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

by John W. Mefford

  Tapping the red circle to end the call, I emerged from my car and joined about twenty others ambling up the hill on the ten acre property. Eva and Samantha had exited a couple of minutes earlier while I’d stayed back to speak with Alisa. In just the last few hours, the little blond waitress had completely altered my perception of her intellect and her drive to find the truth.

  I gripped the phone in my hand to ensure I didn’t miss her return call.

  My pace slowed as I took in the entire spectacle. With spotlights placed all over the property, it felt like I’d just entered the center ring of the circus. Clowns walked around juggling bowling pins, some plodded on stilts, others blew up balloons in every shape possible. I just noticed one kid bouncing on a green, alligator-shaped balloon across the lawn, his face beaming with excitement. The balloon withstood his onslaught, and the kid toppled headfirst into the pristine grass, Mom and Dad hovering nearby like helicopter parents.

  Glancing around, I finally spotted my two dates at the top of the crest. Samantha’s purple headband set against her thick, brown hair was easy to spot. I could see her cute, dimpled cheeks jiggling as she laughed at a clown just in front of her, performing magic tricks. He appeared to pull a bouquet of roses from his sleeve, then from the roses a dove fluttered its wings and flew off into the sky. Kids clapped and screamed, and my little Samantha giggled. Her smile and laughter were irreplaceable, forever etched in my memory.

  I headed in their direction, taking in more of the ambiance of a six-year-old’s birthday party. Ten bounce houses rimmed the expansive green pasture, each the shape of a different animal, in a bounce house kind of way. A miniature pony lugged around an obese boy eating an ice cream cone while thirty or more other kids waited in line. Enormous pink and green ribbons outlined six stately columns at the front porch. People milled about, drinks and food in hand, smiling faces everywhere. I ran across the occasional kid who’d either crashed from too much sugar or was in pure brat mode, thinking all of this was for them.

  “Hey there. It looks like she’s enjoying herself.” I set my head against Eva’s back.

  She smiled back at me. “She’s loving this magician. She can’t stop giggling.”

  Another twinkle in Eva’s eyes, just like our daughter. Maybe I was the one sparkling, watching both of my girls having fun, looking as lovely as possible.

  Eva had dressed to impress on this night, wearing a green and blue patterned dress that tied at the waist, accentuating her figure, showing off just enough leg and cleavage to get my attention, and a few wandering eyes from dads all around us. She’d even put her hair up, which in and of itself was a massive undertaking. Despite knowing the mom of the birthday girl for fifteen-odd years, I knew Eva was trying to fit in with the old money walking the property. To me, she looked like a million bucks, although a million to some of these families was a good valet tip.

  “Booker, you remember Rebecca, don’t you?”

  I nodded and shook her hand, which was stiff. “The last time I saw you was the day you guys were supposed to get married,” she said, looking at both of us. Obviously, with all the money she’d married into, she’d yet to acquire a muffler.

  Eva and I glanced at each other briefly. I stuck my hands in my pockets and kicked back on my heels.

  “Nice party,” I said, only to fill the awkward silence.

  “Well, little Gertrude turns five only once,” she said in her most playful voice.

  Put that on replay each year at this time, I thought.

  “Booker here has started his own private investigation business.”

  Eva’s smile had returned, but even more shocking was her bragging about me, in front of me no less.

  Rebecca nodded, smiled, her eyes shifting between the two of us again. But no comment, other than, “Not sure you’ve met Thomas. Dear, turn around and say hello to my old friend Eva, and her….uh, PI.”

  Covering her mouth, Rebecca laughed like a silly girl, or a tipsy adult.

  We shook hands and nodded, the raucous festivities providing enough distraction to avoid a conversation about Thomas and his epic homestead.

  Thomas looked like he’d just stepped off a golf course, the uppity Dallas National came to mind. His fashion sense reminded me of what Felix had worn out to lunch the other day. I glanced down and noticed blue and white shoes—I think the guy was wearing golf spikes. I knew of his reputation as a mass tort lawyer, cutthroat and very pricey.

