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

by John W. Mefford

  “Best money I’ve spent,” I said, glancing at the camera.

  I’d grown to talking to myself on stakeouts.

  Pulling the camera back to my eye, I started on the north side of the property and panned right.

  “What the…” I lowered the RX10, wondering if my new toy, or my mind, had conjured up a mirage. Raising the camera again, I found the second table from the left. FU—Felix Upton—drinking a longneck on one side of the blue picnic bench seats, and decorated Corporal Ernie Sims on the other.

  Knots twisted like corkscrews into my gut, and since I’d tossed my toothpick, I bit the inside of my cheek like it was a chew toy.

  Ever since the news broke about DPD Internal Affairs opening a formal investigation into someone in blue stealing drugs from the evidence room and selling them on the street, I was certain Sims would finally receive his just due—a one way ticket to Huntsville, giving him ample opportunity to play Go Fish with felons and perverts. When Felix had been the one and only officer charged, I wondered how Sims had been able to escape the net of suspicion.

  Felix still had the gothic look working, his face as white as Dracula’s, his hair as black as soot. Did he color it every day? Damn, that guy must have some real self-image issues. As he nodded his head, I shifted left and spotted Sims looking like a redheaded bulldog, beady eyes blinking away as he sipped a bottled beer. He wore a denim jacket and appeared to have a scar running from his left ear down to his jaw. I’d never seen that one before. Another guy walked up, wearing cowboys boots, Wranglers, and a tan, long sleeve Western shirt. They traded words, although with his hand movement, it appeared the cowboy was taking the lead. Moments later, Sims and FU rose from the table and threw down a few dollar bills. They walked out the front gate with the cowboy.

  “Where are you guys going?” I asked, while following them with my RX10.

  Shifting back to the front patio, I continued panning right and found a table full of Bronco fans whooping it up from some spectacular play they’d just witnessed on the flat screen hanging off the rusted siding. Moving farther right…

  “That’s them.” I clicked two quick shots of Lola’s head resting against Pittman’s enlarged arm, while his other arm shoveled in hot wings.

  Moving quickly to my left, my lens found the three banditos turning east onto Vanderbilt. They might be heading for the parking lot. I wanted to follow them, but I had to stick with Spencer and Lola.

  “Dammit!” I said, now mad as hell I didn’t have a partner.

  For a moment, and for the first time since I’d evolved into a private investigator, I felt trapped. Part of me knew I had to stay where I was, tracking Spencer and Lola until I could catch them in the act. My heart, at least the component that was pumping blood through my veins at an abnormally high rate, wanted to peel away from Stan’s Blue Note and follow Sims, Felix, and the cowboy. If I could figure out their involvement and capture irrefutable evidence, then Henry and the DA’s office could bring an indictment against those involved.

  The beat of my heart echoed in my skull as I curled warm hands around the leather steering wheel. I knew that Sims was at the epicenter of this drug mess. I also realized that Janice Pittman was a client, a paying client at that, and my reputation as a PI could be won or lost if I ever blew off a client’s directions.

  “Fuck it!” Checking my blind spot, I rotated the wheels out and pulled onto Vanderbilt, then turned left onto Greenville, my eyes sticking with the two misfits. Spencer’s face was covered in orange hot wing sauce while Lola continued petting him as if she was programmed.

  “Five minutes, maybe ten minutes max.” That was the time limit I gave myself to follow the three banditos, hoping, praying that my paying gig would still be at the bar when I got back.

  Flipping a right onto Vanderbilt, almost immediately I found chaos surrounding a woman in uniform. Huffing out a breath, I watched as people milled about and cars jerked forward and backward, while my car barely budged. I’d forgotten that this part of Greenville had some of the worst parking in the city, and some of the local merchants would occasionally spring for an off-duty cop to work the parking lot, ensuring everyone followed the rules and calmness reigned.

  Actively moving my body around in the car to find better angles, I searched for Sims, Felix, and Cowboy. The sun had started setting, lighting wasn’t optimal, and I found plenty of people, but none that was close to the three guys I was attempting to follow.

