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

by John W. Mefford

  “You’re the little whore, going to school without any underwear on, sexting pictures of yourself. You’re a tramp at age seventeen!”

  In seconds, five heated voices instantly started talking over each other, Renee doing her best to keep mother and daughter separated. I shifted to my left a few steps, my eyes glaring at the warring, torn family, wishing Paco had lost my phone number.

  A boy emerged from the group of screamers and paused next to me, his eyes puffy but focused on a baseball he was gripping.

  “Baseball fan?” I asked, angling my body away from the arguing voices.

  Keeping his head down, the boy picked at the red seams. “Yeah. It’s an autographed ball from Clayton Kershaw. Dad and I went to the Rangers opener earlier.”

  He pursed his lips, then tossed the ball in the air.

  I snatched it before he could catch it, then shot him a wink. “I’m sure you’ll never forget that game, for many reasons.” I handed him the ball, hoping he’d open up.

  “Oh, I’m Jared.”

  “Booker. Nice to meet you. Baseball is one of those timeless sports that bridges generations. You can actually make a strong argument…”

  Both our eyes glanced over to the arguing crowd, then smirked. “Wrong choice of words. You could make a case that many of the baseball players from long ago are just as good, if not better, than the athletes today. You can’t say that about any other sport.”

  He nodded, then his eyes began to moisten. “I think that’s what Dad was trying to tell me earlier.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “He was saying the best pitcher to play the game was Bob Gibson. Dad actually saw him play in person, St. Louis in 1968. Gibson had an ERA of 1.12, with thirteen shutouts that season.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a great memory, a good way with numbers.”

  “I just like sports, that’s all. Nothing else really interests me a whole lot.”

  “Nothing wrong with that, especially at your age."

  “I’m twelve, but I’ll be thirteen in a couple of months.”

  A door slammed, and we both looked toward the house. Through the glass, I could see the teenage girl marching away, her arms swinging like mallets.

  “Pssh. Sophi.” Jared’s eyes pulled back into his head. “She’s so damn dramatic, it’s just crazy. She’s crazy.”

  “I know it’s been a tough night for everyone, your sister included.”

  “But Sophi’s always got drama going on. And she throws out these bizarre accusations at Mom all the time. No one believes a word she says anymore. She’s a fucking pathological liar.”

  Sibling love at its best, especially with one teen and one on the way. But I couldn’t relate. I grew up an only child, my dad nonexistent in my life, outside of a few visits just to keep his guilt at bay, I was certain.

  I attempted to change the topic, hoping the adults would chill out and people could get some sleep, me included.

  “You going to frame that ball?”

  “Dad said I should, so yeah, I think I’ll do that.”

  Jared looked over my shoulder toward the canopy and officers, then he turned his gaze to nothing, maybe at the pool. I could see his mind drift away, possibly to just a few hours earlier when he and his father shared their last living memory. He sniffled then rubbed his wet eyes.

  “It’s okay, Jared, to cry. There’s nothing unmanly about that.”

  His chest started to heave, almost like he was about to hyperventilate.

  “I told Dad thanks for taking me to the game. Before I went inside to ask Mom to move her rocking chairs, I turned back around and told him that,” he said with a tremor in his voice.

  Resting my hand on his shoulder, I looked into his eyes. “You’re a good kid, Jared. I’m certain your dad knew that. It’s hard for you now, but I can see you’re going to cherish the good memories and make him proud.”

  Jared gave me a single nod.

  Seeing how Jared had responded thus far, it appeared he’d use his father’s memory to give him strength, resilience. Only time would tell if the same could be said about his mother and sister.

  6

  Pinching the corners of my eyes, I sipped from a warm mug of coffee, my third of the morning. I stared out the northeast corner of the conference room on the eight floor of the Dallas County Administration Building, two floors above the Sixth Floor Museum. As I’d learned over the last couple of days in speaking to Granville and now a couple of his employees, the former Texas School Book Depository building had changed hands numerous times since that infamous November day in 1963.

  I sat on a ledge, stuck in an earbud, and dialed up Alisa.

  “You’re interrupting my quiet time,” she said without introduction, her voice raspy.

  “Hello to you too.”

  “I’m grumpy in the morning, especially before I’ve had my second cup of coffee.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.” I couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m on my third. I usually have no more than two cups, but after a late night at the Yates estate and then sitting through two interviews that could put a computer to sleep, I’m struggling to stay interested. I’m not sure what the hell is going on lately, but it feels like all of our clients view me as more of a Dr. Phil than a PI.”

  “That just means they trust you.”

  I paused, my eyes temporarily focusing on a three-car train moving west. “I guess that’s a good thing.”

  “A very good thing.”

  “Trust with clients can be a sketchy concept. They have their own motives for bringing us in, and that’s one of the key things we have to figure out while we’re solving the case. What’s the real reason they brought us in?”

  “Are you referring to the Albert Yates homicide or the security breach at the museum?” Alisa slurped, then I heard a meow.

  “Both. I think. Just you and your cat again, huh?”

  “Just me and my orange hairball, Chloe. You’re just a big furball, right, Chloe?” Alisa’s voice pitched higher, as if she was talking to an infant.

