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

by John W. Mefford

  “Have you heard if they’re breaking even yet?”

  Glancing at my phone, I saw it was nearing eleven p.m., and I scratched my facial hair.

  “Fajita Rita’s is making a killing, from what I can get out of him,” Alisa added, releasing a feminine yawn. “I think that’s why he’s putting in so much time, helping man the truck during special events, even covering lunches.”

  Pursing my lips, I looked at the blue and white stained-glass window on the opposite wall, the most attractive feature in the small office I bartered from Justin.

  “You worried about Justin?”

  I took in a deep breath. “I’m not thrilled with his choice of partners, especially with Sciafini’s claws hooked into David.”

  “You warned him, Booker, over and over again. You may not have brought up Sciafini and the organized crime bit, but you told Justin he shouldn’t go into business with someone who’d stolen money from widowers, including his own sister.”

  “I think Justin had a desire, though, to learn a new business,” I said.

  “I think he saw dollar signs, which automatically clogs his hearing and his brain.” She arched a shapely eyebrow, then brought a hand to her mouth, covering another yawn. “Okay, before I fall asleep and start drooling on myself—”

  “You’re a drooler?”

  Peeking up at me with a wry smile, she said, “You’ll never find out. As I was saying, let’s jot down the key information from our newest client.” She pulled open her laptop, scooted to the front of her secondhand, green fabric chair.

  I loved it when she used the term “our,” only because it showed her commitment to Booker & Associates. While I relished being on my own, unchained from the bureaucracy of working for the city government, it felt comforting having another person who gave a shit about the firm and the people we represented. And she was damn good at her job.

  “Earlier this afternoon Granville was going to share with his staff that he’s brought me in to review security protocol and try to locate a few ‘missing’ artifacts.”

  “Not stolen?”

  “He knows they were stolen, but there’s been no apparent break-in. His running theory is that someone on his own staff stole the artifacts.”

  “Motive?”

  “We never really addressed that specifically, although he gave me the names of three people who, let’s say, have been experiencing life changes.”

  She nodded while pecking away on her laptop.

  “Granville printed off the full list of employees and the items that have been stolen.” I tapped the paper on my desk, then slid it across to Alisa’s side.

  “At least he’s organized. That helps,” she said, scanning three pages.

  I reviewed Granville’s top three suspects with Alisa, starting with Charles.

  “Divorce. Been there, done that,” Alisa said.

  She’d walked down the aisle only once that I knew of, marrying her college soccer coach. While that bordered on strange if not creepy behavior, her husband eventually took it to another level. She caught him having phone sex with a high school girl he’d been recruiting. Alisa fell into depression, lost her confidence as a woman—all of this occurring before we met for the first time in Austin. It was obvious the marriage and her former husband’s sick behavior had left an indelible mark on her. But in the last few months, I’d come to see that Alisa was a lot more than blond hair and a sharp tongue. She had drive, a logical brain, and good intuition.

  “Charles’s motive could easily be money.”

  “Or the lack of it,” Alisa added, her face glowing from the screen.

  “Teresa had a nose job, so maybe she needed extra funds to pay for the surgery?” I pondered.

  “Just because a girl’s getting a little procedure done, possibly to match her youthful spirit, doesn’t mean she’s having a nervous breakdown, exposing a personality disorder, or even turning into a thief.” Alisa wiggled a finger in my direction.

  Flipping the stapled pages back around, I found Teresa’s personal information. “Says here she’s only twenty-seven, so she’s still young. But once we interview her, I think we’ll get a better idea of what’s going on in her life. Besides, with my experience you’d think I’d have a pretty good eye in picking out girls with personality disorders,” I deadpanned.

  Alisa grimaced, showing off her pearly whites. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to go there.”

  “Eh,” I said, swatting a hand at my past, something I couldn’t change.

  “Who’s the last of the Big Three?” Alisa asked.

  “Yulia. Granville’s assessment of her was actually pretty interesting. Before saying she’d grown very quiet recently, he had a lot of positive things to say about her…she is pleasant, has great ideas. I think he used the phrase, ‘she lights up a room when she walks in it.’”

  Alisa stopped typing, her eyes narrowing a bit. She twisted full lips, creating a few more lines on her face, her investigative mind apparently kicking into gear.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I said, flipping the paper back to her.

  She held out her arms. “Granville having the hots for his young employee? It’s possible.”

  “You’re right about that. At this stage, we don’t rule out anything, whether that relates to behavior of individuals, a motive to commit the crime, or even who they associate with. And that includes our client Granville.”

  “You don’t think he stole from his own museum?”

  “I got the feeling he truly appreciates history and what they provide the community,” I said. “But even with Granville, he’s on our list until proven otherwise.”

  A coy grin cracked Alisa’s face. “That might impact our ability to get paid.”

  “True. But at the same time, we don’t want to pin the crime on an innocent person either.”

  Just then, my phone came to life, rumbling and shimmying across the metal desk.

  It was my old partner. “Hey, Paco. How’s life treating you?”

  “Booker, it’s not a social call, man.”

  I heard voices, a couple of yelping sirens. “Are you all right?” I sat straighter in my chair.

