“Ladies, can I get you another glass of wine?”
“I haven’t seen you working the bar at The Jewel before.” An attractive girl with straight, raven black hair shot me a wink, then tipped her head back and downed the last of her wine.
“I’m just helping out a friend,” I said, wiping hands on my apron while her friend whispered in her ear.
Raven mock-covered her mouth with fingers that had a professional manicure. “She’s on the shy side. But you look like a guy that worked security the night Vanilla Ice performed a few months back.”
Who said girls didn’t have memories like a steel trap?
I held up my hand. “Guilty as charged.” I laughed, at me, my playful demeanor, this conversation. “House red?”
Raven nodded and winked again, then put up a hand and gossiped to her friend like they were in middle school.
Finally realizing how silly this scene actually was, I stepped to my left, toward the open bottles of wine.
“Booker!”
Just as I took hold of one wine bottle, I flipped my head around, losing sight of where I was going.
In a split second, I was midair, staring at the ceiling, falling to the surface in slow motion, feeling like a car that had just driven onto an ice-covered High Five overpass.
Finally, I crashed to the unforgiving floor and released a guttural groan. “Fuck!” I felt like Cowboys quarterback Tony Romo trying to survive behind a porous offensive line, circa 2013. My offensive line consisted of slimy, smashed cherries and ice. As I picked up my broken body—my lower back felt like an inflamed pretzel—and my ego, I realized I’d been holding the bottle of wine, house red, all of which had spilled onto my apron, soaking all the way through to my Hugo Boss blue and white striped shirt.
“Great,” was all I could muster.
I heard giggles, then I turned back to Raven and her friend, ready to provide a comment that wouldn’t do Justin any PR favors.
“Hey, Booker, I’ll take over from here.” Alisa took the bottle from my hands, as if she was protecting a child from a weapon. “Why don’t you walk over to the sideline and tend to your wounds. I’ll join you in a sec.”
I didn’t argue. Shuffling in tiny steps, I made my way across the slippery surface and slid through the far opening to the bar. Once again on a reliable surface, I inhaled a deep breath, then leaned over and rested my hands on my knees, stretching my aching back.
“You gonna live?” Alisa had walked up, her tone purposely avoiding any sarcasm.
“Justin owes me one,” I said without lifting my head.
“Both of us. He owes both of us.”
“While I stretch my back, can you share why anyone would want to kill Albert Yates?”
She held out a hand, then touched the opposite forefinger, as if she was making a list. “Let’s put this in buckets. It’s easier that way.”
“Ohhkay.” I lowered my knees then moved back into a hunched position, still assessing whether it was muscle or vertebrae.
“We have the two-hundred-eighty-million-dollar bucket. That’s his net worth by the way. I guess it’s Darla’s now.”
“Damn impressive. But not a billion, like a lot of his neighbors on Straight Lane.”
“When you’ve got that kind of money, scum follows you like flies on shit,” she said, sounding more country than I’d heard in a while.
“Ha. You crack me up, Alisa.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Keep going, Siri…I mean, Alisa.”
I lifted to a pseudo-standing position, and she shook her head, a mound of curls hiding her impish grin.
“Albert was CEO, chairman of the Board of Evergreen Energy.”
“Sounds environmentally friendly,” I said, leaning left and right with a hand planted in the small of my back.
“Many would beg to differ about that assessment.”
“You mean we have a corporation that is giving the public a perception that might be the opposite of how they run their business?”
“Yes, Captain Sarcasm.”
“What’s Evergreen’s annual revenue?” I asked, ready to crunch numbers.
“Last year, revenue increased nine percent, year over year, to seventy-two billion, with a B,” she emphasized. “Income was twelve billion.”
“With a B. Got any other obvious buckets?”
“It all connects to Evergreen. They’ve been sued by a number of groups, environmental groups mostly, and some homeowner’s associations. Most of the suits are focused on their fracking practices.”
I paused, thinking about the headlines and propaganda I’d seen in the last couple of years, from both sides.