  The squatty black cop stood in the middle of the narrow street trying to direct traffic, her whistle blaring and her arms flailing. I just wasn’t sure if anyone was paying much attention.

  Three more cars, all SUVs, crawled into the parking lot, each one catching the bad end of a muddy pothole just over the rim of the concrete entrance.

  The car in front of me, an Infiniti sedan, lurched forward, obviously attempting to break into the procession.

  I followed and rolled down my window, hoping to catch the cop’s attention.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Mr. Infiniti?” the cop asked, her pointer finger and head swaying with each word.

  She approached the luxury car, and I put my hand on my head, wondering if I’d already lost the three men, while also allowing Spencer and Lola to vanish without me having a clue as to their whereabouts. Glancing in my rearview mirror, three trucks hulked behind me, and patrons walked along the street like it was an open park. I was stuck until the street cop took charge or the bars closed down at two a.m.

  Throwing an open palm at the Infiniti, the street cop marched toward the side of the lot where vehicles were supposed to exit, although none had in the last five minutes. For the time being, that was to my advantage. I noticed her uniform stretched to its limit, her tree-trunk legs propelling an even larger booty.

  “Where you think you’re going, Mr. Black Cadillac SUV with the mirror tinted windows?”

  She’d moved another twenty feet away, but I could still hear the street cop’s attitude above all the engines and horns.

  After a brief conversation at the window of the Cadillac SUV, the street cop stepped back and blurted two quick whistle pops, her right arm twisting like a propeller. The SUV’s window rolled back up, and I couldn’t see inside.

  Lumbering back toward the Infiniti sedan with far less energy, a low-hanging street light illuminated a glistening, tired face, perspiration dripping off her hairline.

  The guy in front of me lowered his window and shook his fist.

  “Oh shit.” Eyes rolled into the back of my head, and I debated shutting off my engine, locking my doors, and racing around the corner to check on the whereabouts of the lovebirds.

  Then I noticed four guys walking between cars; one had an arm wrapped around two others, his shoes skidding across concrete, obviously inebriated. I voted against leaving my car all alone on the street, locked or not.

  The street cop set her jaw and stuck out a thick leg. “You didn’t just say that. You think I can be bought off like some type of cheap-ass tramp?” Her neck stretched three inches taller.

  Swiveling my head around one more time, I surveyed the landscape around me, looking for anyone resembling a cowboy, a thirty-something gothic dude, and a stocky asshole who appeared to have high blood pressure.

  “You threatening me?”

  Would this ever end? Would I have to get involved to keep peace and then be forced to play traffic cop? Not if I could help it.

  “Well, Mr. Infiniti, I’ll send you to beyond, Buzz Lightyear style. Just step yo ass right out of that car, and I’ll show what I’m talking about. Come on out now.”

  Pinching the corners of my eyes, I admitted I’d made the wrong decision in following the trio. But I owned this firm, and firing myself didn’t seem like a viable option. I released a slow breath, my cheeks expanding Louis Armstrong style. Uncle Charlie used to spin that trumpeter’s vinyl records on his quadraphonic stereo.

  Suddenly, a floodgate of cars lunged out of the parking lot. The first one
, a Corvette, skidded its nose on the curve of the concrete street before burning rubber and fishtailing away from the scene in no time.

  Leaning out my window to get a better view, a new white Honda Accord made a purposeful turn onto the street, then accelerated at a normal pace. I think I only spotted two people inside, a man and woman. Two other cars weren’t as careful, a red Mustang GT and a blue F-150.

  The truck turned just behind the Mustang, but I’m almost certain I saw three heads, the one in the back seat with spiky hair…like Felix’s.

  I released the clutch a tad, and the Saab lurched a foot at most, stopping just a hair behind the Infiniti. The street cop didn’t look my way. I couldn’t stand to wait any longer. Yanking the parking brake up while moving the stick into neutral, I swung open my car door. Before I could shut the door, an arm arched out of the Infiniti front window and a white middle finger popped to a stop inches from the face of the street cop, her white eyes and mouth wide open. She swiped at the finger with her teeth clenched, but the guy recoiled his finger, punched the gas, and swerved around the parade of exiting cars. A flurry of car horns brought hands to ears of people all around me.