  “What? No, it’s not about me. It’s this woman. It’s a sad scene, I’m telling you.”

  I was confused. “What scene? What woman?”

  “Her husband was found murdered by the pool shed. It’s pretty sick. But she and her son are a mess. They need help, and the guys in blue can’t do everything she needs. You’re the first person I thought about.”

  I hung up, wondering if Paco had just oversold my capabilities.

  5

  Gurney wheels clipped across the pavestone driveway, a flurry of leaves dancing around the two men in blue jackets on each end of the cart. A handful of crunchy leaves left over from a cold winter landed on the gray body bag lying on top of the rolling gurney. The man at the back gently brushed them off.

  I’d already been cleared to enter the property back where the driveway intersected with Strait Lane. Keeping my Saab 9-3 in first gear, I had edged down the driveway, passing at least a dozen cops on foot scouring the scenic grounds for evidence of some kind, it appeared. Standing in the front circle, with the main driveway off to my right, I watched the crew from the Dallas County Coroner’s Office load the body in the van, slam the doors shut, then slowly pull away.

  Feeling slightly out of place since I wasn’t sure if the wife of the deceased even knew to expect me, I stepped heel to toe around the side of the sprawling brick home, where a massive garage faced a broad swath of concrete. A hulking, light blue luxury car of some kind was parked under a professional-grade basketball goal, and I noticed white and red lines painted on the driveway in the shape of a typical basketball court lane and free-throw line. I glanced down and noticed the toe of my Doc Martens stretched across an arching red painted line, the three-point mark.

  “Refs would only give you a two with your toes touching like that.”

  Twisting my ne
ck left, Paco approached me. “Thanks for coming out so late.”

  “Sure,” I said, glancing around at uniforms and CSI techs milling about, although I noticed a bank of spotlights and what looked like a large, white canopy over the top of a gated fence around back. “I’m just not sure what I can do to help. It looks like you and your colleagues have the crime scene well under control.”

  “Everything that we can control, yes. But there are some things even we can’t control.” Paco arched his thick, black eyebrows while chewing a piece of gum.

  My old partner motioned for me to follow him. “I guess you have more authority than I recall having as a beat cop,” I said.

  He swung the gate open, and we walked under a metal arch, a cursive Y framed in the middle. “It was my idea to call you, but I had the backing of a couple of influential people.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Sarge for one.”

  “KY? You’ve got to be kidding me.” Kenny Young had helped orchestrate my “voluntary retirement” when I wouldn’t lie to Internal Affairs about the incident—Sims assaulting an innocent man before he pulled his pistol on me.

  “No, he moved to another division, not on the front lines any more. Our new Sarge, Thom Bradford.”

  I turned my head, as I searched my personal database for where I’d heard that name.

  “He just got promoted. And, just to get it out there…” Paco stopped and faced me. “He’s dating your ex, Eva.”

  “Oh, that Thom Bradford.” I’d only met him a couple of times. Seemed like a decent guy. I held no grudge as long as he treated Eva with respect and was nice to Samantha, my pride and joy. All signs indicated he’d passed the test thus far. “He recommended me?”

  “He couldn’t say enough good things about you. You sure he doesn’t owe you something?”

  We meandered down brown slate landscaping steps, and I took in the back part of the estate. A bluish, soft glow from various trees illuminated the walkway just enough to not pull out a flashlight. I wondered if Albert Yates had walked this same path before he was murdered, on his own property nonetheless…in one of Dallas’ nicest, seemingly most protected areas to live. Third world countries had less money than the net worth of some residents in Preston Hollow. But with all the money, an oversized, shiny target also came with it.

  A large contingent of government employees scampered around, most appearing to wear blue rubber gloves. Evidence contamination had become a recent focus of the department, especially after a prominent New York-based law firm had used that excuse to draw a not guilty verdict on a high-profile case about a year ago.

  Three uniformed cops stepped carefully through the thicker brush off to my right, their heads facing downward. Paco and I continued walking around a curved path decorated with multiple vignettes of flowers, shrubs, and vines. Beyond a larger bed of sprawling plants and vegetation, I spotted a huge pool, almost perfectly round with a mystical blue glow, gusts of wind creating tiny ripples.

  Just to the right, the white canopy covered the core crime scene, connected to a small building matching the red brick of the stately home.

  “That’s where they found him. Albert Yates. He is…was CEO of Evergreen Energy. He’s loaded, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Paco added.

  Moving further around the complex on the other side of the pool, I spotted people dressed in civvies. Family members, most likely. Two women hugging. Wait, wasn’t that—

  “Renee Dubois. She’s connected to them somehow. Been here since I showed up.” Paco had noticed my raised finger. “As Albert’s wife, Darla Yates continued making demands of the CSI techs, officers, and anyone else she could find. Sarge tried to console her while also helping her understand how the process works. When she refused to listen, he brought up your name. That’s when Renee jumped in with a glowing endorsement. For whatever reason, that seemed to calm Mrs. Yates. So for now, go with the flow, then you can work out whatever formal arrangement you need tomorrow.”

