Why the hell am I thinking of Momma right now?
Maybe because my mother had not yet met Britney, the princess from some magical kingdom. I wasn’t sure how that would go down—the meeting of two female forces in my life. Well, not including my daughter Samantha and her mother Eva.
After the performance, we mingled with the crowd in the lobby, grabbing some drinks, even running into what would have been her in-laws just a few months ago—had it not been for a psycho killing her husband-to-be just before the wedding. At first I felt self-conscious and slowly removed my hand from Britney’s waist, but it turned out that I had no reason to be worried. Fulton and Muffin, the illustrious and wealthy Cromwells, were as warm and endearing as Britney had said they were.
“Britney, Booker, I want you to know it’s perfectly fine, what you’re doing. We’ve told you before, Britney, we wanted you to move on with your life. It’s still painful for us, almost daily.” Fulton paused, inhaled a breath, and took his wife’s hand. “But you don’t deserve to live a life of sorrow or regret.”
“Thank you, thank you both,” Britney said, gently embracing Muffin and then Fulton. “It means a lot to me. Happiness isn’t something you can plan or predict. I guess you just have to be open to it.”
I was overcome with a huge sense of emotion—proud of all three of them, dealing with a horrific situation with such grace and wisdom.
Waving goodbye to the Cromwells, we headed toward the lounge area, where a meet-and-greet with the cast would take place. She gripped my waist this time, nestling her head on my shoulder as we walked. We stopped at the bar to grab a drink—chardonnay for her and a whiskey sour for me. As we waited, she softly kissed my ear and then peered up at me with mischief in her eyes.
“What?” I asked.
“I want you,” she said.
I felt my jaw drop. Not one to miss an opportunity such as this, I looked around for an exit.
“You think we’re going to throw down in the bathroom or something?” She giggled.
She clearly enjoyed seeing me squirm, losing my mental equilibrium.
“I, uh…well, no. You just surprised me, that’s all.”
She goosed me in the ribs. “Later, Booker. Something to look forward to. First, the meet-and-greet.”
I lifted my chin and said in a mocking formal tone. “Of course, my dear Britney, our social duties call. Shall we find ourselves a table?”
She goosed me again, but this time not in the ribs.
Trumpets blared just before the dancers entered the lounge area, and all eyes turned in that direction. The performers literally glided into the room to mingle with their fans, who had paid dearly for the opportunity. The room buzzed with the cast’s electric presence. Sleeping Beauty herself, Oliva Dunham, walked up to our table to say hello. Britney, though she would never be a Cromwell, had plenty of pull on her own—her glamour and warmth exuding and lighting up our presence. I was proud to be at her side.
“I want to thank you for coming to see us tonight,” Oliva said pleasantly. She smiled, shook our hands, her manner poised and polished.
“You guys did an amazing job. Just wonderful,” Britney said.
“Thank you. It’s a lot of hard work, but it seems to be finally paying off. This is my first lead role.”
I held up my glass in a toast. “To many more lead roles.”
Olivia put a hand to her chest. “My gosh, I hope so.” She looked around the room. “I wish we could talk more, but—”
Brittany interjected. “Oliva, we completely understand. Please, go and enjoy your special evening.”
Olivia beamed. “Thank you again.” And with that, she fluttered away.
Brittany scooted her seat closer to mine, and we watched the crowd for a moment. Then she turned to me, her beautiful eyes shimmering. It was hard to believe that only months ago, she had endured such hardship. “What are you thinking?” she asked.
I melted beneath her gaze. “I’m thinking how much I—” I almost said the “L” word but never got there.
A horrific shrill reverberated throughout the room.
Silence for just a second. Then murmurs swept through the crowd, as heads turned toward the entrance.
A young woman ran into the room, her face fire-engine red, hands trembling. All eyes were glued on her. She melted in a fit of apparent shock.
An older woman ran to her side. “My God, Kirsten, what is it? What’s wrong?” They grabbed hold of each other in a tight embrace. “Please, what’s wrong?”
