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

by John W. Mefford

  “Finally, I’m out of here. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  I nodded, while a thought escaped my lips before it had been fully vetted. “Seems like you carry your life with you wherever you go. How do you get around when you need a smaller purse?”

  Setting a hand on her hip, she acknowledged my blissful naiveté. “Booker, I’m a woman. You’re not supposed to ask. I just figure it out. We all do.”

  Enough said.

  12

  “Can you switch out a cold one for this piss-warm beer?”

  Justin flipped around and eyed me as he cleaned peanut shavings off the glossy wood finish.

  Glancing around, I found a bent bottle cap and pressed it with my thumb on top of the bottle until I heard a snap. Beer sloshed against the sides, obvious that it was half empty. “You can resell this one if it makes you feel any better.”

  “Do you think I’m made of money?”

  “You sound like our parents, you know?”

  A thin smile cracked Justin’s thin face, another line or two just starting to bud near his eyes.

  “Come to think of it, didn’t you bring in a major haul from Ice Ice Baby?”

  Placing both hands on the bar, his eyes shifted away, then back at me. “That’s not public knowledge.”

  “I think everyone is aware that The Jewel, at least for one night, was Dallas’ hottest attraction.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Wasn’t that the point, to spread the word, drawing people in who had never been to your bar?”

  He held out a shushing hand. “Yes, and I think we achieved our marketing goal.”

  Snapping my neck back, I wondered who’d been reincarnated inside the mind of the string-bean kid who couldn’t make it at junior college.

  “I put that money in a sock drawer. My retirement fund.”

  “Ah,” I said. I figured he didn’t actually place rubber bands around wads of cash and stuff them into his sock drawer, or any other furniture piece. Given his business sense, he probably invested in a stock that would overtake Apple in the gadget market.

  Justin pulled a bottle from an ice bucket, flipped it twice, then caught it and snapped off the opener. Frothy suds spewed over the edge.

  “Thanks. I think.”

  He filled up a jar of peanuts and slid them my way. “Incoming.”

  I scooped a handful, then lifted my eyes to the flat screen. “Brady hasn’t started the comeback yet, huh?”

  The score at the bottom of the screen read, Jets 23, Patriots 10, fourth quarter, six minutes and change left in the game.

  “I’m telling you he doesn’t have the supporting cast he used to. He’s human, other than the fact he’s made over a hundred million in his career, has model-like looks, two adorable kids, two Super Bowl rings, and a wife who’d make the Pope shun his celibacy.”

  Suds of the beer finally retreating, I tipped back my head and took in a long swig, quenching my thirst. “Ah.” Just as the bottle hit the bar, fingernails gripped my bicep, and I swung around, my mind already preparing for a punch or a defensive move.

  Instead, I only found Alisa, red-rimmed eyes, breathing so heavy her chest lifted.

  “Booker, I need you.”

  Twisting my head, I paused too long apparently, and her nails reached the meat of my muscle, her arm quivering from the pressure being applied.

  I spun out of the barstool, and her hand slid down and grabbed my wrist.

  “What’s going on Alisa? Is everything okay?”

  She flipped around, ignoring my questions, and headed for the door, dodging patrons asking for another drink, scattered chairs, never letting my wrist go.

  Leaning into the oversized front door, she popped her hip, and it banked open. I followed a half-step behind. Just when I thought I’d caught up, she increased the pace.

  A north wind bit into my face, and I knew Alisa, minus a jacket, must have been freezing. A hand wiped her face, and I couldn’t tell if the wind and freezing temperature had squeezed water from her eyes, or if it was induced by another cause.

  Rounding the corner into the side parking lot, absent of much direct lighting, I thought I heard a whimper. Then, she pointed. No words came from her mouth.

  “What is it?” I felt like I was interpreting a mime.

  Bringing a hand to her face, she swung my arm forward. All I saw was a parking lot full of cars, no other soul in sight.

  “Dammit, Alisa, what’s going on?”