“Emotions run deep on that issue,” I said, staring across the bar scene. “Albert being murdered, strangled by some type of metal wire, it was personal. With Albert being the face of Evergreen, he could have easily been in the crosshairs of someone wanting to make a bold statement. A vendetta maybe.”
Glancing at my blond assistant, I could see the wheels turning, likely pondering theories and angles for us to take, just as I was.
“Any evidence of marriage problems?”
“Couldn’t find any restraining orders or calls to the police. And nothing on the rumor mill from a couple of real estate agents I know who work that area.”
“More contacts. Nice,” I said. “There’s always the possibility of a scorned lover.”
“One who’s strong enough to split his neck in two?”
“Or smart enough to hire someone to do it,” I said.
She nodded.
I walked to my barstool and grabbed my black leather jacket, then glanced down at the enormous burgundy stain on one of my nicer shirts.
“Damn, I’m a dork.”
“All of us are humbled occasionally. You’re just not used to it,” Alisa said, draping an arm over my shoulder. “Just tell them you were learning how to bartend.” She chuckled so hard her shoulders bounced, and so did everything else that was attached.
Ignoring Alisa’s feminine traits, I prepared myself for the millionaire reality TV show—Girls Gone Wild: Yates Style.
9
Large pellets of rain descended upon the aqua pool, rendering hundreds, maybe thousands of tiny explosions upon impact. I glanced into the glow of the illuminated trees, searching for any signs of hail. As best I could see through the living room windows at the Yates home, all was clear. I relaxed a tad, knowing my sweet ride, a Saab 9-3, wouldn’t end up looking like a dimpled golf ball. But the early-spring North Texas thunderstorm would surely put on a show worthy of a Stephen King horror flick.
Almost on cue, a monster clap of thunder that made the window frames rattle was followed by two x-ray blasts of lightning.
“Can you believe they still have that fucking tarp up on our property?”
Moving up behind me, dressed in a conservative black dress highlighted by a single string of pearls, Darla Yates had a stoic look on her face as she sipped what smelled like gasoline, but was probably cognac.
“It’s not only a nuisance, but a constant reminder of my husband’s carotid artery being severed as if he’d been attacked in the Amazon jungle.”
She tipped her head back and slurped in another mouthful. Self-medication at its finest.
“But Albert wasn’t murdered in the jungle. He was murdered on our property, behind the pool, in a neighborhood where we thought we’d always be safe.”
Her voice drifted at the end, and she grabbed hold of a kitchen chair. I turned her way.
“Can I help you to the living room?”
“Helen, another one, please.” Darla stuck out a straight arm, and a little Asian woman waddled quietly toward us and took the glass from her hand.
“Yes, Mrs. Yates. Can I get you anything else, Mr. Adams?”
“It’s Booker. But no, my hot chocolate is just fine.”
Darla grabbed my forearm, and I steadied my balance, wondering if she was going to fall.
“Can you take me
to my chair?”
“Sure.” With her arm intertwined with mine, I led her out of the kitchen toward a sunken room, a stone fireplace covering the entire opposite wall. We took two steps down, but she must have twisted her ankle because she fell, grabbing for me. I caught her armpit, her boob hanging over my bicep, and I realized that hot chocolate had spilled on my opposite hand. Within seconds, Helen appeared and took the dripping mug from my hand as Darla awkwardly used my body like monkey bars. I attempted to help without being overly hands-on.
Stumbling to gather herself on top of black heels, she curled silver-streaked hair around her ear. “Thank you,” she said.
“Good God, Mother, get a room, will you?”
A Sophi sighting, off to my left at the bottom of the curved staircase. Her face contorted with stress, or maybe it was indignation. Actually, she was probably just upset about losing her father. Who wouldn’t be? But when added on top of teenage hormones, the combination was toxic for anyone who drew her wrath.
Darla ignored the dig and took a step, then stumbled again.
“Jesus Christ, Mother, why don’t you just get on your knees and give the man a blow job, will you?”
My eyes shot back a look of disgust, but her mother slung a spear of words.