  “You know what they say about single girls living with cats?”

  She cleared rocks from her throat. “It’s got to be better than what they say about guys living with foul-mouthed macaws.”

  “Ha!”

  “Besides, it’s not just me and Chloe. I have another friend here with me,” she said in a semi-seductive voice.

  She had my interest peaked, but I didn’t want to sound too interested. It felt way too gossipy. I let silence set in for a few seconds.

  “Booker, you still there?”

  “Sorry, I almost drifted back to sleep.”

  “Little shit.”

  I knew Alisa had quite the mouth. Come to think of it, she and Big Al, my blue macaw, would probably hit it off. Maybe I could make an introduction.

  “Okay, I’ll play. Who’s your new boy toy bestie?”

  “Rush.”

  “The band? I didn’t know you were into old-school rock. Heavy metal at that.”

  “What? It’s Rush Remington, the sexy hunk in Slope of Love by Melissa Foster.”

  “Ah, you’re cozying up to an eight-inch piece of metal?”

  “Excuse me?” Alisa started cracking up. It became contagious, and I found myself laughing with her, or at her. Or was it me we were laughing at?

  I tried to end this path of the conversation. “Glad you’ve got a good book.”

  “Rush and Jayla have been close friends for years, until one day…”

  She giggled again, but I wasn’t going to go there. Alisa had been far too valuable as my assistant. Perhaps she read my silence and took my lead.

  “Okay, you called for a reason, besides complaining about being viewed as a Dr. Phil.”

  “The Yates estate. Not a good situation. I spoke to Paco on the drive in, and he confirmed that Albert Yates died by strangulation. It appears that something cut his throat, maybe a wire of some kind.”

  “Dear God,” Alisa said.
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  “The worst part of it, though, is the family reaction. Renee was over there trying to console her old friend, Darla, but the family’s a mess. The daughter, Sophi, a not-so-sweet seventeen, accused her mom of screwing the pool boy. She even tried to throw me under the bus. Then Darla snapped back at Sophi, calling her a tramp. It wasn’t a pretty sight. And on top of that, I can’t really say what Darla wants me to do.”

  “Sounds sticky.”

  “To say the least. Can you try to set up another appointment? Hopefully, the storm will have settled a bit and I can have an adult conversation with Darla. I’ll make it clear that I’m not a licensed counselor, nor do I have the qualifications to run a public relations campaign.”

  “It’s on my list. You down to just one interview at the museum?”

  “Yep. Just going with Granville’s top three today. I can’t take any more than that. I had to sit through Charles rattling off every boring detail about his failed marriage. He talked about how he puts on his socks and ties his shoes, why his wife has to floss her teeth six times a day. They’re both strange as hell. I figured they’re made for each other.”

  “Don’t be mean. There’s someone for everyone.”

  Was that a subconscious plug for her love life? I couldn’t play mental hopscotch. My brain was too tired.

  “I just don’t see how Charles or Teresa had anything to do with stealing the museum artifacts. They’re too wrapped up in their own lives. But, on the off-hand they or someone else on the staff pulled off the inside job, I need your research brain to try to find out what type of black market exists for these types of artifacts. Ideally, if you can find a contact who will actually speak with you, we need to figure out if any of the specific items are up for sale.”

  “Hmm. You’re right. That won’t be easy.”

  “What? You never say that.”

  “Okay, it’s a bit of a challenge, that’s all. But I need challenges.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “My girl?”

  “You know what I mean. My top employee. How’s that?”

  “Go screw yourself.”

  “Note to self: avoid calling Alisa before noon.”

  “Screw you.”

  I heard a door swing shut behind me, and I turned around. “Hey, my next interview’s walking in the conference room. Gotta run.”

  I hung up the phone before Alisa jabbed me with another comment. Admittedly, though, her early-morning sharp tongue had ignited my mental engine.

  Setting down my coffee, I stepped toward a woman who could only be described as simple. Blue button-down shirt, faded slightly, with plain khakis, not the most flattering. But I couldn’t figure out why. Maybe the cut was something out of the 1990s. She had on basic gold stud earrings, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and only a smidge of makeup.

  “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.” I gave the same lead as I had with the others, and shook her hand, a bit on the moist and limp side.

  “I had no choice. Granville said we must meet with you and answer all questions openly and completely.”

  Carrying a monotone accent, likely Eastern European, Yulia Pavlenko walked quietly to a chair on the opposite side of the table.

  I brought her file closer to my vision. “Twenty-five years old, born—”

  “October twenty-fifth.” She finished my sentence.

  I nodded. “Did you go to school here in the states?” While we hadn’t begun the process, I was almost certain Alisa could put in the leg work to find the true answers to all of these background questions. But part of the exercise was seeing how each suspect responded under a little bit of pressure. At this stage, Yulia’s life appeared more mundane than my first two interviews. I glanced at the coffee mug I’d left on the window seat.

  “I graduated from Richardson Berkner High School. Go Rams,” she said with as much excitement as someone being given an enema.