  Now both hands cupped her mouth, apparently unable to speak, she bent at the knees, then shuffled left. I’d never seen Alisa so distraught.

  My heart racked my chest plate. I stood in front of her, hands grasping her arms, seeking a way to find what was destroying her.

  “There!” she pointed, her voice wavering from emotion. “Between the cars.”

  Following her eyes, I hunched lower and held a hand to the one low-pitched spotlight impeding my view. I shuffled forward, approaching a luxury sedan and an older SUV. A bumper sticker first caught my eye: Red Neck Proud. Glancing back at Alisa while walking, she nodded then started jumping up and down, uttering something I couldn’t decipher.

  I clipped a shoe…then fell face first. Throwing out my arms, I caught my body weight like I’d just finished a push-up. But I looked directly into the open mouth and white eyes of a woman.

  Dead.

  Lunging my body upward to where I could stand, I noticed the odd angle of her body, her neck askew. And her eyes, an empty glare. Wait, I knew this person.

  “Olivia,” I said with little breath.

  I leaned forward, my butt glancing off the sedan, realizing the lack of space where this act took place.

  “Alisa!” I could feel my voice shake from the inside out.

  My dazed partner padded toward me, attempting to rub away tears.

  “Did you call nine-one-one?”

  “I knew she was dead. I didn’t know what to do.” She shifted her gaze to the dead person, Olivia, then she released quivering sobs.

  I scooted right, ensuring I didn’t disrupt the crime scene. I took Alisa in my arms, and she rested her head against my chest. “It will be okay.”

  “How can you say that?” Her teeth rattled. Hands balled into fists, she thumped my shoulders.

  Wind slapped my face and I held her tighter. She was right. After a few seconds, she got it together.

  “Did you see anyone nearby when you found Olivia?”

  “Not a single person.”

  “Any cars pulling out of the parking lot?”

  “No, nothing moved. It was like a graveyard. Although I did hear dogs barking.”

  That could mean anything, but I took a mental note.

  Glancing at Alisa, I realized she was missing her anchor.

  “Where’s your purse?”

  “That junk pile,” she said through a stuffy nose. “It’s over there by my car.”

  I squinted, and spotted an oblong bag squatting next to a small, old-model Toyota, dark green.

  “Call the authorities. I’m going to look around before they get here. By the way, it’s Olivia Dunham, the lead ballerina from Sleeping Beauty.”

  Alisa bit her lip, apparently searching for a calm and a resolute mind. “Renee, the Arts District. Is this tied to Courtney’s murder?”

  “Who knows? But that will be the public perception until we can prove otherwise.”

  Alisa walked toward her bag, while I turned and took in the scene. I first glanced at Olivia’s forehead. No bullet wound, nor did I see any blood on or around her body. I was no pathologist, but I’d yet to see any obvious cause of death.

  Leaning closer, I had to force myself to not look at her eyes. Part of me wanted to press her lids shut or, better yet, place a towel over her face. But that might contaminate the crime scene.

  Alisa holstered her phone and walked my way, arms cinched under her breasts.

  “Do you have a pen in your purse?”

  She produced one in no time.

&n
bsp; As careful as a surgeon trying not to puncture a blood vessel during open heart surgery, I lifted her hair and found no wounds or blood. Her hands were cupped, arms raised over her head, as if she’d been stretched.

  “I think she was dragged into this spot after she was dead. Look at the position of her arms, her wrists cocked at an angle where someone could gain leverage. Also, her clothes—her shirt, jacket, scarf, and slacks—are all slanted toward her feet.”

  Alisa swallowed, her eyes studying the victim, appearing to shift her emotions to a purposeful focus.

  “Where do you think she was killed?”

  “First, I want to know how.” A long silk scarf, designed with a motif of ballet dancers perched on a toe, bunched just over her chin. I gently probed the sides, searching for a gap to pull back the material.

  “Shine your phone down here.”

