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

by John W. Mefford

  “How do I know you’ll be able to repay Jenna’s investment? And the others?”

  Another knowing glare between the Double Ds.

  “I have an idea to filter off some money from the restaurant. It’s complicated, but I’m confident I can make it work.”

  A queasy feeling bubbled in my stomach. I was being asked to take David for his word, essentially.

  “For right now, as long as I don’t see a pending physical threat to anyone, even the two of you, I won’t go to the authorities,” I said, hedging my thoughts.

  David’s head almost collapsed to the table, and Dax put his hands together like it was answered prayer.

  “I’ll want more details on everything you’re proposing.”

  “You’ll have it. I’ll be an open book,” David said, a hint of confidence back in his voice.

  I motioned my hand for the requested information. “The names?”

  “I only have one. The leader of the group, Ernie Sims.”

  I felt a familiar rage building inside. I looked off into the distance and saw the Hulk in a nearby section, his eyes green and menacing.

  29

  My cell phone buzzed across on my nightstand. I rolled over and smacked the face before Big Al could chime in, blurry eyes noticing the time: 1:09 a.m.

  “Booker, get down here now,” Henry said like he was wired on four Monster drinks. “Need you for a lineup.”

  A half hour later, one of KY’s minions delivered to me a Styrofoam cup of piping hot coffee. Three FBI agents, two DPD detectives, the DA, Henry, and KY—my so-called ranking officer—huddled around me in a dimly lit room of no more than a hundred square feet.

  “We have six possible suspects for the lineup room.” The senior FBI agent spoke with a raspy voice, likely from talking all day, every day for the last week. His paisley tie was unknotted and cloaked around his neck almost like a pontiff. No one questioned his authority. “No matter what you think right away, don’t say a word until all potential suspects have entered the room and we’ve given you both profiles to view. Understood?”

  “Got it,” I said, taking a sip.

  I thought back to the night when I came upon three punks shoving Yosef around, the taller kid being the most obnoxious. When I finally had the leader on the ground, I’d looked into his eyes…and I saw a scared boy. Ever since the three worship explosions—including one at Yosef’s synagogue—I wondered if that kid could have been the mastermind behind this entire spree of bombings. Every sign and feeling told me it just wasn’t possible, but in studying the history of killers at the academy, I knew that the brightest minds in law enforcement had been fooled by unassuming assassins.

  Recalling the video Henry showed me, a grainy, fuzzy picture of three skinheads chaining the bus at the Boys & Girls Club, I knew my identification in the next few minutes would lead to an intense interrogation. We would then be able to separate boys from men and hopefully force an admission of guilt.

  A side door opened and the convoy entered, accompanied by three blue uniforms.

  “Face forward, hands to your side,” a nameless voice piped through speakers in both rooms. “Hey, number two, get your hands out of your pockets, and stop fidgeting.”

  I quickly shifted my glare to number two. His jeans hung low, collapsing on tattered high tops with no laces. His height seemed about right, but his posture came across as paranoid, like he was a meth addict. Starting back at number one, I did a quick scan of all six guys. The only thing similar about the group was a bald head. Unfortunately, none was a quick match, not on the first pass.

  “I need everyone to turn to your right. Number four, that’s your left. I asked you to turn to your right,” the voice said. “Number two, stop squirming around. Patty, will you help out, please?”

  A blue uniform walked over, put a hand on his number two’s shoulder, and quietly spoke to him. He complied for the moment.

  This time I started at number six and worked my way back. Number six had the correct height, even work boots and black jeans. But his jawline was all wrong, his chin mimicking Jay Leno’s. And his eyes were farther apart from his nose. Kind of freaky looking. I ruled him out. After finishing this scan, I narrowed my list down to two guys.

  “Now, I need everyone to turn to their left. Yes, I said left, which is the opposite of right.” The voice threw in some late-night sarcasm. But no one laughed or even smirked. We all knew that lives hung in the balance of this identification.

  “Take your time, Booker.”

