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

by John W. Mefford

  Guidry thumped my back twice, then offered me a ride in the FBI helicopter back to Tulsa so I could pick up my car. I didn’t hesitate, and we touched down in the dusty parking lot at Tank’s Truck Pit just as the sun’s rays peeked over the horizon.

  Still cruising at a pedestrian fifty-five, I leaned back in my seat, a wrist hanging over the steering wheel, a few cars choosing to take it slow just like me, including the same Chrysler. I figured it was an older woman, her hair matching the car color. Plastic wrappers and split packages of ketchup and hot sauce littered the passenger seat. A belch escaped my gut, providing needed relief. Regret had already started to settle in.

  Hearing Guidry boast about his special Special Agent surfaced feelings for my girlfriend. I missed Britney, her warm embrace, silly humor, sheer beauty. She was the perfect package, her recent meltdowns notwithstanding. We all had issues, a few out there for the world to see, some buried so deep a jackhammer wouldn’t be able to expose them.

  I took the exit for N. Haskell, a parade of cars right behind me, and pinched the corners of my eyes, tired and sore, part of me craving to drive straight to my condo, take a hot shower, then crash for twenty-four hours. Well, I wouldn’t mind a wake-up call from Britney after a good eight-hour nap.

  Inserting an earbud, I thumbed my cell phone, the reality of my world invading my conscience. The Arts District murders, Courtney and Olivia. Renee was probably exhausted dealing with frantic performers, pissed-off advertisers, scared donors and supporters. I put in a call to Alisa.

  “He lives,” she said.

  “If you only knew,” I said, attempting to rub a face covered with bruises and cuts.

  “Do tell.”

  I gave her a thirty-second summary, then shifted the conversation to our paying gig. “Tell me you’ve uncovered the one piece of evidence that points us to a lone killer.”

  The light finally turned green, and I crossed Munger and Ross, then caught a Tom Thumb grocery out of the corner of my eye. Feeling a lead brick forming in my stomach, a string of guilt pulled me toward natural produce. I pulled in the parking lot, craving a fruit smoothie.

  “Can’t,” she said. “But I did more research on Courtney. She has a stepbrother in the Army. He just returned from a tour of duty in South Korea. Overall, she seems like she really had her life in order. Left home to attend an out-of-state performing arts school outside of Boston. And no, it wasn’t in Dorchester.”

  “Interesting. Still puts her in the general vicinity of Maggie’s hometown and her loyal brother, Donny Dildo.”

  Alisa snickered, but didn’t let it throw her. “During the time Courtney was in school up there, Donny was serving time: dealing and B&E. I guess it’s possible Maggie and Courtney could have crossed paths. Still need more time to research, hunt down old friends, review their performance schedules. Could take days. Hold on a second, my cat’s ripping into my couch. I’ve got to feed him.”

  I ordered a strawberry banana smoothie, picked up a basket of other assorted fruit, and walked out of the store, my drink half-empty, already a bit more fortified.

  Ambling toward my car, my body still working on three cylinders, I spotted a parked Chrysler 300, navy blue, just like the one on the highway, maybe the one that had exited at N. Haskell, two rows over, in between two pickups. Void of a driver, I touched the hood. Warm.

  “I’m back,” she said, out of breath. “Little shit devoured half his bowl by the time I put up the food, then he barfed all over the antique rug my grandmother gave me.”

  I glanced around, feeling a bit paranoid. Who the hell did I think it was? I shrugged my shoulders, walked to my car.

  “You there, Booker?”

  “Uh, yeah. Sorry. Little shit barfed.”

  “One thing you should know. I have a source in the DPD, and—”

  “Wait a second, you have a source in the DPD?”

  “It’s an old friend of mine. She works in dispatch and is dating the brother of one of the detectives assigned to the Olivia Dunham case.”

  “Ohhhkay.”

  Alisa had her methods, and they worked. Resourceful wouldn’t begin to describe my partner.

  “She said that he told her that his detective sister said…” she paused, released a self-deprecating giggle. “No perp DNA was found on Olivia.”

  “Shit.” I slurped the last of my smoothie, then noticed the blue Chrysler pull into traffic three cars back. I was almost certain it was the same one. The smoothie reversed direction, ascending into the back of my throat.