  “Showtime in five minutes. All the kids need to find a seat.” A voice from hidden speakers created an instant rush of kids darting toward the backyard, including Samantha, who ended up finding a seat on the grass, third row back.

  The view behind the mansion was just as idyllic, a pool with colorful fountains showing off a beautiful rose garden, a guest house, and a twelve-car garage open for the world to take in Thomas’ vintage car collection.

  “That must be a three thousand square foot home,” I said, not believing my eyes.

  “It’s almost five thousand. The main house is over ten thousand square feet,” Eva said, her eyes expanding like she’s just seen the world’s largest diamond. Maybe Rebecca had one in a safe inside her home.

  “Behind the guest house is a bowling center.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not shittin’ ya either.”

  My phone buzzed, and I flipped it over to see at a text from Alisa. Before I could read it, Eva leaned closer to me and said, “Hey, before you take off tonight, I need to talk to you about something.” She smiled, but it seemed a tad forced.

  I glanced down at my phone and read Alisa’s text:

  Got slammed at bar, just now starting research. Will get back to u shortly.

  Shifting my feet, I wasn’t in a patient mood, given the number of days it had been since the last deathly explosion. I still couldn’t get a read on Tanner, an innocent kid wrapped up in a strange game of bullying and vandalism, or a maniacal killer who had masterminded this entire series of events.

  I took in a breath, realizing how strange it felt to be on this side of the driveway. I’d driven by this property countless times, looking at it as more of a destination than a home. Situated among a forest of live oak and pecan trees, the house was built by oil giant H.L. Hunt back in 1938, just a couple hundred yards off White Rock Lake.

  “Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls of all ages, welcome to the magical world of Train Land. I’m Conductor Chris!”

  Kids and adults clapped, as a man with a bushy, blond mustache, wearing a conductor’s cap and red vest stood next to an eight-foot-wide partition, red curtains draped together in front.

  “Let’s follow Timmy into Train Land.” Conductor Chris waved his arm, then circled behind the partition. Music started playing, an accordion, and red curtains opened. Puppets emerged from below, draped in elaborate costumes, one with a king’s crown, another wearing a fireman’s uniform. The throng of kids apparently knew the characters because I quickly heard chants of “Chugga Chugga Joe, Chugga Chugga Joe,” as nearly every young person punched the sky. A horn tooted, mixing in with the playful music.

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I took in a waft of barbeque, and my stomach replied with an accepting growl. Following the scent, I meandered through the crowd, pondering what Eva wanted to talk to me about—the latest parenting tip on raising Samantha, discussing our next family day out. Who knew? My compass couldn’t find a bearing just yet.

  I spotted the source of my hunger, along with every other type of food imaginable. I zeroed in on the barbeque and filled my plate until it overflowed. I passed on an adult beverage, knowing I planned to make uninvited visits to the homes of five possible bombing suspects after the party.

  I spent the rest of the show chatting it up with one of the food servers about a sweet little ride in the garage. It looked like the original Aston Martin DB5 driven by the first James Bond. That even put my Saab 9-3 to shame.

  More music and a huge round of applause, then kids jumped up and searched for the next activit
y. I watched Eva follow behind Samantha and a few other girls toward a face painting station. One girl walked away with a face like a tuxedo cat. Another little boy had his face painted like an orange lion, mane and all.

  I dumped my plate in the trash, downed another bottled water, then turned to find Eva and Samantha, hoping to coax them into leaving. Some of the younger kids and parents were starting to say their goodbyes.

  Before I walked past the garage, my phone vibrated and rang.

  “What did you find out?” I asked, scooting closer to the garage, noticing spotless, bronze tile flooring under the tires of eight classic cars.

  “Well, hello to you, too, Booker,” Alisa responded.

  “Sorry. Hi, Alisa.”

  “Whatever. I went to two bomb-making sites. Get this…a pocket watch is sometimes used to detonate bombs.”

  “Damn, you’re good, Alisa.”

  “Don’t go there.”

  “What?”

  “Then I really started digging into the five guys left on our list.”