  Glancing behind me, the hoarse FBI agent put a hand to his chin and nodded, as if he had confidence in me. I thought briefly about the opposite thoughts most likely pinging KY’s mini-brain. Taking another sip of coffee, I felt the heat soothe my chest wall.

  Numbers four and five both stood approximately the same height, a couple of inches shorter than me, maybe six one. Same basic physique and bone structure. Number four wore denim and a pair of Doc Martens like mine. His eyes blinked, but not in a nervous way.

  Number five’s attire was the most out of place, wearing a pink short-sleeve Polo with the collar turned up and flat-front khakis. I should have eliminated him on my first pass.

  Part of me wanted to ask if we could have them recite a few phrases I’d heard the other night, words I’d never forget: “You don’t think we see through your bullshit? You walk around with your dog, wearing your little beanie, praying to whatever god you think you have, and then you Jew me every time you leave a tip. Cheap-ass prick.”

  And later, these words: “Yeah man, fucking Jews are like slave owners. What do they got that I don’t have?”

  Adrenaline surged through my body and I focused for a moment on the smudged glass separating the two rooms, seeking a calmer state of mind.

  I looked closer at number four, and it appeared he had peach fuzz growing on the end of his chin. Number five looked down and shuffled his feet, then reached his hand inside his shirt, like he was scratching his chest. Was that some type of reflexive move?

  “Number five, hands to your side,” the voice said.

  Stepping closer to the glass, I peered at the kid in khakis, thinking back to the night in the park, the stench of beer hanging in the air, and the dog tag wrapped around the perp’s neck.

  His hand scratching his chest…was it actually searching for a chain? Looking closer into his eyes, I saw a kid, maybe college age. The other night that punk claimed he was just a college kid out for a rowdy time. Claimed he had a Jewish stepsister, a Latin girlfriend. I wished they’d given me a full dossier on each one—especially number five.

  But that would cloud my judgment, so they say, and I didn’t have the luxury of conducting a research project.

  “Booker?”

  Four or Five? It couldn’t be four, unless he’d grown his peach fuzz the last few days to throw people off.

  “Booker, what is your gut telling you?”

  “Five,” I said, touching my finger to the glass at the exact spot of his face. “It’s him. Without a doubt.”

  After a brief pause, people behind me darted around like they’d just hit the lotto. I was escorted into the hallway where I sat, leaning against a hard wall for two more hours, hoping to get word that this punk had admitted to setting off five bombs, finally allowing parents to feel comfortable sending their kids off to school.

  With my veins full of coffee, I wiggled my foot and my hands scraped at my thighs through my jeans. A door slammed shut, and I raised my head. Henry emerged from a room, his tie still knotted and pulled tight against his neck.

  “I can’t tell you much,” he said. “But after some serious threats, he finally admitted to chaining the bus.”

  Dropping my head, I could feel my lungs deflate.

  “How did you find…?”

  “James Tanner. Regular traffic stop, speeding around Highland Park. Cop checked the most wanted list, brought up a digital sketch of the guy you caught in the park, and arrested him on the spot. He didn’t put up a
fight.”

  Another deep breath.

  “He’s denying he planted the bomb. In fact, he’s denying he had anything to do with the other bombs.”

  Nearly every perp said they were innocent in the beginning. But with the FBI and every federal and local agency spewing threats at him, I couldn’t imagine the kid would hold up under that pressure.

  30

  “Lower. Lower.”

  “How’s that?” Alisa asked.

  “A little harder.”

  “Now?”

  “A circular motion.”

  I groaned, as pressure in my head subsided, and my neck felt rubbery. “Perfect. Please don’t stop.”

  “I aim to please.”

  With hardly a wink of sleep under my belt, the melodic motion made me feel like I was lying on an air-filled float down in the Gulf, the ebb and flow of saltwater easing the weight I carried over the last two weeks. Exhaling, I attempted to release all the tension and drama from my memories: a fellow cop, Sims, assaulting an innocent man before he tried to punch my ticket to a funeral home, the ensuing so-called investigation that essentially put the crosshairs on me, my suspension that would only precede my dismissal, working my first case as a PI, locating David and his buddy Dax, only to find out the Double Ds have dirt on Sims but knowing I only got that name if I kept the pair out of jail, and the rash of bombs that have killed, injured, and scared the shit out of an entire city.