  Sirens came to life nearby, breaking the still quiet, and I knew cops and CSI techs would be on the scene within a couple of minutes, and we’d be on the sidelines answering questions, in the penalty box because we didn’t own a badge or a uniform. I’d been on the other side of the yellow tape, so I understood the logic. But I didn’t have to like it.

  Scooting next to me, careful not to touch the body, Alisa sniffled and held her phone about two feet from the right side of Olivia’s face. Cinching the pen inside a fold, I pulled ever so slightly.

  “Did you catch that?”

  “I think.” She sniffled again.

  “A scratch mark, about an inch long. Surface level, but fresh.” I continued pulling, and my head lowered even closer. “Turn the phone to more of an angle, so it doesn’t catch my shadow.”

  Alisa made the adjustment.

  If I tipped the material just so, I could see under another fold of silk.

  “There.” Red and purple marks on her neck came into focus.

  Alisa put a hand on my shoulder and leaned forward.

  “Ligature marks.”

  “She was…strangled?” Alisa scanned Olivia’s body once again, her eyes likely not believing how another human being could snuff out a life.

  “That’s a violent homicide, usually brought on by an emotional reaction. A very personal death.”

  I heard tires squeal, sirens now making it hard to hear. Pushing myself up, I took Alisa’s phone and illuminated the concrete, just beyond the crime scene. I scanned a good fifty square feet, looking for any blood droplets or anything the killer might have left behind.

  “I’d guess she was killed somewhere in this area.” I moved my arm in a circular motion. “Then dragged to where she’s lying right now. Olivia isn’t heavy, maybe a hundred ten pounds I’m guessing. She wasn’t dragged far. Either the killer is not very strong, or in a hurry.”

  “Or maybe both,” Alisa chimed in.

  Lights splashed across car windows and our faces, and I knew to take a couple of steps back and show our hands.

  Five minutes later, with the crime scene contained, detectives marked evidence, took photos, spoke to CSI techs. They’d already had an initial conversation with Alisa. She answered every question completely, void of emotion, although her voice remained softer than normal.

  Suddenly, a voice behind us shouted, “What the fuck is all this?”

  A couple of uniforms held up hands, stopping the man at the yellow tape barrier.

  “Booker, is that you? Alisa?” Justin shaded his eyes from an array of mobile spotlights.

  I walked his direction. “Alisa and I can’t leave just yet. A few more questions.”

  “About what?” His face contorted like he’d just endured a rectal exam.

  “Alisa found a dead girl. It’s Olivia Dunham, the ballet dancer I met last week.”

  Arching his neck, while taking two steps back, Justin took hold of his ponytail and tugged, trying to displace his anger apparently.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” I reached an arm toward his shoulder, and he flicked it away. He twisted this way and that, his mind obviously still processing what had happened.

  We all were.

  “A person killed right on my doorstep,” he explained, his ears fire engine red. “This poor girl. How did she die?”

  “Nothing official of course, but based on what I found, I think it’s strangulation.”

  He squeezed the bridge of his nose so hard I thought he might crack it. Shaking his head, he opened his mouth, inhaling. “Another performer. Could this be tied to the other one, the same killer even?”

  “Hard to say. The homicides are far different. Courtney’s seemed premeditated, professional. This one was personal, spur of the moment. That’s the way it appears anyway.”

  Alisa joined us. “They’re done with me for now.”

  Draping an arm over her shoulder, she ignored me and extended a hand to Justin.

  “I’m so sorry, Justin. You’ve worked so hard to turn The Jewel into a special place.”

  He nodded. “I feel bad for even thinking about revenue and profit, given someone was just killed. But if I lose my passion, I lose everything. Just when I thought I’d turned the corner, this happens.”

  We both felt like we’d been kicked in the jewels.

  13

  “Are you sure you’re not peeking?”

  I could feel Britney’s unbridled excitement in her voice, the way she gripped my arm.

  “I think you’ve severed an artery at my temple.” A rainbow-colored sash wrapped my head so tightly the top of my head felt numb.

