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

by John W. Mefford

I winked.

  “Okay, so that tells me everything about Ms. Dubois. Next steps on Courtney Johnson’s murder investigation?” Alisa’s fingers rested on the keyboard.

  “I’m going to talk to Henry to see if he can cull an update on the police investigation. Meanwhile, let’s start creating a full list of possible suspects, their connections to Courtney. Then we can feed in their possible motives, alibis, and start the verification process. Renee wants to see quick progress to keep this from evolving into an Arts District meltdown, and to reopen the fundraising spigot into the DPA.”

  I stuck out my hand and she stared at it, then reached to shake it, but I patted her on the back instead. It was all too awkward.

  “Meet you downstairs,” she said, her back curving toward the screen.

  I bounded down the staircase so loudly, a few patrons actually jerked their heads my way when my Doc Martens smacked the first floor concrete. Henry Cho, the small-framed son of Chinese and Filipino parents, who’d saved my ass from being kicked out of UT and, with that, likely enabled a cocky kid from south Dallas to live a productive life, leaned an elbow on the ledge at the standing bar.

  Tipping his head back, he sucked the last suds of his draft beer.

  “Booker, I told Justin to let you know, but he was too lazy to go tell you.”

  I stood there, my eyes wide open, then quickly scanned the room for Justin. “What’s up?”

  Henry tugged blue-striped sleeves out of his tan blazer, cashmere it appeared, then he pulled a container from his pocket and sprayed into his mouth. “I’ve got a date tonight.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Well, uh…I didn’t know until late this afternoon. It’s one of those Internet matchmaking sites. Says I have the perfect match.” He ran fingers through a thick head of hair.

  “Cool.”

  “Anything quick?” he asked, looking at his reflection in a mirror over my shoulder.

  One of the smartest and persuasive people I’d been around—lawyer or not—Henry was a pretty straight-laced guy, both in his behavior and attire. Education, the pursuit of knowledge, had been driven into his daily routine since he could walk. Now, perhaps he saw others his age finding that special person, and he realized life was too short not to share it with someone you…care about.

  “Well, I was hoping you could give me some insight into the homicide case at Winspear last week.”

  “You were there, right?”

  “Me and about sixty other people. Lots of drama, I’m telling you. Britney and I had met Courtney just a week earlier. Amazing talent. Seeing her dead, a bullet in her forehead…no matter how many you’ve seen, it’s disturbing.”

  Henry paused, glanced at the painted concrete, then said, “Honestly, the only thing I’ve heard is the list of suspects is wide and no one is high on their list. I was told not to expect charges any time soon.”

  The assistant district attorney for Dallas County arched his neck to check out his mug in the mirror again, scrubbing a finger across white teeth, adjusting his collar inside his sport coat.

  Grabbing his shoulders inside my large hands, I gave him a coach-like nod. “Are you ready?”

  “Yep.”

  “Be prepared for the spin move.”

  “Spin move?”

  “Don’t get bogged down on one particular move. Just be ready to zig when she zags.”

  “Zig, zag. Right. I think.”

  I popped his shoulder. “Don’t stay out too late. And remember, it’s all about her.”

  Alisa flew by just then. “Some guys never understand that part. Just remember, Henry, who’s giving you relationship advice. ”She gave me a wry wink over her shoulder.

  “What about Britney?” I shouted after her. “I think I’ve proven I can have a normal relationship with an All-American girl.”

  Henry’s eyes glazed over. He rubbed his face and held up defensive hands. “You guys are making me think too much. I just have to be myself, and everything will work out fine.”

  I smiled. “I’m playing with you. You’ll be suave, charming, and if she’s meant to be your Britney, it will happen, even if you have a pepper stuck between your teeth.”

  “What?” He leaned on his toes, shining his teeth toward the mirror.

  “You don’t have anything in your teeth or your gums. It’s all good. Enjoy.”

  The catatonic glare had returned, as if he was questioning the meaning of life, his in particular perhaps, and he walked out the door.

  “See you, Henry. Have fun,” Alisa yelled as I waltzed to the bar and took a seat on a barstool.

