a second heart attack, at least not until he returned the twenty-five thousand.

  “Does this world of heroes and villains allow you to think the real world is nothing more than a fantasy?” Leaning back, I crossed my legs and propped my elbow on the downslope of the asymmetrical blue booth.

  I looked for a facial twitch, any sign to show me he was one-hundred-percent con man. But he played it cool.

  “Life is really what you make of it. Through hard work and a little bit of luck, you hope to carve out a path of success,” he said with a remarkable calm.

  “I tried telling you before,” Dax said, leaning forward and poking a finger into the table. “David is not like every other person starting a restaurant. He’s a true visionary. His taste, his eye for what works…that’s what sets him apart from the rest of the culinary world. And no one can match his creativity with the menu, how he blends different spices and flavors. It’s a work of art.”

  I thought I noticed a tear bubbling in the corner of Dax’s eye.

  “If I was a food critic, you would have won me over with that description. Bravo,” I said, lifting a glass.

  The Double Ds clinked their glasses, then each took a mouthful of their respective drinks. David’s face coiled as he swallowed.

  “I know it’s not your favorite, but it’s good for you. You need to drink thirty-two ounces a day. It helps your blood flow,” Dax
said with a wink.

  David chose not to respond.

  I jumped in, looking at David directly. “The luck thing you mentioned. I think your string of luck might have run out.”

  “Oh, that. I was talking about you, Booker.” A smug grin washed over his face. “From what I understand, your luck has run out.”

  The prick thought he had one on me. I chuckled and downed another swig.

  “If you’re referring to my new career, I don’t hide it. I’ve started a new business, joining the entrepreneurs of the world.” I extended a hand David’s direction, as Dax wedged himself closer to his boss-boyfriend.

  “I’m referring to your old career. Suspended from the DPD for lying about an internal investigation. If that was a court of law, you’d be guilty of perjury and would likely go to jail. In fact, I guess they still have that option, to bring you up on charges?”

  Blood surged through my veins, but I remained in control of my emotions. Then I wondered if he thought I was uneducated, gullible enough to believe I was actually going to prison. What’s the saying, the truth sets you free?

  “David, did you ever go to law school? Harvard possibly?”

  He paused, apparently puzzled by my line of questioning.

  “Your bullshit strategy of attempting to take the spotlight off of your deeds is…very Harvey Specter-like. I have to give it to you. Once your house of cards tumbles down and you’re out on the street begging for food, you might want to take your act to Hollywood. Maybe they’ll actually let you play Harvey’s stunt double.”

  David inched up in his seat, and Dax gripped his forearm. “We really can’t have David getting upset. His condition is stable, but the doctor warned us that he could not be exposed to people or situations that create stress.”

  “Oh, I thought David was cooler than the other side of the pillow. Nothing upsets the great Harvey Specter.”