  “And?” My pulse thumped in my ear.

  “Hold on, I can’t hear much. Let me close the door,” she said.

  Glancing around, I couldn’t spot Eva or Samantha. The crowd had thinned a bit more, and I noticed some of the food tables being broken down. Flipping back around, I saw the opulent couple, Rebecca and Thomas, chatting and shaking hands with a guy near one of those food trucks.

  “You there?” she asked.

  “Hit me.”

  “I went through each of the suspect’s convictions, reviewing their cases. Everyone was either affiliated with some type of hate group or had committed an extremely violent act. All but one.”

  “Is this a queue for me to guess the number?”

  “This guy, an Andrew Plumlee, number four on our list, beat up an Indian valet, an eighteen-year-old kid. Oddly enough, Plumlee’s ethnicity is stated as mixed, then in parenthesis it says part Native American, part black, part Hispanic, and part Caucasian.” she said.

  She paused, and the gears in my mind were cranking on the information, wondering if his race could have impacted his decisions, or not.

  “In the notes from the case, Plumlee said under testimony that he reacted poorly due to the stress of his mom’s illness. The incident occurred at Parkland Hospital.”

  I arched my back, my ears drowning out every sound around me. “This is good, Alisa. Thank you.”

  “There’s more. He served two years’ probation, never had any issues with his probation officer.”

  Tension in my core eased a bit. I looked down the driveway again and noticed the pony relieving himself. Maybe Sir Thomas will be so busy talking about his golf game that he’ll slip and fall on the dung. “Well, it won’t hurt to visit him tonight, along with the others.”

  “Not possible. His address is bogus. Doesn’t exist.”

  Adrenaline surged through my body. “Interesting.”

  “Plumlee used to manage one of those fast-food chicken joints. But I’ve found out he now has a food truck license. So it might be tough to hunt him down.”

  Shifting my eyes around, I felt a light breeze tickle my neck. I’d been perspiring. “I agree. Do you mind looking online to find a list of food truck businesses? It may not be perfect, but it’s a start. Try to contact each one, and dig for a name and location of where they store their trucks.”

  “Good idea,” she said. “But here’s the kicker. Plumlee’s dad disappeared seven years ago. His last known occupation—watch repairman.”

  “This might be the guy, Alisa.” I started moving around the grounds, searching for Eva and Samantha. I had to find this oddball suspect, but more than that, I wanted my girls close by.

  “Something even more strange about this guy, or maybe it’s his way of keeping himself from going postal. He’s a member of the Professional Puppeteers Association.”

  Twisting my head, I glanced around the corner of the house and noticed the puppet setup was gone. “Shit!” I jogged faster, my eyes darting from person to person. I heard an engine come to life, and I turned and watched that truck roll toward the end of the driveway, Rebecca and Thomas turning to make their way back to the house.

  “Stop that truck!” I yelled, running toward them.

  Plodding up the driveway, Thomas put a hand to his ear.

  “Stop that truck!”

  The van turned right, bouncing out of the driveway onto the street.

  “Booker, I didn’t hear you over this insane circus music. What were you saying?”

  Ignoring Thomas, I cut back to the house. “Everyone get out. Now!”

  I had no idea if Plumlee was in that truck or not, but I couldn’t take a chance. A few people looked at me like I’d downed one too many adult beverages. A handful didn’t wait for further instructions.

  “There might be a bomb on the property. Everyone go to your car. Now!”

  Screams rippled through the remaining crowd. “Eva, Samantha! Eva, Samantha!” I cupped my hands, yelling so loudly my voice cracked. I tried stopping one of the clowns to ask if he’d seen either, but he slipped through my grip.

  Racing to the backyard, I searched the area near where the puppet station had been set up for any sign of a bomb. Nothing.

  Fuck!

  “Eva, Samantha!”

  “What do you know, Booker?” Rebecca tugged on my shirt, a look of horror covering her face.

  “Get the hell out of here now. Get everyone out. Run, dammit.”

  Flipping my head, I saw food servers closing up tables. “What are you doing?”