  “Go Rams,” I repeated, my eyes staring at her a few extra seconds. Oddly, her recessed, dark eyes never flinched. Then it seemed like she caught on to my game, and she blinked and looked down at her hands.

  “Did you do anything special at Berkner?”

  She turned her head slightly.

  I think she was having a difficult time picking up my American slang. “I mean, what kind of extracurricular activities did you participate in?” My volume had increased involuntarily. She wasn’t deaf.

  “I see now. I was first chair cello in the orchestra.” She nodded, as if she was happy to answer my question…openly and completely.

  “Any sports?”

  She shook her head, crunching her salmon-colored lips. “Uh…no. That is not my thing. I did try out for cross country team. But I didn’t make it through one practice.”

  Yulia looked to be about five-five, small frame, tiny fingers. It appeared she was trying to hide the fact that she was a nail picker. Shifting my eyes upward, I think she noticed that I spotted her bad habit. Maybe this was a recent development, given Granville’s assessment about her mood change recently.

  “Says here you’ve been working for Granville for just over two years?”

  “Yes, it was my first job after graduating college from University of Texas at Dallas, majoring in art history. The first in my family to have college degree.”

  “Congratulations. When did you say you moved to the states?”

  “Uh…you never asked me that question. I moved here just before starting my sophomore year at Berkner.”

  “Did you parents change jobs, or…?”

  “I came through the immigration program. I just became a citizen last year. My parents wanted me to have a better life than them. I stayed with a foster family once I came over.”

  “And your parents live where?”

  “Ukraine.”

  I nodded. “Do you talk to them very often?”

  Lifting her shoulders, she took in a long breath, her first sign of stress outside of the nail picking.

  “As much as I can, sometimes a couple of times a week. Other times, it’s been a month or more. Communications can be very spotty, whether I’m using computer technology or cell phone.”

  Bringing a hand to my chin, I scratched my goatee. I could see pain in her eyes.

  “Do your parents live near Crimea, or have they been close to any of the fighting with neighboring countries?”

  She paused, then arched her back, her hands now fully clasped.

  “My parents are what you Americans call ‘salt of the earth.’ They don’t make much money, never have, but they work hard, treat people fairly, with respect. They’ve been this way as long as I can remember. Now, rebels bully them, take their things, cut off their water or electricity just to toy with them and their neighbors. A bomb exploded a hundred yards from their home, destroying their barn, killing their cows and goats. They’re caught in the middle of a war.”

  Regardless of the life situation for each of Granville’s top suspects, they all had a need for extra money. Whether for divorces, nose jobs, or any other jobs, people rationalized stealing every day. Funding an escape of family members from a war-torn country…that type of justification would be an easy decision for most to make. Me included.

  “I’m sorry to hear about that. It must be rough…on them and you.”

  Another sigh, this one filled with more emotion.

  “Everything okay?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “I can understand you wanting to have them move to the states, away from the war.” If I was in a court of law, the opposing lawyer would have blurted out that I was leading the witness. But I wasn’t in court, and leading the witness was exactly what I was trying do.

  She released a sheepish chuckle. “You don’t know my parents. They will never leave Ukraine. They have too much pride. They will survive. They always have.”

  Closing her file while keeping my peripheral vision on her, I wondered if she’d told me the full truth, not wanting me to thin
k she was in need of extra money to bring her parents to the states. Her eyes shifted a bit, as if she was dealing with a loss. Her parents, I assumed.

  “I see that not everyone is talking to you. Only me, Charles, and Teresa. Why?”

  Her statement caught me off guard, not the content as much as her speaking without responding to a question.

  “For starters, I can’t share the details of who I’m interviewing, who I’m investigating.” I threw in the last phrase to remind her of the serious nature of why I’d been hired. “But I do appreciate you—”

  “I know that Charles and Teresa have real issues in their lives. For me, I am fine.”

  I nodded again. “Thank you for opening up, Yulia.”

  “To be completely honest, I’m not the same today as I was a few months ago.”

  I could feel my eyes scrunch together, and I shifted my weight to my elbows anchored on the oval table. “Do you have something you want to share with me?”

  Hearing the words out loud, my mind did a double take. I did sound like Dr. Phil.

  “Everyone needs people…uh, what do you call it…a support system.”

  She started picking her nails again, this time without hiding.

  “You’re so right, Yulia.”

  I purposely tried to boost her confidence. Or at least her confidence in confiding in me.

  “I so much want my own family, but my…what is he…my boyfriend has turned away from me recently. This is what Granville saw in me.”

  Unsure where she was taking this, I just kept nodding my head in a slow cadence.

  “Nicholas travels for his job. He’s an IT consultant. Well, he used to travel once a month, even less. But when I pressed him that I wanted to get married and have kids, just like that…”

  She snapped her fingers so loud my eyes popped open, an echo bouncing off the ceiling. I glanced at her miniature mittens and realized those were strong-ass hands.

  “…he starts traveling every week, days at a time. I wonder if he even wants to be with me anymore. He doesn’t talk when he is home. I just don’t understand men.”

  I think my jaw tightened, realizing some thoughts and feelings crossed country and cultural lines. This was not an area in which I had great wisdom. Actually, Eva might say I was substandard.