  With everyone pissed and still assessing what had just happened, I pulled up twenty feet.

  “Hi there,” I said to the street cop, a rigid scowl staring down the street, two fists at her side. “I know you’ve had a difficult time with these rude people, but would you mind if I just passed through?”

  I used my nicest voice this side of my daughter, Samantha.

  Slowly turning toward me, her face softened a bit. “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.” She anchored both arms on the Saab’s window opening, and I could feel the small sedan rock slightly.

  As much as I wanted to shove her to the side and chase down the red Mustang, I had to remain on good terms with the DPD, especially those I might interact with on a daily basis.

  “Actually, I’ve been there a few times myself. Retired DPD officer, just last year.” I stretched the truth a bit, but in my mind, I left before they fired me.

  Swinging her head back and forth, she reached out a hand, gave a firm handshake. “I’m Lucinda. Twelve years with the force and way too much of this shit. Not sure how much longer I can take it. I’m a seasoned officer. I should be in Homicide working as a lead detective.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Booker. So, I’m working as a private investigator now, and to tell you the truth, I’m following three perps who might be involved in a drug-selling operation.”

  She didn’t need to know about the DPD connection.

  “Well, shit, why didn’t you say something?”

  “I, uh…”

  Flipping on a dime, she wiggled twenty steps and stuck her oversized body and a defiant hand in the grill of a Dodge Ram truck, her cheeks stretching from blowing her whistle. She then pointed directly at me and waved me through. As I zipped by, she gave me the thumbs-up and a red-lipped smile.

  Wind thrashed through the inside of the car, but I ignored it and pushed the stick into third gear, driving way too fast for a tiny street. Whizzing by a smaller crossroad, I quickly found the bumper of a blue F-150, the same one that pulled out of the parking lot just behind the red Mustang. I edged the Saab 9-3 left, trying to catch a glimpse of red, but a Harley was coming right at me. I jerked the car right and the rumbling two-wheeler blew by me. On my second attempt, I pulled the stick into second gear and felt the g-force of the Saab’s torque slingshot past the truck, but I saw red light and an oncoming U-Haul van directly in front of me. I jerked the car right, downshifted, allowing the engine to help slow me while I plowed my Doc Marten boot on the brake.

  Glancing in my mirror, a guy wearing a baseball cap and a white T-shirt pounded the wheel of the U-Haul and shot me the bird.

  I deserved it, and I waved a regretful hand, then purposely took my eyes away. Glancing up, I saw the street sign: Concho Street. Skillman was another block ahead, and I moved my neck forward, squinting. I spotted red. Unsure if it was a Mustang, the Mustang, I made a quick assessment, then pumped the gas pedal while waiting for a green light. The light flipped, and I punched the gas, my pulse pegging at the same rate.

  “No, no!” I’d just noticed the red car turn left. I was almost certain it was a Mustang.

  By the time I reached Skillman, a much busier six-lane street, the light had turned red again. Looking north, I could faintly see red disappearing into the blur of darkness and streetlights. I checked my watch. Ten minutes had already passed. Just then, I got the green turn light and zipped on to Skillman, single-mindedly focused on the red Mustang.

  For whatever reason, I couldn’t let this opportunity go. I’d witnessed Sims assault a defenseless homeless man. Then after hurling threats and racist comments my direction, he’d blindsided me and tried to take me down, first with a baton, then with his DPD-issued sidearm. Convinced that murdering me and George, the homeless man, was his sole intent, I had responded with a focused rage, and the fireplug-built corporal wore stitches from my hands for quite a while.

  Crossing Mockingbird, I realized I’d been in a zone, weaving in and around slower cars, my gaze straight ahead and my pulse an even one twenty. The speedometer touched seventy, and I knew I was pushing my luck, but I couldn’t stop, not now. Lovers Lane just head, I was now less than a block behind the Mustang, and I could see three distinct silhouettes. The sports car turned left as the light flipped yellow. I gunned it, my head on a swivel as I leaned into the left turn, the Silver Streak shuddering from the stress. Lights flashed as I passed under red. I’d clearly broken the law, and I had a feeling I’d receive a ticket in the mail.

