BOOKER – Hate City

A Novel

Volume 3

By

John W. Mefford

BOOKER – Hate City

Copyright © 2015 by John W. Mefford

All rights reserved.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book (not just the sample) and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Formatting by Bob Houston eBook Formatting

John W. Mefford Bibliography

The Greed Series

FATAL GREED (Greed Series #1)

LETHAL GREED (Greed Series #2)

WICKED GREED (Greed Series #3)

GREED MANIFESTO (Greed Series #4)

The Booker Series

BOOKER – Streets of Mayhem (Volume 1)

BOOKER – Tap That (Volume 2)

BOILERMAKER – A Lt. Jack Daniels / Booker Mystery (Volume 2.5)

BOOKER – Hate City (Volume 3)

BOOKER – Blood Ring (Volume 4)

BOOKER – No Más (Volume 5)

BOOKER – Dead Heat (Volume 6)

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Cha

pter Twenty-Three

Excerpt

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Click here to get started: http://www.johnwmefford.com/starter-library.html

1

He was afraid to look in the mirror.

Heaving breaths surged from his lungs, as bile dripped off the corners of his mouth.

Squeezing his eyelids shut, his heart fluttered with a drumroll cadence. Searing heat poured out of his chest like molten lava.

Minutes passed, and the flames of nausea finally retreated. Drained and weary, the man peeled a sticky hand off a cigarette-stained Formica bathroom counter and buried a towel against his face that was drenched with perspiration.

A metal chain rattled off a light fixture from the lone fan spinning in the middle of his efficiency apartment. Suddenly, voices from outside cracked the silence.

“Yo, vato, como mi verga. ”

The insulting jab was followed by laughter and more cursing in his native Spanish, then the voices quickly faded into the distance.

His thumping pulse finally lowering with each deep breath, he waited. And waited.

Would the skull-splitting headaches return, triggering another cataclysmic reaction inside his once unbreakable body? Peeking at the mirror to verify he was indeed still whole, at least on the outside, he wondered how much more pain he’d have to endure. How much he’d want to endure.

Another unexplained episode of convulsions, the third in the last week. Doctors said the frequency would only increase.

“Fuck the doctors, surgeons, all of them!” he growled, tossing the damp towel at his own reflection.

He could hear his lungs pump air through rigid lips. Jagged edges of chipped teeth pierced the skin just inside his lip, leaving a bitter taste of blood. His mind was strained to its limits from pressure, both physical and mental.

Plodding to a bedside table made of cheap particleboard leaning in one direction, the man used both hands to lift a container onto his spongy mattress. He settled on his knees and thumbed the Montecristo logo, golden swords crossed in a triangular pattern. Lifting the lid of the handcrafted wooden case, he inhaled the sweet aroma, pulling his eyes back into his head, his torso swaying as if he floated in the majestic Caribbean Ocean.

He removed one of the cigars, eyeing the red band with a majestic fleur-de-lis, a symbol of the French monarchy in the center, paying homage to the historical novel, The Count of Monte Cristo. But this company was all Cuba. Founded by Alonso Menendez in the 1930s, Montecristo earned a reputation as the highest quality cigars in the world, the biggest cigar company in all of Cuba—pre-Castro of course.

While he couldn’t alter history, at least he respected it.

Pulling out his late father’s lighter, he rubbed the polished metal, still able to recall days when Papa would bring home rolls of tobacco from the fields he worked. An honest day’s work.

An honest day’s pay. He didn’t earn much, but it didn’t belong to a cause created by an idealist rebel in Russia.

He flicked the spark wheel and took a few puffs. Flavors of leather, cinnamon, and nutmeg, and the cigar’s trademark tangy wood created a euphoric sensation, one that calmed his nerves, allowed him to see reason.

Blowing out a swirl of smoke, he reminded himself why he’d made this journey west, to Dallas of all places. History had changed the world many years ago, his life more than just about anyone’s, he’d finally admitted. And Dallas would once again serve as the backdrop for another history lesson.

Payback was all that he had left. After all, his life wasn’t worth shit.

2

“Does it give you a sense of déjà vu?”

A thin man with tailored slacks and stylish black rimmed glasses stood just behind me, both of us viewing the scene from the southeast window of the Sixth Floor Museum, the exact same spot Lee Harvey Oswald had stood over fifty years earlier. Live oaks stretched their leafy fingers deeper into a similar majestic blue sky. As I held an iPad replaying the Zapruder film, it felt like I could reach a hand back into time and alter the events that led to the assassination of our thirty-fifth president.

“Eerie.” Shaking my head, my eyes couldn’t remove the glare off Elm Street sloping

downward, people scurrying about on a warmish April morning.

“Have you noticed what you’re doing?” Granville Holguin, executive director of the

museum, which was dedicated to the people and events around the John F. Kennedy

assassination, spoke in a whisper, but I could still detect an accent north of the Red River.