  Britney had tied me up back at my place—but not in the way I’d dreamed during another brief night of sleep. She’d made me promise to keep the blinder in place until we reached the destination of her little project. She’d driven her little red Mercedes, roaming the city, the suburbs possibly…who knows. It seemed like she’d taken a circuitous route, purposely screwing with my sense of direction. We zipped around in the sports car for at least forty-five minutes.

  While I appreciated her sense of adventure and suspense, I knew I’d have to cut off this excursion no later than ten o’clock.

  I padded across a floor, this one a cushiony carpet, which had followed passing through a revolving door, walking on tile or marble, then ascending up five flights of stairs. And Britney wasn’t winded in the least.

  We passed through wafts of exotic flowers, giving way to a peaceful aroma of lavender. I think I twitched my nose.

  “I’m guessing you haven’t led me into a dungeon to chop off all my appendages.”

  She paused our procession, leaned up to my ear, and slid her hand just inside my jeans. “I can’t speak for your other limbs, but this one is all mine.” She popped my abs. “You work constantly. How do you keep in such good shape?”

  “I think it’s our new nighttime workout routine. Great for burning calories.”

  She pressed against the front of me and whispered. “You motivate me, what can I say. Maybe it’s all in your genes…with a ‘g.’ Get it?”

  Hoping to solicit a kiss, I reached out an arm. I swatted air, felt my balance sway. “Where did you go?”

  “Don’t move.” Her voice faded, though still hopping with joy. Off in the distance, I thought I made note of a door lock turning.

  I waited for what felt like five minutes. “You know if you don’t come back, I’m going to tell the next person who says anything to me that my girlfriend’s name is Britney Hill and she’s into S and M.”

  Seconds later, I heard boots shuffling across carpet, the smell of her perfume so strong I wanted to take her in my arms right there.

  “All right, just a little farther.” She tugged on my arms like she was pulling a train down the tracks, grunting a bit with each step. “Hey, you’re leaning back, no fair.”

  I just chuckled, letting her know I could yank her chain if I wanted.

  She pressed her hands against my pecs, and we stopped again.

  “Are we playing red light, green light?”

  Disregarding my question, she placed hands on each sho
ulder. “I wanted to share this with you. I put my heart and soul into it…my little project.”

  It seemed like her disappointment from a day earlier had been swept away. Knowing I’d promised her to make this excursion this morning, she’d awakened in the cheeriest of moods, ignoring all of Big Al’s increasing number of obnoxious, sex-oriented comments.

  Then again, if I was locked in a cage my entire life and Britney pranced half naked in my sights all the time, I’d be talking all sorts of shit. Thankfully, I didn’t have to worry about being tarred and feathered. I can’t say the same about Big Al.

  Pulling off my sash with the grace of a striking bullfighter, she locked her fingers with mine, and we took a step into a luxury condominium.

  “Here in the well-lit foyer, you’re standing on three-inch-wide planks with a dark stain. It’s part of the New York West Side collection.”

  Pointing downward, I said, “This is your little project?”

  “Well, it’s not just that.” She curled her lip under her teeth, providing a cute aw-shucks look. “I designed the entire condo, all twenty-one hundred square feet.”

  Flipping her head, she guided me into a living room rimmed with stained crown molding, a mustard trim separating it from burgundy walls. A flat screen TV hung just above a modest stone fireplace, as a tall green plant hulked in the corner, situated next to a glass lamp and plaid chairs. Three white candles sitting on a white stone coffee table flickered from a twirling ceiling fan overhead. A mound of red and green apples towered out of a woven basket sitting on top of granite countertops, flecks of black and aqua, light blue.

  “Your mouth is hanging open,” she said through a giggle, then patted my cheek.

  “I’m stunned.”

  “In a good way or bad?”

  Shaking my head, I could feel my heart skip a beat. I brought her closer, kissing the top of her head. “Sorry I had to blow you off yesterday.”