“I wish.” Alisa swallowed, putting her finger to the laptop. “There’s been a murder in Richardson, a librarian. Just last night.”
“Damn. A librarian. We live in a sick world.” I shook my head. Murder was repulsive, and it always brought on a feeling of sadness even if I’d never heard of the victim, whether they lived in my old hood, Southeast Dallas, or in the more affluent northern suburbs.
“You won’t believe how she was killed.” Her eyes met mine, then she glanced back at the screen. “Strangulation with some type of sharp, metal object.”
A prickle crawled up my spine, and I could feel a cold patch on the back of my warm neck. “Wait, the police, or coroner’s office, is already communicating cause of death?”
“Not officially. They quote a source who asked not to be named.”
“What’s this website you’re reading?”
“Dallasunderground.com. It’s kind of like a Deadspin meets TMZ. They cover their share of Justin Bieber sightings, show an image of Jessica Simpson with no makeup, or a video of a sweaty Jerry Jones walking out of a strip club with his sons, but they also cover real news. Anything that would capture the people’s attention. Murder is on their list.”
“Underground.com. Where have I been?”
“Up until just a few months ago, you barely paid attention to traditional media. Now that you’ve changed your career, your point of view has changed.”
“And then some. I need to set up my cell phone,” I said, thumbing through a number of apps. I placed my phone on the desk and held out both hands. “So we have two murders that appear to have similar a similar cause of death. The victims are in different parts of the Metroplex, seemingly in a different socioeconomic status…”
“You don’t think a librarian pulls in the same bonus as an energy company CEO?”
“Not in this world. I wonder if there’s a possibility of Albert crossing paths with this librarian. What’s her name?”
“Nancy Fitzwater, fifty-one years old.”
“A librarian and a CEO. Maybe she had it going on? I think I watched an old video online from years back. Some cheesy 1980s hair band featured a girl dressed up in a conservative suit, acting like she was a librarian.”
“I think you’re talking about ‘Hot for Teacher.’ Van Halen.”
“Yeah, that’s it. I still remember the girl,” I said, drifting away for a brief second.
“I guess it worked. The girl stuck in your mind. That’s the point of the video,” Alisa added. “I’m sure she’s torn up and looks like a hag now.”
I chuckled as she flipped her computer around so I could see a picture of Nancy Fitzwater on the screen.
“You can put away your hot librarian theories.”
I winced. “Ooh. When was this taken?”
“Within the last year, off the library website.”
“Looks like something out of the 1970s.”
“You’re guessing Albert wouldn’t be pursuing a woman of this ilk?”
“Never know. Sometimes it’s more about the brains than the beauty.”
“What about both?”
“Is that a loaded question? Okay, you have both, beauty and brains.”
She gave me a faux smile. “I guess we’re eliminating the angle of Albert and Nancy being love mates, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t connected.”
“Maybe they don’t even know they’re connected. Maybe the person who killed them knows, but Albert and Nancy had no idea.”
Tapping a finger against her lips, Alisa’s eyes drifted to the corner of the office. “Booker, where do you come up with these theories? That makes a hell of a lot of sense.”
“Thank you. That doesn’t make it any easier to catch this guy, even if my theory is true. And that’s a big if right now. We need to pour into their backgrounds, look for any and all things that might connect them. Kind of like six degrees of separation.”
“The Kevin Bacon approach.”
“Exactly.”
Moving between the mouse and keyboard in quick order, she said, “They already have an update to the original story.”
“Damn, Underground.com is on their A game.” Not a fan of the media for as long as I could recall, I found myself hoping they’d keep digging for more information, even if it was off the record from an anonymous source.
This time I heard Alisa mumbling words while her lips moved.
“In reading further, it says here that Nancy is the daughter of Hank Fitzwater.”
Shaking my head, I responded, “Doesn’t sound familiar, sorry.”
Keeping a finger on the screen, she looked over the edge of the screen. “He’s the former top aide to LBJ.”
Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, it felt like my mind did a complete three-sixty spin. Just outside the stained-glass window, I saw a small, fluttering shadow, and a bird began chirping.
“Lyndon Baines Johnson, the thirty-sixth president. His presidential library is down in Austin. I recall running by the old building when I went to school at UT, but never took a tour.”
Alisa gave me one of those looks.
“I had to remember all the presidents when I was younger. I guess it stuck with me.”
A quick Alisa nod.
The bird was chirping like it’d just sounded the bird alert alarm. I scratched my scruff and looked directly at my cohort.
“Is there any way that Nancy’s father, Hank, is connected in some way to Albert Yates?” she asked.
“Take it a step farther. Is there any way Albert Yates is connected to LBJ?” I replied with my own question.
Alisa sat back, ran long fingers through her full head of curly hair. “I know it was almost fifty years ago, but we’re talking about the fricking president of the United States. I think I’m getting nauseated.”
“I realize it sounds surreal.”
“Hell yes, it does.”
“Just remember, everyone has kin. Just because Nancy’s dad worked for the president doesn’t mean there is some type of Da Vinci Code conspiracy going on. No offense to Dan Brown.”
Alisa chewed a fingernail, the pupils in her eyes looking larger by the second.
“It’s natural to be a bit alarmed, Alisa. But we can’t be overwhelmed by these big names. At the root of this whole thing, regardless of whose dad knew who or the size of a family’s fortune, a man—a father of two kids, a husband—died behind his home. And it wasn’t an accident. Now we have this librarian potentially killed in the same manner. They are people first, not figureheads. We owe it to our client, and the deceased, to keep working this case as any other. And if the facts take us to the door of someone with a fancy nameplate, so be it.”
Alisa took in a breath. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to panic.” Her eyes were diverted, and her lips moved again.
“What now?”
“I missed this sidebar next to the lead story. Apparently, authorities found a number of books on the ground near the victim, Nancy Fitzwater. But her head was lying on a James Patterson novel, Burn.”
“Couldn’t be too surprising. There was probably a struggle, books flew everywhere, and one ended up under her head.”
“Wait. There was another book standing next to her body, propped open. According to the source, it appeared to have been placed there.”
I began to chew the inside of my cheek. “Do we know the name of the book?”
“An Elmore Leonard novel, Cuba Libre. It’s about a man’s survival during the Cuban revolution in the late 1800s.”
Closing my eyes, I tried to filter out the sensationalism associated with presidential aides and CEOs and possible torrid love affairs. I then visualized the scene at the library. The killer must have surprised the librarian, but with all the books on the floor, the struggle must have made some noise. And if no one else was hurt, then the library was barren of everyone except Nancy and her killer.
“Any mention of cameras in the Underground.com story?”
“Good question, but n
o.”
“I guess that makes sense. If they had the video, they’d show it, right? Without knowing the exact time of death, I’m guessing the library was empty when the killer grabbed Nancy. There has to be pictures. Has to be.”
“The story doesn’t have a single byline, just Underground.com staff report. Maybe they do that on purpose, to protect their people. But I’ll see if I can hunt down anyone from the website, see what they know about a possible video, and if they’ll share it with us.”
“Nancy’s killer is sending a message. Maybe it’s connected to the book, Cuba Libre, or even the other book, Burn. Maybe there’s some type of overlap between the two books, the authors even. There are numerous permutations, but someone murdered a woman in a library, and it smells like premeditation. And then he took the time to stand an open book near her body. I think this man has killed before. He’s too calm.”
Tapping my phone, I noticed the time, and so did Alisa.
“I know, I know. The Saturday evening crowd will be arriving soon.”
“Before you head downstairs, I know we’ve been heads down on the Albert Yates murder and the drama at his home. But switching gears to the Sixth Floor Museum robbery, I was wondering if you’ve had any time to research possible black markets for people to sell and obtain artifacts like the ones stolen at the museum?”
Two quick clicks and Alisa typed on the keyboard, likely a user name and password of some kind.