Suddenly conspicuous, I opted not to move, hoping I hadn’t displaced a piece of history.

“Without knowing it, you’re crouching down, as if you were Oswald fifty years ago.

Thousands before you have done the same.”

Without changing my angle, I looked back at Granville, grayish eyebrows arching higher on his forehead.

“Why do you think?” Human behavior intrigued me.

“I’ve asked hundreds. Some are simply awestruck, almost like they’re gawking at a

celebrity’s life. Some are keenly interested in better understanding, or questioning as the case may be, how the shooting took place. And a few, I think, are as lost as Oswald was, purportedly.

They might even be thinking how they would pull off a similar act, so despicable and heinous it would capture the world’s attention.”

I looked away, my mind replaying the grainy footage of a bullet exploding upon exiting a human skull—or entering the skull, if I were to believe another possible theory.

“I’m not naive, Mr. Adams.”

“Booker.”

“Yes, Booker. Sick people roam the streets and even occasionally visit a historical place. But we seek to educate. And through that education, we hope people learn from our history, not run from it.”

Moments later in Granville’s office, I tinkered with a bronze plated keychain from the museum’s gift store while staring out the window, this time looking northeasterly, a completely different setting than earlier.

“You have that list we talked about?”

Granville arched forward in his ergonomic chair and rattled his keyboard. “Give me a

minute to print it off.”

Eyeing railroad tracks and a flurry of cars on Houston Street, I thought about the midnight call from my assistant at Booker & Associates, or partner, or whatever Alisa was this week.

“Wake up, Booker,” she said, her Southern lilt a bit salty.

“I’m awake. Just reading, that’s all.” I’d just started a non-fiction book Momma had given me for Christmas.

“I’m envious. What are you reading?”

“Summer of 1968. One of those years that left an imprint on our country and the world.”

“Wish I was curled up in bed with my little hairball, reading a sexy romance,” she said.

For a Texas girl who could still turn heads with her shapely curves and blond, curly hair, it was interesting to hear her constantly talk about spending time with her cat, and now a book. But no guy.

“What’s up, besides you at midnight?”

“Justin and I were cleaning up the bar, and Renee Dubois waltzed in looking for you.”

A few months back I’d taken a case for Renee, who ran the Dallas Performing Arts, to try to find out who was killing young, talented performers in the Arts District. The trail took me all the way to Boston, but it ended back in Dallas, my own bedroom as it turns out.

“Me. Why me?”

“Well, she wasn’t just looking for you. She and her male friend were hoping to have a late-night drink. Apparently, they’d just finished watching an acoustic performance by Sting.”

“Meh.”

“Not a fan of Sting?”

“Let’s just say Renee and I probably have different tastes.” I thought about my eclectic collection of songs, everything from Jay Z to a folksy, local band called the Bird Dogs.

“Anyway, she mentioned that she’d received a call from Granville Holguin, the ED at the Sixth Floor Museum. He had no idea where to turn. They had a security breach, and he wasn’t thrilled about calling the police or the possibility of the story hitting the Internet. Too much bad publicity.”

From there, Alisa promised Renee that I’d be in Granville’s office first thing this morning.

Actually, it was my second trip of the morning. I’d dropped off my five-year-old daughter, Samantha, at school, following a quick stop at 7-11 to pick up a package of Skittles. She’d earned the reward after a perfect report card. I gave her five colored candies and swore her to secrecy, fearing her Latin mother, my ex-fiancée from six years back, would hunt me down and peel the skin off my body. Damn, she had an emotional side, especially when it came to our daughter. Then again, when it came to Samantha, I wasn’t far behind.

A printer purred and spit out two pages, then a third. Granville handed me the sheets, stapled and still warm.

Resting a finger to his chin, he said, “The first two pages show all employees who work here, their roles, previous employers, home addresses, and phone numbers. The third is a list of what we believe is missing.”

“Thorough,” I said, flipping pages.

“I hope you understand the importance of this situation, Mr. Adams.”

“Booker. If I take on a case, I give it everything I have.”

Shifting glasses upward on the bridge of a slightly oversized nose, he appeared to be searching for the right words. “This may not be as salacious as the Arts District murders, but I assure you, when artifacts go missing from the Sixth Floor Museum, the impact can be far-reaching. We’d be on every news and smut program across the globe. I’d have paparazzi living outside my home, accosting my wife and kids.”

“Booker & Associates is used to handling cases that require…uh, delicate attention.”

He nodded, crossed his legs, flicking lent off his black trousers. “That’s what Renee told me.”

“It’s great to have walking references,” I said.

“Indeed. I realize that not going to the police is atypical. It’s a calculated move, one that has its risks. For both of us.”

I nodded. His ass was probably more on the line than mine. But that wouldn’t alter my approach or lessen my drive.

We reviewed the list of stolen items. “Seventeen items. Replacement value?”

His large eyeballs squirmed left and right, like I’d just asked a stupid question. “You can’t replace any of those items. That’s the travesty. They are pieces of history.”