  “Yeah, apparently they found residue from a substance found in handwipes. Maybe the killer knew to clean up his mess.”

  Moving past Bryan, my street, I yanked the Saab down Live Oak, then took a quick left on Carroll. Just as I hooked a right at Ross, I spotted the heavy grill from the Chrysler in my mirror, and my pulse rate doubled.

  Could this be an old connection to Sims, someone already seeking revenge? Maybe they hadn’t received the crime blotter memo. Then I thought about Sciafini, all of his resources, his tentacles reaching into the FBI. We’d made a deal, but something tells me he could change terms on a whim.

  “Good work, Alisa. Not sure how you do it, but you amaze me. I’ve got to run right now. Let’s touch base later at The Jewel.” We disconnected.

  Downshifting into third gear, I watched the blue sedan grow larger in my rearview mirror. At Fitzhugh, I found the Golden Arches and pulled into the parking lot. Taking my time, I got out and strolled into the restaurant, eyed the menu above the front counter.

  “Welcome to McDonald’s. How can I help you?”

  “Give me a sec,” I said, studying nothing. “I’ve got to use the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

  Once in, I checked the stalls. All clear. Silently cursing myself for not stopping by my local FedEx store to pick up my traveling Sig Sauer, I positioned myself behind the door. Thirty seconds, then the door cracked open.

  Wait for it.

  A tennis shoe followed by an arm with a fatigue jacket. Leaning back, I lunged forward, smashing the metal door against the man.

  “Ahh!”

  Thrown off-balance, I grabbed his arm, whipped him around, his back pounding the unforgiving wall. He was young, mid-twenties, in good shape, a heavy heard. He bounced right off, his fist headed toward my broken face. I ducked, but he followed with a left uppercut, connecting with my jaw. My eyes blurred for a split second then spotted his knee inches from impact. Jerking backward, I grabbed his leg and threw it upward. It took out his feet, and he slammed to the floor, his skull popping off the hard surface like a golf ball.

  I pounced on his back, checking his person for a weapon. Front pocket, small caliber pistol. Pulling it out, I held it to his ear, my heart thumping like a rabbit’s foot.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Silence. He wasn’t fazed.

  Twisting his arm behind his back, I shoved it higher into his shoulder blades. Finally, I heard a pop. He squealed like a pig, spit flying everywhere.

  “I haven’t had any sleep, and I’m fucking pissed. If you don’t spill your guts now, I’m going to put your own bullet through your hollow skull.”

  He squirmed, but my grip was firm. I nudged his arm up another notch, and he let out another high-pitched shrill.

  “Talk!” My jaw clamped down, furious breaths pouring out of my nostrils.

  He opened his mouth but said nothing.

  I clicked the safety button, stuck the barrel of the pistol in his ear, and twisted.

  “Talk, motherfucker!”

  “Okay, Okay. I killed her.” He began to cry, his head rocking up and down.

  Blinking my eyes, I had to replay what I’d just heard.

  “Who?”

  “Courtney Johnson.” Water spilled from his eyes and nose, even his mouth.

  “Why Courtney?”

  He kept weeping.

  “Why did you kill Courtney?” I yelled, wedging the gun inside his ear.

  “I needed th
e money. I haven’t done a hit in three years, but I got a baby coming.”

  Desperate crime is usually the most pathetic.

  “Who hired you?”

  “A crazy bitch, Maggie Pickles.” He sobbed more. “She…she wanted to make sure you didn’t find out. It would destroy her, she said.”

  I let go of his arm, wiped sweat from my forehead. Maggie was behind this all along. She must not have trusted her brother to do the job. She’d fooled Alisa, even Eduardo. I rang up Henry, who then called the lead detectives to the scene.

  Ten minutes later, as the hit man with no name was driven away in a black-and-white, I stood in a McDonald’s parking lot and gave my second statement in the last twenty-four hours to authorities working a crime that I was involved in. I guess it came with the job, my new career as a PI. Something about it, though, seemed awkward. Maybe it was the fact a professional hitman had been trailing me. Or that Maggie had thought of everything, even the cover-up.