  Glancing up at the flat screen, I noticed the Monday night game in the third quarter, Jets on top of the Patriots, 13-10.

  “Is Tom Brady losing his magic?” I asked Justin, who’d just slid in behind the bar, a towel tossed over his shoulder.

  “Quarterback can’t do everything. He’s got to have some talent around him.” The former James Madison receiver, my old teammate, snickered, which was his way of saying he was the key to my success back in the day. I couldn’t disagree. “Are you off the clock?” He flipped a square napkin in front of me, The Jewel name etched in black.

  “Let’s say I’m halfway there. I need to contemplate a few options.”

  “With the Double Ds?” Justin asked.

  I nodded.

  “Do you think my sister is ever going to see all of her money?”

  Boldfaced lies weren’t in my repertoire, but Justin shouldn’t be exposed to everything I’d learned. “We’re working on it.”

  “Is Jenna in the loop?” he asked like it was a loaded question.

  “I left her a voicemail yesterday. Look, it’s complicated.”

  “Complicated,” he repeated, shaking his head.

  “Between us, Justin,” I said as Alisa walked up and leaned an arm on my shoulder. “For those involved at a certain level, it’s bordering on dangerous. Not for Jenna, no worries there at all.”

  “I trust ya.”

  Justin had made two screwdrivers and one cosmopolitan during our brief conversation. I’m not sure he looked down once.

  “Beer or liquor?” he asked.

  “It’s a football night. Beer. Make it a Shiner, thanks.”

  A bent bottle top bounced off the bar, and I took my first swig. The smooth Texas brew cooled the back of my throat. Flapping my shirt, the vertical wound on my torso throbbed a couple of times, reminding me to reapply Bacitracin later tonight. Attempting to divert my thoughts away from the perverts at Motel 9, I thought about Britney. We hadn’t spoken since earlier this morning when I witnessed the DPA department scuffle. She seemed agitated that I wasn’t able to drop everything and meet up with her to see her little project. I was intrigued, in a positive way, but her response to Momma’s request for my time didn’t sit right. We all had our issues…I knew that more than anyone.

  The Jets scored again, going up 20-10, and a few claps smattered around me. As calm returned, I heard a bountiful belly laugh, and I turned my head down the bar.

  The guy from the ballet. Eduardo, who’d knelt beside Courtney and openly wept next to her lifeless body.

  Leaning against the low-back barstool, his arm lay casually around the shoulder of the young lady who’d also been at the scene of the crime. The one who almost had a nervous breakdown when she found Courtney’s body. Kirsten was her name.

  Alisa walked past my line of sight, and we locked eyes. I flipped my head and mouthed “suspects” to her. Drying off a mug with a towel, she shifted to her left, while I curled out of my barstool, still holding my beer.

  “You would not believe the size of this bull. His balls were so big they could have been used like a mallet in polo.” Eduardo’s dark, recessed eyes popped open, his mouth and cheeks expanding to match his dramatic tone of voice.

  The Hispanic ballet dancer had redefined the essence of grief.

  Kirsten, wearing jeans and an average beige sweater, giggled. She was calm and more reserv
ed than her date, a far different appearance than what I’d witnessed up close the other night when her breathing became erratic. To avoid a blackout from hyperventilating, she had to take long, deep breaths into a paper sack.

  “Do you know where else you can find big balls?” I poked my head in between the two barstools, once again catching Alisa’s eyes, now directly across from me.

  “Oh,” Kirsten blurted out.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to excite you.” I turned my gaze to Eduardo, whose cheerful demeanor evaporated.

  “Who are you?” he asked directly, a trench between his eyes.

  “I would ask who you are, but I know. I was there the other night. I saw you drop to your knees and cry when you came upon Courtney.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, Kirsten brought a hand to her face. Eduardo kept his steely gaze on me. “And what of it?”

  I looked around. I didn’t need to make a scene in the middle of Justin’s bar.

  I said calmly, “I’m Booker Adams, private investigator. I’ve been hired by Renee Dubois, the—”

  “I know who she is.” Only one part of his upper lip moved, and I could see a coat of sweat just above it.