“Can’t have enough security.”
I chuckled. “Damn, I’m glad you’re on my team.”
“Our team.”
“Right. What did you find out?”
“I found two people, both employed by the Dallas Museum of Art, who believe there are a few online sites that sell stolen artifacts. Neither one knew of any specific sites. Although one of them mentioned that the websites are probably on the Dark Web.”
“Is this where Darth Vader and the evil Emperor now live?”
“Dunno, he just called it the Dark Web. But I mentioned it to my friend in DPD dispatch, the one who’s dating a detective. Just shared the basic information, and the detective recommended I talk to a guy recently convicted of cybercrime. He’s not serving time, so he’s free, more or less, doing community service, helping the DPD track other cyber criminals. Anyway, I sent him an email.”
“Nice work. But I’m not sure this guy will want to help us.”
“The detective said if he didn’t reply promptly to let him know and he’d put a bug in the ear of his probation officer.”
After my acrimonious departure from the DPD, I’d learned that asking too many favors in the wrong place often drew the ire of my former colleagues. To them, I could either be with them or against them. And since I didn’t carry a badge and don a blue uniform every day, I was an outsider, plain and simple.
That didn’t make my job any easier. As a result, I’d adjusted my typically assertive approach and learned the art of subtlety.
But seeing Alisa evolve as a private investigator, developing reliable contacts who helped her on a routine basis, almost made me want to grab her and kiss her…in a partner kind of way.
“I’m not exactly sure how you’re doing it, Alisa, but people want to help you. That’s a great quality. I’m impressed. Again.”
Her cheeks turned cherry red. “Thank you, Booker.”
“Is anyone alive up there? Can’t a man just get a beer?”
A gruff voice called up the stairs.
“That’s just Jeb,” Alisa said to me. “Be down in just second, Jeb, and I’ll serve you up a cold one.”
“Bush?” I asked.
“No, but if you ask Justin, he’d probably claim George W. dropped by last week.”
“George W. doesn’t drink.”
“True. Maybe Justin can pull his trendy food truck right up to the Bush house in North Dallas. The Secret Service might draw their weapons, but it would be a hell of a marketing blitz.”
“Don’t give him the idea, please,” I said, standing and stretching. “One case involving a former president is enough for right now.”
13
Clenching a wrinkled paper bag, the man wearing a white fedora anchored his free arm on the rusted railing, a surge of bile beginning its ascent into the top of his throat, his eye twitching ever so slightly.
“Fuera de mi camino, viejo!”
Saliva engulfed the older man’s mouth, his eyes leering at the younger, fitter man with a thin mustache strutting down broken steps at the border of his apartment complex. He wanted to say something back, to strike fear in his soul, as he’d done most of his life. But now, there was no point to it all. He only wished he’d learned that precious lesson before he was given a few weeks to live. Before he’d destroyed the relationships that mattered most.
“You sick or just high as a kite, old fart?”
The younger man and his three amigos now arced around him. He knew they drew strength from his weakness. But he also knew it was a false sense of bravado, a reason to justify their position in their little gang of punks.
Pulling out a handkerchief, the man touched his temples, where sweat had begun to accumulate, hoping, praying, he could avert another episode. A light breeze brushed his face, and he removed his hat and fanned himself. He closed his eyes and imagined lying on a beach in the Caribbean, his mother calling him over to their blanket where a bowl of fresh pineapple had been prepared.
“You going to croak right here in front us? Or are you praying that we just don’t end your life right here and now?”
The man heard metal swoosh and click, and he knew one of them had drawn a switchblade. Vicious laughter filled the air, like wild dogs panting in front of their prey. He could smell sharp, pungent mustard, the smell of sweat. His mind picked up on these signs of danger, and he could feel a shot of adrenaline prepare to launch through his body. But his heart had no fight in this game. His was a life of survival, up until he completed what he’d promised himself. A statement, a legacy that would finally have meaning to those he loved, and to those he didn’t. And then living would only be a convenience at best. At worst, he would suffer incomprehensible physical pain—the doctors had said as much. But by that point, if all continued as planned, he would be at peace with himself.