  With my eyes peeled to the scene of the family members, we took the path that circled the pool. Despite Renee’s presence, and the aforementioned recommendations, I still felt awkward, wondering if I’d be viewed as an ambulance-chasing PI. Despite everything I’d experienced during the first several months of running my little startup—at times putting my life on the line while dodging pure scum—I wasn’t naive. A reputation could be soiled as quickly as it took a bystander to post a blog, or a tweet, or a Snapchat. The Internet had developed into a haven for people who lived to watch people burn, usually while they remained anonymous, seemingly protected behind the façade of the digital curtain.

  “Paco, you’re needed at the front entrance to the property.”

  A low voice startled me, off to my right. Turning that direction, I saw Thom Bradford moving in our direction, his strides much longer than you’d expect from someone who was probably no more than a couple of inches taller than Eva.

  “The press has gotten wind of the homicide. Not sure how that happened so quickly, but we need to make sure no one comes onto this property. Understood?”

  Sounded like he’d taken to the promotion rather easily.

  “Yes sir, Sarge.” Paco gave me a nod, then spun around and hoofed it back toward the front.

  Thom extended a hand and popped my left shoulder. “Booker, appreciate you making it out here so late.” He took in a breath, and we both turned to the family scene across the pool. With all the activity around us, my presence had gone unnoticed thus far.

  “Back when you were with the force, I’m sure there were times when you had to perform certain duties that they didn’t teach you at the academy. They require more finesse than hardcore police work. This is one of those times.”

  His voice was much lower than I recalled, as if he’d been smoking a pack a day or had taken a gig as a radio DJ. He didn’t give off a pungent smoky odor—which is a good thing. Considering his role in Eva’s life, the last thing I wanted was Thom smoking around Samantha.

  “I get it. I’ll do the best I can. But ultimately, she’s probably going to want more than a shoulder to cry on. I’ll need information to pass along to her.”

  He didn’t respond right away, and I didn’t bother filling the dead air.

  Thom brought a closed fist to his mouth and released a light chuckle. “Nice try. You know we can’t tell you anything we don’t share publicly with the press. The fact you’re even at the crime scene is an exception to the rule.”

  “Let’s think about what’s best for the family,” I said. “Then we can talk later about rules and exceptions.” I popped him on the shoulder this time, then stepped toward Renee and the family, not giving Thom a chance to retort.

  “Do you remember the time when my mother thought French fries was a food created by the French?”

  A woman in her fifties, wearing brown velour sweats, sat on a poolside chair. Her knees were clutched together, tissues gripped in one hand, a brief smile parting her lips.

  Renee released a light giggle, placing her hand on the knee of the woman who appeared to be the wife of the victim. The woman’s lips quickly turned downward, and she brought ragged tissues to her face and began to cry. Her eyes were a million miles away. Renee did her best to console her.

  Off behind them stood two kids with two other middle-aged adults, in their own quiet conversation. I swallowed, debating whether just to turn around, not sure if I could do much for this poor woman whose husband had just been murdered. I just realized I’d forgotten to ask Paco the initial cause of death.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Oh, Booker. Hi.” Renee lifted from her spot, her face resolute but not as hardened as it had been when we first met at her office months back. She extended a hand toward me, and I took three large steps.

  “Darla, this is Booker Adams, the private investigator I told you about.”

  She said the words like she was introducing a florist or party planner. I guess she was doing her best to maintain a calm
environment.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Yates.” I leaned down and shook her hand, which was stiff.

  “Just call me Darla.” She reached for Renee’s arm and then pulled to a standing position.

  Taking in a shaky breath, her chin inched higher. “I’m not a woman who enjoys sitting around waiting for someone to eventually decide to give me information. It’s just not who I am.” Sounded like she had a planned speech. I nodded, glancing briefly at Renee. “What has happened to Albert is…incomprehensible.”

  Her chin quivered as she dabbed at her eyes with the tissue, then she regained her statuesque posture. I held my hands behind my back, catching a glimpse of the other family members who were now watching our conversation.

  “I see all of these officers here, and I’m sure they’re doing their jobs. But after speaking with a few of them, I’m not sure they truly understand what it’s like to lose someone you love in an instant.” He eyes were sad, and stress was etched on her splotchy red face.

  I could see Renee wanted to say something, but she held back.

  “I need someone who has our interests at heart.” Darla gazed at her friend, then gripped her shoulder. “Renee is almost like family to us. If she says I can trust you with our lives, then that’s what I’ll do.”

  Cautious to avoid creating an emotional outburst, I tried to affirm her trust in me while also bringing her a little closer to reality. “Thank you for your vote of confidence. I guess I first want to say how sorry I am for your—”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Mother?”

  All heads turned toward the teenage girl, tears sloping down her face.

  “Dad just died, what, two hours ago? No, he didn’t just die. He was fucking murdered, right here on our property! And you won’t even let us grieve like a normal family. You want to bring in some stranger with dreamy eyes and good looks. You going to fuck him just like you fucked the pool boy?”

  Slapping her chest, Darla looked like she might be on the verge of a heart attack. Suddenly, she swung her finger around and started barking at who I assumed was her daughter.