  “Good. You and I are going to have a conversation upstairs in my office.” I extended my arm.

  He paused, chewed his cheek, and shot a glance at Kirsten. “I’m in the middle of a fun evening with my friend, Kirsten.”

  Lame excuse. “I’m sure you are. My office…please.” I added the pleasantry, knowing he’d find it hard to resist.

  He reached for his drink, some type of tropical drink with pineapple clinging to the side.

  “You’re not allowed to drink alcohol in a PI’s office. State law.” I liked the sound of it anyway.

  Forcing out a breath through his larger-than-average snout, he stepped down from the barstool, and I pointed to the stairs. Glancing over at Alisa, she refilled the cashew bowl and offered Kirsten another drink. It was clear my assistant understood her role without me saying a word—she’d take a kinder, gentler approach with Kirsten, and then we’d compare notes later.

  Once in the office, I could see Eduardo was no taller than Alisa, maybe five-six in heels, or on his toes. Eduardo hooked thumbs in his front pockets, his head tilted off to the right.

  “Have a seat.” I sat down in my swivel chair, and it released its usual squeal.

  “I’ll stand, thanks.”

  With me sitting down and him standing, we were almost eye to eye. Elbows perched on the desk, I clasped my hands and twiddled my thumbs as I read his posture for at least a minute.

  Finally, he moved, shuffling his weight to lean more right, then he relented and scooted into the left chair, the one Alisa never touched for whatever reason.

  “What do you want with me?” He stuck out a hand, his accent thicker with more emotion behind it.

  “Why are you all riled up, Eduardo? Seemed like you were having a pretty good time with Kirsten before I interrupted you.”

  His eyes shifted to the corner of the room, his face rigid. “I have talked to the police for hours. They have asked me everything. I have nothing to hide.”

  “Good. How well did you know Courtney?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and splayed his arms. “We had dated for about six months. I guess you could say she was my girlfriend.”

  “What would she call it, if she were alive?”

  Shutting eyelids that appeared far too large for his frame, he provided an annoyed reply. “She thought she was my girlfriend. But it had grown…complicated.”

  Those words sounded familiar, and stiffness entered my neck.

  “Relationships, especially those where it is long distance, are not easy,” he said in a convincing tone. “At times, we performed in the same city, but many times not. Whenever I had a break, she didn’t. It was nearly impossible. You know what I’m saying?”

  Eduardo seemed to think he’d already won me over.

  “Are you seeing someone else?”

  Through the course of time, a spurned lover usually led to an act of retribution. Sometimes, the tool of choice was an ugly note, but many other times, the act was far more personal and physical.

  He ran a hand across his face, searching for stubble that wasn’t there, his eyes trying to read mine. Good luck.

  Another forced breath as he glanced away, uttering a single name, “Maggie Pickles.”

  “Is that a cartoon character?”

  “Don’t be silly. She’s a wonderful ballerina, part of the cast in Sleeping Beauty.”

  “And?”

  “You will find out eventually. She and I have been fooling around a little bit.”

  A warm sensation circled my neck, and I could see motives coming to life.

  “What would Maggie call it?”

  Another huffed breath. “Okay, she would say she is my girlfriend.”

  I laughed out loud. “Do you have a different girlfriend in every port?”

  Dipping the corners of his mouth, he offered his version of the truth. “Look, I admire women of all types. It’s not my nature to be monoga…” He struggled with the last syllable.

  “Mous. Monogamous.”

  “Did you have Courtney killed so she would stop harassing you and Maggie?”

  “What? This is crazy talk! You have no evidence, no clues,” he said, his forehead crumpled like fried bacon.

  “If it exists, I’ll find it. But I’m asking you…Does it exist? Did you find someone, hire someone to kill Courtney?”

  A tear bubbled in his eye, and he snuffed it out with his thumb. “I cared about Courtney. Truly,” he said softly.

  “Were you and Courtney fighting at the time of her death?”

  Licking his lips, Eduardo appeared parched, but I let him sweat.