  Drained of what little energy the smoothie had provided, I needed my head to hit my pillow in less than twenty minutes, and nothing was going to stop that from happening.

  My phone buzzed. Alisa. I puffed out a breath, debating whether to roll it to voicemail. Booker & Associates won the battle over plain old Booker.

  “I got bigger news than you.”

  “Such a guy, always bragging about what’s bigger.” Alisa giggled in her own way. “Talk to me as you’re driving here.”

  “Courtney’s killer. I got him. It was Maggie. She hired him to kill Courtney. He was trailing me, and I beat the shit out of him. It’s over.”

  “And you say I’m good?”

  A compliment didn’t hurt, certainly not with my charger hovering in the red zone.

  “Your turn.”

  “Don’t flip out, but your favorite neighbor, Cindy Valentino, just showed up here at the bar. She has a friend. They need to talk to you. I don’t know the details, but it involves Olivia’s murder.”

  Bringing a fist to my forehead, I closed my eyes. Cindy. I’d seen her the other night with another guy, a serious look on her face, leading him into her condo. I’d hoped he was her new boy toy. Could she, or her boy toy, be involved in Olivia’s murder somehow?

  I hung up, hopped in my Saab and punched it, squealing out of the parking lot, moving east on Ross. I hit Greenville and hung a left, catching all green lights. Parking in the same lot where Olivia’s body had been found, my eyes couldn’t help but stare at the spot where her body had been. I pictured the sedan and SUV on either side, a low-hanging spotlight providing barely enough light to move without stumbling. Her eyes wide open. I’d never forget dead eyes.

  It wasn’t six, but I followed four young ladies into The Jewel, each bubbly and ready for a party, it seemed.

  “Where are they?” I asked Justin who was working on the other side of the bar. His eyes pointed upstairs toward my office.

  Just as I turned to head in that direction, he said, “You look like you’ve been in a fight with Mike Tyson. Everything cool?”

  I gave him a thumbs-up and found enough energy to launch my body two steps at a time. At the top, a somber Alisa sitting in my desk chair faced me. Cindy and her boy were waiting. Wait, I had it all wrong. Another woman, with short blond hair and a square body, sat in the chair next to Cindy.

  “Ladies,” I said, looping to the side of the desk. Alisa pushed herself up, but I held out a hand. Her eyes got wide, a look of concern on her face. I mouthed “I’m okay,” nodding at the same time.

  Cindy rested a hand on her friend’s knee, her lips tight. She actually had on more than a washcloth for clothes: jeans, a sweater, brown boots. Her friend was much dumpier than Cindy. The friend took in slow, deep breaths, her head bowed, legs crossed under a tight silver dress. There was a patch of dark hair on her arm so thick you could comb it. I tried not to be repulsed. I focused on gathering information.

  “Hi. I’m Booker. Nice to meet you.” I held out my hand. She paused, then lifted her hand, her eyes flashing in my direction briefly. The handshake was quick, but I could still feel thick, strong fingers. She didn’t respond verbally.

  Shifting my eyes to Alisa, she nodded. I turned my attention to the ladies who had information about Olivia’s murder. Just as I opened my mouth, Cindy jumped in.

  “We need to get a couple of things out there first,” she said, patting her friend’s knee. “This is Dina, my second cousin on my mother’s side.”

  I didn’t notice a resemblance.

  Cindy inhaled, licking her lips before continuing. “Dina is actually Dino. She…he’s a drag queen. Well, eventually, he wants to have the whole sex change operation. But for now, he’s more comfortable dressing and acting like a lady.”

  That explained the man hands and baboon arm hair. I nodded, waiting for data that meant something.

  “Okay…um, Dina is the son of…” Cindy locked eyes with Dina. “His/her father is Vincent Sciafini.”

  If I had a sidearm on me, I would have reached for it. I had to remind myself to breathe.

  “I’m not sure what to think about that piece of news,” I said. “And Dina has been shacking in your condo?”

  “She was sent down here to find information about you, give it to her father.”

  Dina lifted her head and nodded sad, scared eyes. Finally she spoke. “I’ve always been the black sheep of the family. When he gave me the chance to come to Dallas, stay with cousin Cindy, I jumped on it. I’ve been living a lie since I can remember. I had to get away, express myself. Doing this thing for my father meant nothing to me. And it’s done. Behind us.”