“Girl, dressing room.” Kirsten’s voice shook like she was attached to a jackhammer.
“Okay,” the woman said, glancing all around the room and then back at Kirsten. “There’s a girl in a dressing room. What about her?”
Instinctively, I edged closer.
“Not…not…moving.” Her skin was ghostly white.
Again, the woman glanced around the room, seemingly unsure what exactly to do.
Kirsten stammered, “I…found…”
Now standing just in front of them, I said in a calm but firm voice, “Kirsten, can you take us to this girl in the dressing room?”
Slowly her eyes shifted to mine, and she nodded. Then, turning her gaze back to the woman, she ripped away and sprinted back through the door. I darted out of my stance, wondering if Kirsten was having some type of nervous breakdown. The woman and others from the crowd were on my heels, but I kept my eyes on Kirsten, whose body moved far more quickly than her ability to communicate.
I didn’t know Kirsten. Was she typically like this? Was it too much alcohol, some drugs? Was she a mental case? My instincts told me no, and I followed her like a bat out of hell to a dressing room.
Kirsten had fallen to her knees, sobbing. As I moved closer, I could see why she’d lost her mind.
A woman was lying on the floor, unmoving. She had a bullet hole in her head.
Despite the gory scene, I recognized the woman. A breath caught in my throat.
This was not a way to end an evening.
2
I awoke with a silky smooth knee nestled against my inner thigh, within inches of my groin. Normally, I might wince and knock it away. But I trusted Britney, even when my balls were on the line.
With her legs intertwined with mine and her face resting against my bare chest, I could feel a soft purr escape her full lips. I wrapped my left arm around her body, my hand fitting just so into the curve at her hip. She’d worn one of my old college T-shirts to bed, full of holes and a few paint stains. It stayed on for about five minutes.
An owl’s throat-yodeling trill echoed outside the bedroom window, and streaks of light cascaded across the wood and bronze ceiling fan in my first-floor condo bedroom, creating a warped shadow on the ceiling. The place wasn’t much, about eight hundred square feet, but it was mine, or at least the bank’s. It had me written all over it—simple, no frills, just enough décor to let you know I was human, and it came with a built-in roommate who was fast asleep in the living room. How did I know he was asleep? If he was awake early on a Saturday morning, with his ear-splitting squawk, we’d be on the verge of committing a homicide.
I took in a shallow breath, not wanting to rock Britney from her peaceful slumber. While I always pledged to get more sleep, it rarely if ever happened. And despite staying at the opera house three hours longer than planned, once my eyes cracked open, the gears in my brain started chewing on data.
Spotting a hole in the shadow pattern on the ceiling, I recalled the scene in the dressing room as word of Courtney’s death splintered the crowd. Despite my pleas asking everyone, including Britney, to walk back to the lounge, a throng of people practically bull rushed the room, as if they couldn’t believe one of their own had perished. Gasps spewed out of every mouth, and several people, women and men alike, spilled tears. One woman fainted, while another hyperventilated. We gave her a sack to breathe into. Their responses only increased the urgency to call the paramedics.
Within ten minutes
, the facility was crawling with cops, detectives, CSI techs, and two techs from the coroner’s office, in addition to paramedics. While emotions surged all around us like unrelenting waves, I knew the folks attending to the crime scene were attempting to drown out the drama and focus on the facts.
I was acquainted with a couple of the blue uniforms, although neither was a close friend. I could sense a little attitude coming from their direction, whether it was from working a homicide so late at night or because they resented me and my new life, believing I’d hit the jackpot lottery, rubbing elbows with the high and mighty. The pit of jealousy acted like a self-inflicted, bleeding ulcer. It could only be stopped by realizing no one was keeping score in the game of life—at least no one who mattered. Few of us were given anything in this world, whether it was by name or by anointment, without some degree of sacrifice or hard work.
I had no ill will toward the men and women in blue who served the community, at least not most of them. One asshole in particular was on my shit list, and I didn’t expect that sentiment to subside this millennium.