  The people of my fair city, friends and family and everyone I’d proudly served, had endured so much, and the fabric of our community had weathered protests, a few developing into riots, even vigilantism. Yet the threads were still intact.

  For now.

  I was physically worn, but my inner spirit had hope, a fighting chance to stop the assailants before another terrifying explosion. Overnight, we’d hopefully taken a giant leap for mankind.

  A splintering crash, and I jerked my head right, my heart leaping out of the leather chair, even if my body didn’t.

  “You guys are fucking sick.” With his head cocked to one side and a bar towel draped over one shoulder, Justin juggled four mugs in one hand, just three in the other. The last one had splattered into tiny pieces all over the rust-stained concrete floor. Lifting his legs inside faded jeans, I could hear glass crunch like shaved ice under his ancient loafers.

  “I could hear you back in the kitchen, moaning and telling each other how you like it. Do you know how disturbing that is, my best friend, and my employee?”

  He set the glasses on the bar, while I scooped the remnants of my heart back into my chest wall.

  “Dude, if you had the night I did, you’d be asking for more than a head massage,” I said, turning slightly to Alisa. I felt a sudden, sharp twinge in my neck. “Dammit.”

  Alisa glanced down at me, her eyes soft, but telling me something like, If Justin only knew the whole story, he might drop all the glasses and walk out. Or, kick us out.

  Jabbing my hand into my newly formed crick in my neck, I whispered to Alisa, “It will be fine. Nothing to worry about. Remember, it’s still just One Nut.”

  She giggled and swatted at my hand.

  “What are you two lovebirds whispering about over there?” Justin ducked his head behind the bar to fiddle with one of his bar gadgets.

  Alisa started walking away, but paused and looked back at me, carrying a shit-eating grin.

  “You’re delusional, Justin,” I said.

  “By the way, I thought I wasn’t just an employee. We are friends, aren’t we?” Alisa perched on the railing of a barstool, leaning over the bar. I admired her ability to maintain an hourglass shape.

  Having Alisa as a lifelong friend beat having her as a girlfriend for a few fun nights. But I had to admit she made the heart pump a little faster when she was around.

  The door swung open, and a man removed dark shades, a laptop tucked under his suit coat.

  “All three of you, get your hands on the bar and spread ’em. This is a Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission raid. Now do as I say before I take you downtown.”

  “Are you going to cuff me and put me in naughty jail?” Alisa held two hands in front of the diminutive assistant DA, her derriere pooching out a bit.

  Thrusting myself out of the chair with my hand still kneading my neck, I glanced at my phone. “Henry, you’re thirty minutes late.”

  . Henry literally froze, although I’m not sure Alisa noticed. She did have real blond in those crazy curls of hers. Slowly, he turned toward me, his mouth open, and his gaze almost catatonic, searching for a suave response, any way out, I think.

  “Shit, Alisa, are you horny or something?” Justin whined while rearranging glasses behind the bar, his back to the rest of us.

  Henry’s stare never left me. Alisa looked at Justin, then me. I shrugged my shoulders, then motioned for Henry to attempt to walk in my direction.

  “Justin, is it that time of the month for you, darling? Can I get you two aspirin, perhaps a tampon for that ignorant mouth of yours?” Alisa asked with more than a bit of attitude.

  Alisa waved two hands in the air, and disappeared into the back as Justin came from behind the bar. “What did I say?”

  I shrugged my shoulders again, then turned my attention to Henry heading back toward the overstuffed leather chairs. “Cat got your tongue?”

  “There’s something about her. I just can’t get a word out. Usually I’m not like that with women,” Henry said, finding a seat next to mine and opening his laptop.

  I did a double take, but decided not to question his female dating prowess. If he thought he was a babe magnet, more power to him.