“Talk all you want, Sophi. I’m mourning the loss of my husband of twenty-four years. And you? You host half the boys’ soccer team in your bedroom. Do you let them screw you up the ass while you go down on another boy? I bet you have scabs on your knees and crabs in your—”
“Mom, Sophi, please stop!”
Movement ceased, all eyes shifting to Jared standing at a hallway entrance, his face red, his eyes watery.
I dared not make the first move, but who did I expect to calm the tension? Damn, I wished Renee was here. If anyone could deal with drama, it was the executive director of the Dallas Performing Arts.
Suddenly, Helen appeared, and Darla leaned on the diminutive maid until she reached her overstuffed chair. She flipped off her heels and brought her legs under her body.
“Thank you, Helen.” She forced out a breath, closed her eyes briefly. “Do you have my drink?”
Helen walked away, and I followed her into the kitchen hoping to wash off my hand.
In the distance, I heard Sophi speaking again. “This family is so fucked up! Ugghh!”
I heard feet stomping up steps, more stomping above my head, then a door slamming shut.
“Is it always like this around here?” I whispered to Helen while soaking my hands under warm water.
She shook her head once, releasing a slight smirk. “Drama, drama, drama, especially once Sophi turned sixteen. Mr. Yates could help tame the fighting lions, but now he’s not here. I fear the worst.”
Drying off my hands, I must have shown an expression of shock, forgetting to blink my eyes.
“You think you need that drink now?” Helen asked.
“Helen, my drink please,” Darla called out.
“Sorry, gotta run.”
Helen scooted back into the living room, and I followed…reluctantly. I chose to stand near the bank of windows, partly wishing I was out in the storm.
I heard a sigh behind me, and I could see through the window’s reflection that Darla was cupping her sniffer with two hands.
“Booker, why do you wear your coat all the time? Take it off, relax. We can talk,” she said.
I didn’t want to have to explain my stained shirt, so I acted liked this was how I rolled.
“I’m good,” I said, walking toward the couch a good ten feet from the lady of the house.
Another rumble of thunder, this one lasting at least ten seconds, then the lights blinked off for a quick moment.
“Oh, wonderful. Our electricity will go out and Albert’s not around to trip the breakers, or whatever he does to fix it.” Darla waved an arm in dramatic fashion. “I can see us now. We’ll be so clueless, that in a few months the bickering Yates family will be living out of the back of our Bentley.”
Just as she said the name of their six-figure car, our eyes locked, and I wondered if she’d realized the absurdity of her comment.
Bringing a hand to her mouth, she shook her head and closed her eyes, then suddenly let out a high-pitched giggle, almost sounding cartoonish. Thankful to see her embrace humor in life, I felt my shoulders drop a couple of inches, and I began to chuckle.
“Oh my. Booker, tell me about yourself.” Darla set down her drink on a white and gray stone coffee table—twice the size of any I’d seen—and put an elbow on the back of her chair as if she needed to hear a good bedtime story.
Not exactly in a sharing mood, I knew I had to develop a rapport with Darla if we were ever going to iron out an agreement on my services. And “ever” meant tonight in my book.
“I’m usually the one who asks the questions,” I said.
“Modesty is a good quality, don’t get me wrong. But you’ve seen all of our blemishes. Hell, I act like they’re curable. I’m not naive, and normally I’m not in a semi-drunken state like I am now. We’ve got some deep scars, though. Time will heal our wounds, or so I’ve been told a dozen times the last couple of days. I better live until I’m five hundred years old then.”
She smacked her leg, letting out a Wilma-like giggle, and I released a respectful laugh, although her sad words lingered in the back of my mind.
“I’m a former cop, worked for the Dallas Police Department,” I said.
“Not difficult to imagine—the way you walk, your short haircut. I figured either former cop or military.”
Even in her state of mind, she was an observer.
“I decided I’d be happier and more effective if I went out on my own. So I started this PI business.”
“How’s business, working on your own and all?” She brushed an eyebrow, but kept her gaze on me.