  “Look, Mr. Adams. I’m not a fighter, I’m certainly not a killer. I’m a Latin lover. That is who I am. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  Oh, brother. This guy was a regular Rico Suave.

  “And Maggie? What is she? How did she feel about Courtney?”

  He shuffled to the other side of his chair, obviously biding time for an answer to come to mind.

  “She was not happy about Courtney. I told her that Courtney and I had broken up. After Courtney died, and it came out that I had not actually gotten around to breaking it off with Courtney, Maggie was not happy with me.”

  “Ah. And what is the nature of your relationship now with Maggie?”

  “She was a nice girl, and, honestly, a body that could melt ice.”

  A quick image of Britney in her jeans flashed through my mind. “But…”

  “She is not talking to me at this time. I tried explaining it to her, but she will not listen to reason.”

  “Reason?”

  “So I’ve had to move on.”

  Twirling a pen between my fingers, I heard a sudden roar from down below, the crowd likely responding to a touchdown or interception or big hit from the Jets-Patriots game. Above the murmur of conversation downstairs, silence engulfed our space. It worked for this situation, but I made a mental note to ask Alisa to pick up an old-fashioned ticking clock. Momma’s house always had clocks ticking and bells chiming. It represented the certainty of time and life always moving forward, hopefully progressing.

  “And what’s going on with Kirsten? She doesn’t appear to be as…seasoned as you are.” I felt a bit like Oprah, possibly Dr. Phil.

  Heavy eyelids slowly peeled open. “We are consoling each other. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  A streak of protectionism littered my mind. Even if Eduardo was not guilty of murder, he was far from innocent. But I couldn’t be the big brother to every cause in the world. Making mistakes was how people learned the necessary life skills to create a runway, rimmed by lights that illuminated their paths moving forward. I, as much as anyone, had been forced to accept my faults and weaknesses before learning how to deal with them, at least to the point where they wouldn’t hurt other people. Eva was example n
umber one. Since that shameful moment, it had taken me years to trust my instincts in a legitimate relationship. And now there was Britney.

  I released Eduardo and asked—actually, I instructed him—to leave Maggie’s phone number with Alisa.

  By the time I made it downstairs, Alisa was rummaging through her white leather purse nearly the size of her torso, just a couple of steps inside the doorway. I looked around and neither Eduardo nor Kirsten were anywhere to be found.

  “Did Eduardo leave you Maggie’s phone number?”

  Her head still buried in her bag, she removed a hand, holding up a note with a number on it.

  “Jilted ex-lover?” she asked. I heard all sorts of clatter coming from her purse as the big dig continued.

  I explained the triangular relationship Eduardo had developed with Courtney and Maggie.

  “You convinced Eduardo is innocent?”

  “Of murdering Courtney, yes. As for how he conducts his life, I hope he goes to confession every week.”

  “Can you hold this?”

  Alisa dished out containers of makeup, lipstick, a hairclip, four pens, a checkbook, three packages of a gum—each a different flavor—and a pair of earbuds. Even my huge hands were full.

  “Do you need some help?”

  Shaking her head, frizzy curls camouflaged the opening to her purse. “I got it.”

  I’d never noticed Alisa’s personal organization, or lack thereof. Anything related to Booker & Associates, she was proactive, highly structured, and always kept the end goal in mind. She was one hell of an assistant. I was just glad our informal interview process—her giving me a fist bump at Justin’s bar a few months back—had come before I noticed this disaster.

  “Do you want me to set up a time for the Maggie Pickles interview?”

  “As soon as possible, yes.”

  “I’ll call her first thing in the morning, and I’ll throw in Renee’s name, if that helps give her any incentive.”

  “Cool.”

  Shifting to the standup bar, I unloaded the handful of items, a pen and lipstick falling to the floor.

  “Found it!” Blowing hair out of her smiling face, she held up about twenty keys attached to a frog key chain.

  Just when I thought I could return to my warm beer to watch the rest of the football game, she leaned over, grabbed all of her stuff, and dumped it in her bag. She threw the strap over her shoulder, and I found new respect for that shoulder. I was surprised she didn’t lean in that direction when she walked without her purse.