  “You’re opening your laptop, so I’m assuming Tanner didn’t break overnight?”

  “Not completely, no. But he did provide good information…after crying like a baby for an hour straight.”

  “How did the FBI handle that?”

  “They let him talk to his mommy,” Henry said with obvious attitude. “Whatever. He’s still a punk, even if he didn’t construct a bomb or detonate it.”

  “That’s what he’s claiming?”

  Pocketing his glasses while logging into his computer, Henry nodded, then drew in a deep breath. “Tanner said some guy paid him and his friends to chain the bus.”

  “Did he give you a name?”

  “Said he never got one.”

  I huffed a breath and rubbed my neck. “And the FBI believed him?”

  “For now. He told a pretty bizarre story. He and his punk friends apparently accosted a man a couple of weeks ago. Out of nowhere, the guy offered to pay them one thousand dollars each if they did him a favor.”

  “And they don’t know his name?”

  “They claim they never saw him again. He left them a bag of cash taped to the bottom of a bench down near the Perot Museum of Nature and Science with specific instructions on where the bus would be, the date and time.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Pacing over to the dartboard, I could feel a Hulk-like fury building inside…again. “And none of them actually thought about the implications? They didn’t question this guy’s motive? They’re either the dumbest guys around or they’re covering for this unknown person.”

  Henry tapped keys on his keyboard faster than a court reporter. “Believe me, all theories are still on the table. But it’s a lead. And before you ID’d Tanner, they didn’t have shit. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

  “You still on the outside looking in?” I leaned my arms on the back of the chair. “I wouldn’t have much more information than One Nut over there if I didn’t know you.”

  We both looked toward the bar. “Go ahead, keep pushing it. I’ve got one nut, but I’ve also got one giant—”

  “Put a sock in it, will you, Justin?” Alisa scooted around the bar carrying a tray of candles, her legs motoring quickly.

  Henry and I let out matching gasps, and Justin reemerged from behind the bar. “What is it, Jump on Justin Day?”

  Alisa walked with a se
nse of purpose, her chin a tad higher, as she set out the candles and started cleaning drink menus. “None of us are jumping on you, Justin, least of all me, or any other two-legged female. Your best bet is to find a dog. Maybe you’ll find one that’s horny and will do more than hump your leg.”

  Reaching over, I high fived Henry, and we tried to contain ourselves, but guffaws escaped our mouths.

  Instantly, I recalled Momma raving about a silver-tongued, silver-haired Texas politician, who served as governor and used to give the Bush clan hell. She once showed me an old tape of one of Ann Richard’s speeches. It had more one-liners than you’d hear from a stand-up comedian. Her best was: “He can’t help it. He was born with a silver foot in his mouth.”

  Glancing over at Alisa, I realized she had the same fire as Ann Richards from yesteryear, a little bit of attitude, and a lot of nerve. The curvaceous blonde might be waiting tables and serving drinks in her mid-thirties, but I, more than most, could speak to her spirit and passion.

  It just hit me: I was surrounded by strong, prideful women who weren’t afraid to live their lives without allowing society to brand them as victims who needed saving. Alisa, Eva, and even Britney all exhibited vitality for life and a fortitude to overcome even the most egregious obstacles. Two separate visions flashed in my mind—a torn and broken bride-to-be Britney, draped on the grass with bricks and debris scattered around her, and the courageous, polished woman who’d joined me for lunch just a few days after seeing her fiancé tortured and killed.

  Henry caught me staring at an empty chair, and he snapped his fingers. “Earth to Booker. Do you hear me?”

  With my last thought still loitering in the back of my mind, I paused for a second, then said, “Loud and clear.” Turning back to Henry, I stood behind his chair, watching him log into another window. “What’s the deal?”

  “I’m going in through our office VPN to get to our secured database.”

  Rubbing my neck, I hoped he was offering me access.

  As he tapped the keys, he said, “I know you’ve been working through the list of people who’ve been convicted of hate crimes in the state. What did you say last night, you’re down to forty-something?”