  At this stage, I probably deserved at least five or six citations, but I didn’t care. Feeling almost too invincible, I zipped past two cyclists and two fingers stood at attention in my rearview mirror. I was almost flattered by the thoughtful response, if not for my nearly obsessive mindset, my temples pulsating from my laser focus.

  The Mustang hung a quick right, and I saw its back end wiggle a tad, then I realized they were back on Greenville heading north. Did they know I was on their trail? I followed, slowing down a bit on the turn. Now just a hundred yards at the rear, I was finally aware of my surroundings enough to feel a breeze through the window. I inhaled a full breath, smelling a mixture of car exhaust and fast-food hamburgers and French fries. At that exact moment, three brake lights glowed, and the muscle car turned into a McDonald’s. They pulled up to the drive-through and stopped. My brain still on auto-drive, I followed the same path but didn’t stop behind them. Searching for the right words or steely look, I drove up next to them and stopped.

  “Hey, motherfucker!” A guy with a country twang, wearing a wife-beater and one arm draped over the wheel, let a cigarette dangle off his lips. “If you really want to race the Beast, you gotta wait until we grab a few burgers and fries.” He patted the top of the black molded dashboard like it was a raging bull blowing smoke through its nostrils.

  I just sat there, motionless, but full of emotion. I noticed the other two, the guy in the passenger seat wore glasses, had thick, shaggy black hair, while the one in the back leaned forward, appearing shy. We locked eyes for just a second. I was right about the gothic theme, but the person was female, with tattoos wrapped around her neck.

  A part of me wanted to take their keys and question each one privately, believing there was even a slight chance that somehow they’d pulled off some type of switcheroo with Sims, Felix, and the cowboy.

  An engine revved, and I glanced at the red Mustang. I could feel my head throbbing, the focal point just above my eyes. Damn, I’d been impulsive…and stupid.

  And what about Janice Pittman? She’d entrusted Booker & Associates to produce results, and I let a vendetta distort my perspective and my instincts.

  “Hey, dude, we’re actually part of a street car drag-racing club. We’re always looking for new members. Wet let it rip every Friday night near Lovefield Airport, right across from that sle
azy motel. You interested?”

  Licking dry lips, I could feel oxygen replenish all parts of my brain, left and right gears functioning at a balanced capacity. My logical intuition now intact, I quickly formed a new plan of action.

  9

  I counted six vehicles in the motel parking lot, only one cutting across two spaces, a late model Ford Expedition. Spencer Pittman certainly acted like a man who played by one set of rules—his own.

  Pulling a gray sweatshirt over my head, I noticed a rip at the neckline and splotches of blue paint covering the front. Thinking ahead by placing this old thing in the backseat was the one smart thing I’d done today. Experience had proven whenever we received desperate calls from scorned spouses, even boyfriends or girlfriends, it required an immediate response, almost like a one-person SWAT team. This sweatshirt was a required tool for accomplishing the task at hand.

  Blue and red lights flickered through cracked plastic, brown at the edges, the Motel 9 sign as ancient as the full moon illuminating the property. The sixty-room, two-story complex was L-shaped with a metal roof that once was blue and now mostly coated with rust. Somewhere nearby a skunk had lost a battle with a tire, its stench lingering in the still, night air.

  Walking toward the main office, loose pebbles popped under my size-fourteen boots. I glanced over at the Expedition and gave a nod of self-approval. Earlier, in the McDonald’s parking lot, using a new map application on my smart phone, I’d plotted the three hotels where I’d previously found the odd couple, Spencer and Lola. I then searched cheap motels in the area and tried to detect a pattern. It was obvious. Each time they hooked up, the motel was sleazier and farther away from downtown. This Motel 9 was well off the beaten path, on a side road behind a row of cedars, situated just west of the Dallas-Garland border.