And that’s what gave him strength and resolve to continue.
Stepping over a crack in the sidewalk, the man could see the pack of wolves jumping around him, jagged teeth flashing through wicked smiles, taunts being thrown at him left and right. He only wanted to get into his room, enjoy a night of peace, one of the few that remained.
“Amigo, no lo deje. Vas a ser nuestros piñata.”
Another one chimed in. “I don’t want to play a queer game of piñata. I just want to cut him up.”
Three more steps, and the man felt a shove at his back. One of them snorted up a mouth full of spit and flung it at his face. He could feel liquid seeping down his neck, coating his silk shirt.
“I’m an old man. I only want to get to my apartment, peacefully.”
“What do you know, the old man isn’t a mute,” one said while laughing like a hyena.
“Maybe he should have kept his trap shut. For that, I’m going to enjoy cutting out his tongue, adding it to my collection jar.”
The man heard a slithering hiss next to his ear, and he could sense an attack was imminent. These sad souls couldn’t control themselves, not in this drug-infested environment where the only thing that ruled was brute force.
“Forgive me, God.” He looked upward and crossed himself then placed the sack on the ground next to him.
A sharp jab at his rib cage, and the man could feel blood ooze from his side. Out of the corner of his eye, the same wild dog lunged forward with a knife. Taking in a deep breath, the man flooded his veins with adrenaline, then leaped backward avoiding the deadly swipe. With two fists balled into one, he slammed the human hammer into the nose of the hombre, shattering it upon impact. The hombre wailed, dropping to his knees
, blood gushing through his fingers.
Turning back around, the next troublemaker had a fist full of brass knuckles heading in the old man’s direction. Just like when he was younger and thousands cheered him in the prison yard, he dodged the punch, and delivered a one-two combination to the solar plexus. A guttural moan and the young man fell forward, leaving him wide open. Thrusting his knee upward, the old man crammed his knee into the face of the wounded one, breaking bones in at least three places. More wails, higher pitched, and more blood.
Looking down, the old man found blood smeared on his pants leg, his chest heaving with every breath. Rage now fueling every movement, he turned and looked into the eyes of the final two standing, both already pivoting backward. He saw fear, like so many before them.
“You want some more of Javier Calero?” Sounding like sharp ice was embedded in his throat, the man’s voice echoed off brick walls.
One of the hombres raised his arms while shaking his head. “I…I don’t want no trouble. I like my face. Please leave me be.”
“I have kids, and I must provide food and clothing for them,” the other one said. “I’m just a peasant, a day laborer looking for work. I mean no harm. I...I allow myself to hang around bad people, and this is what happens.”
Javier’s heart thumped faster than it had in the last year, and he saw his hands still curled into tight fists, veins snaking down his forearms. He’d been weakened, but for whatever reason God had blessed him with a physique and power that still held its own. Once again, a gift from above had been used to hurt people.
Drops of sweat rolled down his head, clinging to his chin. He buried his face in his armpit, and just as quickly, the next batch of perspiration emerged from his pores, in protective mode.
“Go home, both of you,” Javier said, a subdued tone barely audible over his panting breath. Holding up a hand, he stared in their eyes, his mind still pulling back the reins of fury. “Learn a lesson that I couldn’t, wouldn’t learn until very late in my life.”
He paused, wiped more sweat from his forehead, a surge of emotion breaking through shackles of anger and survival. “None of this matters,” he said, pointing to the two hombres lying on the ground, releasing pained murmurs. “It’s all an act…by everyone who participates. Who can be the baddest motherfucker out there? Who carries the biggest stick to take down any who dares to fight back? It’s machismo. And it doesn’t mean a fucking thing. Change your life now, before you’re in prison or buried six feet under. All that matters is doing something that makes your family proud and gives you self-respect.”
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 57