“Much different than the bureaucracy of a large government police force, or probably a large corporation. I wasn’t a big fan of playing political games.”
She nodded while shifting her dress on her legs. “I’m envious. Albert had to think like a conniving politician on every decision he made. If he didn’t, he would have burned at the stake. The lure of money and some type of bizarre duty to a faceless corporation sucked him in, and I went along with it every step of the way. Hell, half the time I was right there with him, plotting the next step.”
“Sounds like you two were a pretty good team.” I tried putting a positive spin on a setup that sounded as addictive as cocaine, and just as deadly. I wondered if Albert hadn’t been murdered how long he would have survived under that type of pressure. I saw an opening, and I took it.
“Do you think Albert faced more pressure internally or outside of Evergreen?”
“You’re good. I’ll have to take another sip of my cognac before I answer that one.” She leaned over, tipped back her head, then set the almost empty glass back on the table. Looking toward the kitchen, she appeared to contemplate barking out another drink order to Helen.
“I’d ask again if you want to have an adult drink, but I can see you’re all business. Which is good. That’s why I hired you.”
We hadn’t formalized that just yet, but I was working my way in that direction. “We’ll get to that in a minute, but you were saying…about Albert and the demands of his job?”
A deep sigh. “Albert, like so many in his position, I suppose, had a deft ability to juggle countless variables: opinions from Wall Street analysts, executives who would have sawed off an arm to supplant Albert as CEO, other companies in the industry whose top execs used various unsavory methods to eliminate competition. And then there’s the whole group of tree-huggers. They typically didn’t have the deep pockets or pedigree of other adversaries, but they were just as formidable.”
I heard past tense. “Had the environmentalist groups reduced their pressure recently?”
Darla’s face crinkled, and I noticed eyeliner dipping below her red-rimmed eyes. “Mostly, yes.”
> She went silent again and glared at the coffee table.
“Is there something you need to share with me?”
“Well, I guess I do need to tell you everything.” She ran fingers through her hair, scratching the side of her head before finishing. “I’m struggling with this one because it almost brought down Evergreen. It felt like a ball and chain had been locked around Albert’s ankle. And where he went, I went.”
She let out another small laugh, then her face turned serious again. “It’s all about fracking. These groups would not let it go. Do you know much about the practice, Booker?”
Even if I did, I wasn’t about to get into an environmental debate, not with someone who was on the verge of spiraling into a drunken oblivion. I needed her engaged and sober.
“Just seen a few headlines, that’s all.”
“I can tell you right now, those people are more ruthless than all the CEOs of the Fortune 500. They were relentless in their pursuit to bring down Evergreen Energy. All for what? Didn’t God put us on this planet to use the resources at our disposal? We’re not animals; we’re thinking human beings. It’s a natural evolution for us to look for more efficient ways to develop energy.”
If I wasn’t aware that her net worth was more than a quarter billion—all from the proceeds of a corporation that apparently fracked with the best of them—I would have thought she at least was a strong spokesperson for her side of the debate. Still, I had no fight in this game. My focus was figuring out who had real motive, and opportunity, to murder Albert Yates.
“How did Albert deal with the protestors? I’m sure they used other means to hurt Evergreen’s reputation as well?”
“Dear Lord, they did everything but write it in the sky. All of the mean words, some directed at my husband. God rest his soul.” She took in a breath. “He’s probably more at peace now than any time in the last twenty years.”
I nodded, studying her body language, wondering if there was any way Mrs. Yates could have been involved in her husband’s death, and all of this despair was nothing more than a ruse. Sophi had tossed out some rather salacious accusations, which, initially I’d categorized as teenage retribution for making her live under a set of rules. But what if there was substance to those accusations? Had Albert just found out about Darla’s infidelity and threatened to kick his wife out of the house, promising to never pay her a dime? I’d read a book chronicling a similar love affair/murder/divorce saga about a Fort Worth millionaire, Cullen Davis, back in the 1980s. Momma had given me that book last Christmas.
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 52