  “But Mr. and Mrs. Yates asked us—”

  “Screw them. Get out of here.” I jumped up and down, waving at everyone, still searching for my little girl and her mother.

  Peering across the pool, I spotted daughter and mother emerging from another building, the bowling center perhaps.

  “Hey!” They finally looked my direction. Samantha started running at me, a wide grin covering her face.

  Suddenly, a double thrust of energy smacked my back, then I heard a deafening sound as I flew through the air.

  Samantha’s smile was the last image I saw.

  33

  A frog croaked twice from a nearby pond, the illumination of a full moon stretching across the body of water.

  Kneeling down next to his mother’s gravesite, Andrew Plumlee interlocked his hands and rested them on his lap. “I hope I have made you proud.”

  Then the man with infinite voices unlatched a red velvet box, pulled out six colorful puppets, all with different faces and costumes made from the finest cloth, with embedded gems—garnet, his mother’s birthstone. Then he thought more about the sad irony, her January birthday, the same month she perished, a cold, blistery day with endless gray skies and one lonely soul.

  He swallowed back his emotions. “Some people give flowers. I give my most treasured possessions, my family of puppets.”

  He kissed each one, then gently placed the dolls against his mother’s tombstone. “My passion,” he said, nodding his head.

  Sweating profusely, Plumlee wiped his forehead, but kept his weighted coat over his shoulders. He closed his eyes and envisioned devastation at the brat’s birthday party, a historic mansion ripped apart, and faces unable to grasp the sight of glass jabbing out of an eye socket, a head sliced off at the neck, body parts scattered across the lawn like play toys. He could hear their desperate cries for help. Pathetic. Every last one of them.

  He inhaled a deep breath and he picked up the aroma of burned plastic, sweet black powder, charred flesh.

  The smell of death.

  The night his mother died, the scent of ammonia, urine, and dried sweat coated the back of his throat, and he could still taste it even today. It would never leave him. He was all alone in the hospital room, just he, the droning hum of those damn machines, and his mother. No one rushed in to help save her when she’d stopped breathing. To every nurse, doctor, and orderly, she was just another body, brea
thing long enough for them to collect the insurance, then swatting her aside like a pesky fly.

  Does anyone mourn the death of a fly? Hell no. Some people even cheered the insect’s death, just as he was savoring his victories—sweet vindication for every race, religion, and creed killing the only person who ever loved him.

  He recalled sitting at this same spot the afternoon of her funeral nine months earlier, fresh dirt scattered across green grass. A bird chirped in a nearby tree. A tidal wave of memories flooded his mind, ending with a slide show of each face that had a hand in his mother’s death. America, the home of the free, the brave, and a patchwork quilt of maggots. He had vowed to seek revenge, and he nurtured a seed of hatred like it was his only child. Finally, it matured into a full-blown organism, thinking and feeling all on its own, laying out a path of devastation and panic for the people of this fucked-up nation.

  Dropping his head for the last time, he allowed his mother’s voice to enter his mind, carrying her joyful tune down to his bedroom, playfully waking him from sleep. It soothed his heart—if it still existed.

  Soon it would be over. Carefully raising his arm, his fingers touched the etching on the gray tombstone. Fatima Gujarati Plumlee.

  “Have I made you proud?”

  <><><>

  An ensemble of crickets chirped out of sight, a rhythmic harmony piercing the stillness of Paulson Cemetery. I could still feel the timpani of my heart hammering my chest wall.

  Shuffling forward with a noticeable limp, I ignored the wedge of glass embedded in my calf. Black soot coated my neck and face, and my back, slick with sweat, stung from the explosion burns.

  I was lucky to be alive.

  Everyone at the party escaped sure death, all because a faithful food server cleaned up trash even as I was yelling for people to vacate the premise. He’d stuffed the bomb—apparently contained in a barbeque box—into a garbage bag and then deposited it in a plastic garbage bin next to the garage. That man, Ricardo, and I were the only two with noticeable injuries. Ricardo had cuts and abrasions, and paramedics patched one of his eyes, unsure if his vision would be lost.