Given my police background and my eagerness to learn more about the budding case, I knew where to position myself, allowing me to capture some interesting tidbits.
The dressing room belonged to a dancer from the cast of Sleeping Beauty, Eduardo Garza. The actor had plopped to his knees when he came upon Courtney. Despite his chiseled looks, with thick, brown hair parted to the side, his face drooped with anguish the moment he saw her lifeless body. Tears filled his eyes as friends and fellow cast members tried to comfort the man. He looked to be close to twenty-five years old and small of stature: five six, five seven tops.
I overheard a coroner speaking with a mustached detective. As I’d guessed, initial cause of death was a gunshot wound to the forehead, nine millimeter by the size of the hole. No weapons had been located in or near the dressing room. While cast members and patrons all whispered questions, I heard no viable theories. Apparently, Courtney knew Eduardo, but even that fact wasn’t verified.
Retrieving information without a uniform or badge would be arduous—if it was my case to solve. And the only way that would happen was if someone hired me. Courtney was a beautiful girl who had a gift most artistic performers only dreamed about. From our brief interaction at the Wicked meet-and-greet last week, she exuded confidence but was also amazingly humble, and had told us she was grateful for people paying to see her perform the trade she loved.
Releasing a long breath, my gut had a sensation of emptiness, not unlike most homicide crime scenes I’d witnessed. I didn’t know Courtney well, but seeing her lifeless body a week after she brought the house down with a spellbinding performance reminded me of death’s abrupt finality. God only knows how it happened, who would want her dead, and why. I recalled Eduardo’s emotional response upon seeing Courtney’s body. It appeared authentic, but then again, he was a performer.
Everyone in attendance was interviewed, including Britney. I was concerned that the sight of Courtney’s dead body, all the drama and emotion, would elicit gut-wrenching memories for her. For a moment, I think she teetered on the edge of falling back into a dark hole of depression. I could see a distant look in her eyes, her hands cold and clammy. I waited patiently by her side, and when I trotted away to get her another glass of wine to hopefully take the edge off, I returned to find her sitting in the white leather chair, her legs crossed, engaged in a light conversation with Olivia, the ballet dancer.
Friendship can happen at the oddest times. But I was glad as hell the two refined ladies had hit it off. Given what she’d experienced already in her young life, Britney needed to see the goodness in people.
More light seeped into the bedroom, and Britney squirmed a bit, lowering her knee. Then she gripped my shoulder like she was holding on for dear life. Her chest lifted, and her sleep breathing pattern returned. She must have had a dream. I’d have to quiz her later.
My back felt stiff, and I could sense a desire to jump out of bed, make some coffee, and tackle my real job. Never originally part of my life’s master plan, this PI gig was made for me. I was independent-minded, suspecting of people and situations, but not yet jaded. I was intensely devoted to making a difference in my community, my city.
Recalling Justin’s text from the night before about his sister and my initial case in the private sector, I felt a tad nostalgic about the night I sat in Justin’s bar, The Jewel, and the opportunity of my lifetime came across me like a cool breeze on an autumn day. My first case had been special for many reasons. A con artist chef who closely resembled Harvey Specter, the suave attorney from the hit show Suits, had convinced me not to turn him into authorities if he devised a way to pay back my client, Jenna, the twenty-five thousand he’d essentially stolen from her.
David, the chef who used to moonlight as an “investment consultant,” had overheard information about dirty cops, and the only way he’d give up a name was if I promised not to call Henry, my friend who was a Dallas County assistant district attorney.
I held up three fingers and David spilled the name: Ernie Sims. The corporal and I already had a history, but my level of interest in his life had catapulted to another level. Eventually, I wanted to figure out a way to put that asshole behind bars.
I’d worked a few other PI cases since the day I walked out of the Dallas Police Department—mostly background investigations, digging up dirt on a handful of cheating wives and husbands, and an odd pet rescue mission. But they say you always remember your first. Jenna had popped my PI cherry.