  Scratching the hair on my chin, I tried to make sense of it. “Did you know he was essentially spying on me?” I asked Cindy.

  “She…” Cindy said, looking at Dina. “I had no idea. I’ve only met Dina’s father twice in my life. It wasn’t until Dina opened up to me the other night that I found out what her father does for a living.”

  “That’s an interesting way of wording it,” I said. “But I’m confused. How does Dino slash Dina and the mission to send information back to Chicago connect to a dead dancer in the parking lot next door?”

  Cindy raised a hand, her face full of emotion. “Nothing. I told Dina we had to tell you everything, if you were going to trust her, her secret life, her working for her father.”

  “Okay. We’ve set the foundation.” I motioned for someone to keep talking, my eyes shifting between Cindy and Dina. “Are you associated with the performing arts? Did you meet Olivia, or know someone who might have been involved in her death?”

  Given her father, she’d known plenty of people who’d murdered, but bringing that up wouldn’t accomplish the goal.

  “No, no, none of that.” Dina placed hands on her thick knees. “I think I saw the person who murdered Olivia.”

  My torso leaned forward. “And you haven’t gone to the cops?”

  “I’m afraid…on many levels. This murderer could come after me, and I’m scared to tell my father about my new lifestyle. It’s just…difficult.”

  “What did you see, exactly?”

  She moved to the edge of her seat. “I was behind The Jewel, walking back from a club. I had to, uh…” Dina curled some blond hair, a wig, around her ear. “I had to use the restroom, but I didn’t want to walk into The Jewel or any other bar and freak people out. So I peed by the dumpster.”

  A trembling hand wiped a tear from her eye. “That’s when I heard the skirmish, someone choking, grasping for air. The sound of life ending. I’ll never forget it.”

  Handing Dina a tissue, Cindy’s eyes teared up, and she rubbed her cousin’s broad back. I‘d never imagined the horniest girl in Dallas could be so supportive and, dare I say, normal.

  Dina closed her eyes, released a shaky breath. “The gurgling, choking sound ended just like that. Then I heard heels scraping the ground. I moved closer. Lighting sucked, but as I took a few steps in that direction, I saw a woman run from between two cars. I
ran over and found…the body, Olivia. Those eyes. I knew she was dead. Then a car screeched out of the parking lot. I got scared and panicked. I ran back into the neighborhood, darting through yards. Dogs chased after me. I almost vomited. It was the worst night of my life.”

  Scratching my goatee, I traded looks with Alisa and Cindy, knowing how difficult this was for Dina. But we needed more.

  “Dina, sweetie,” Alisa piped in. “Thank you for coming forward. It takes a lot of courage to open up and put everything out there. A couple more questions. Can you share with us what you remember about the woman?”

  “Never saw her face. She was lean and tall, athletic, the way she ran. She had on boots, like Cindy’s here, although they looked to be higher-end. No offense.” Dina patted Cindy on the knee.

  “Any other features that you remember?” Alisa asked, fingers interlocked.

  Dina looked away, maybe at the stained glass window. “Like I said, the lighting wasn’t very good at all. But I’m pretty sure her hair was on the lighter side. The opposite of mine.” Dina spotted a bushy, black curl of hair hanging down, and she tucked it under her blond wig. “Oh, she wore a green suede jacket, curved ends, dropping just below the waistline of her jeans.”

  A prickle nibbled at the base of my skull, a line of perspiration forming down the middle of my back. I felt Alisa’s eyes but I kept my gaze on our visitors.

  “The car. Did you catch the make, model, possibly the license plate?” My neck felt like a steel plate was bolted to my spine, and I rubbed it.

  “Oh, I don’t get into all that gearhead stuff.” She flipped a wrist. “I just know it was red and sporty looking. Sexy.” Dina and Cindy swapped silly grins.

  Alisa pushed up from her chair, arms crossing her chest, and paced a couple of steps, her eyes locked on mine.

  Finally acknowledging Alisa’s visual signal, I said, “I know what you’re thinking. It’s just not possible. No way in hell.”

  I walked out of my office and went home.