Knock, knock.
“What the hell?” I whispered, jockeying my body to see the clock. It wasn’t even eight o’clock in the morning. Slinking out of bed trying not to disturb my sleeping beauty, I slipped on some sweats and plodded to the door, preparing for the worst—a Cindy Valentino interaction. My overbearing neighbor, who always seemed to pick just the wrong time to drop by, had tried every trick in the book to lure me into bed for upward of a year or more.
“What is it now, Cindy?” I asked with clouded vision while swinging the door open.
The person on the other side of the door paused, allowing me an extra second to wipe my eyes.
“And who, pray tell, is this Cindy woman?”
Booker the man just went back in time to feeling like Booker the boy.
“Momma, hi.” I waved a hand in front of my shirtless chest, my mind still catching up with my eyes.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Give your momma a hug.” My five foot, barely anything mother reached up and yanked my neck down. I returned the embrace, my large hands feeling more bone than meat on her frame.
“Momma, have you been treating yourself well? You’re constantly jetting around the world, nursing sick kids, but I’m concerned you’re not taking care of yourself.”
“You forgot about a little prayer.”
I glanced off to my right and noticed my roommate still mute, thankfully.
“You’re not following your Momma?”
I shook my head, already confused by her ramblings.
“I pray for all the kids I take care of, whether they’re a two-year-old in Guatemala or a thirty-one-year-old living in his fancy condo in Big D.”
I brought a hand to my mouth and chuckled.
“You saw my place last time you decided to grace us with your presence. Not much has changed in the last year.”
Extending my arm, she ambled a few steps, hobbling a tad, and took in the essence of my home. Now more lucid, I finally noticed a dramatic change in her look.
“You didn’t think I would notice?”
“What?” Momma had a playful look on her face, which at age sixty-eight had its share of “wisdom lines,” as she called them, but she still had a youthful appearance.
She finally burst out into a full-blown laugh, clapping her hands, her upper body rocking back and forth.
“What do you think?” Holding out four-inch, floppy braids of cornrows sitting on top of her round face
with prominent cheekbones, Momma danced in a circle, swaying her shoulders back and forth, humming a tune she’d probably picked up from locals in Latin America. She reminded me of Whoopi Goldberg, or at least half of her.
Her positive vibe was very evident, and I wondered what else happened while she was in Guatemala.
“Nice look. Very….uh, African, or maybe Caribbean. I’m not sure I could ever pull that off.”
I swiped a hand by my cropped fro, feeling like I was sixteen. She brought a hand to my face.
“Blame that one on your dad,” she said, popping my cheek.
“For him being white?” I asked, holding back a grin.
“No, for being a complete loser. Forgive me, Lord,” she said, pulling out a cross necklace and kissing it, then pointing to the ceiling.
Smiling, I put a hand to her miniature shoulder. “Nice one, Momma.”
Lowering her gold-rimmed glasses, she stared at me, the whites of her eyes popping from her brown skin, a shade darker than mine. Dear old Dad’s DNA had lightened my skin color to that of the inside of a Milky Way, but he’d also given me my size and, I suppose, a fair amount of athleticism—as if I’d ever admit it to the man whom I’d seen only five or six times since ninth grade.
“Birthday is June thirteenth. You were a Friday the thirteenth baby. Full moon glowing, the whole works.”
“I think that explains everything then.”
Britney’s cheerful voice.
Momma and I turned our heads in tandem. I’d nearly forgotten about Britney sleeping in the adjoining bedroom.
“Hey there,” I said, a little too meekly to be believable.
My overnight guest flipped her flowing hair out of the back of her T-shirt, making it obvious she’d just slipped it on. She also wore a pair of simple jeans, as if stretchy jeans that hugged her body like a bottle koozie could be viewed as simple. She padded along in her bare feet, toenails painted a bubblegum pink. I had no idea she had another outfit stashed in a drawer.
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 25