“Let me ask it another way. How much are they insured for?”

Granville cleared his throat, then twisted a pen, and jotted down a note on a small pad with a gold logo at the top. “I’ll put that on my list.”

“When I first arrived earlier, you seemed certain this was an inside job. What makes you think one of your employees would steal from the museum? I’m assuming all of them were hired by you, have a certain amount of respect for history, the mission of your museum.”

“Good question.”

I could see I was winning him over, but that wasn’t my objective here. I only cared about trying to find motive for the crime.

“It’s difficult to understand what inspires people’s actions,” he said. “I’ve had almost every one of my employees in my home, playing with my kids. So this ordeal is unsettling on many levels.”

“I understand. I have a daughter. It wouldn’t sit right with me either.” I held his gaze for an extra second, trying to read him. Nothing alarming. “Back to your employees. No one that you suspect, whether it’s comments they’ve made, even rumors or gossip? Or maybe how they’ve changed their behavior?”

“Here, give me the list.”

I scooted the paper across his desk. He twisted his pen—appeared to be Mont Blanc—and circled three names, then handed it back to me.

“The first one, Charles, has recently gone through a divorce. He’s been depressed, moody, can’t get along with anyone. Teresa, the second one, just had a nose job.”

I tried to suppress my smile, but I kept my eyes on the paper, adding notes.

“She used to be one of our most reliable employees. Now she seems flighty, not mentally there all the time. And then there’s Yulia. She’s young, very pleasant. She lights up a room when she walks in. Great ideas. Never backs down from a challenge. I thought she had a great future.

Just recently though, I can’t get anything out of her. It’s like she’s crawled into a shell.”

I made a few notes, then lifted my eyes.

“Where were you two nights ago?”

A slow smile cracked Granville’s lips. I think he used a fake whitener on his teeth. Anything to look thirty when he’s probably closer to fifty-five. “I was at home with my wife and kids. We had a dinner, spaghetti Bolognese, if I recall correctly. My wife is Italian. She makes the best dishes.”

“There all night?”

He shook a knowing finger. “Okay, I’ll indulge you. I stepped out just after ten. A quick trip to the store. Back at home by ten forty-five. My wife can verify it.”

“Where did you go?”

“Just the Exxon gas station down at the corner. I live off Munger.”

“What did you buy?”

Granville released a single chortle, tapping a hand on his desk. “You are persistent, aren’t you? I can see why you and Renee got along so well. She’s a tough woman.”

I let a quick grin pass my lips, then took another attempt. “What did you buy at the gas station?”

“Okay. I don’t want to waste your time digging up receipts and checking video footage.

Cigarettes, if you must know.”

“That’s not a crime. Well, it’s not healthy, but it’s not my business.”

“I told my wife I stopped two years ago. But honestly, I’ve been taking long trips to the garbage can in the back alley, slipping in a few puffs just to keep me from clawing my own eyes out. Addiction is a bitch.”

With his forearms spread out on the desk, he puffed his cheeks, like he’d just opened his soul.

“This is all confidential, so no worries.”

“Thank you,” he said with a courteous nod, his tone reserved.

I felt my phone buzz inside my back pocket. I pulled it out and took a quick peek at the text.

Alisa asking if we indeed had a new client.

“Is everyone aware that you’ve had a break-in?”

“Well, they all know that items have been misplaced. But I haven’t come right out and said we have a thief among us, no. I have a staff meeting over lunch, so I’ll let them know I’ve brought in a security consultant to review our procedures, ask questions. So you should be able to conduct a thorough investigation. Access to anywhere, anyone. Just give me until this afternoon.”

A Beatles song blared from the desk. Granville’s cell phone. He held a finger, brought the device to his ear, and swiveled away from me. I only heard a couple of words in a fake tone,

“Oh, hi…” and then it became muffled. I lifted from my chair, walked back to the windows, once again tinkering with the keychain.

“Sorry about that,” Granville said.

“No problem. I think I have everything I need for now.” I watched a train plod along the tracks running parallel to Ross.

“You know the Texas School Book Depository Company had a second warehouse about a

dozen blocks north of this location.”

Sounded liked Granville loved to share his knowledge. I didn’t mind.

“The manager said he could have assigned Oswald to that location instead of this one. He’d hired Oswald and another guy at the same time. Just think about it. A simple decision could have changed history. Could have changed the world.”

I didn’t attempt to poke holes in his prognostication. “We’ll never know.”

“I guess not,” he added, then rose out of his chair, walked to his door. He stopped and turned around, scrunching his eyes, his head tilted ever so slightly.

“Were you aware the president is coming through Dallas?”

“Uh…no. Hadn’t heard that.”

“Not that he’ll be stopping by and touring our museum, but having our stolen property back…it just seems like we should be whole again before he arrives.”

For the first time, I could feel Granville’s love of this place, its importance to the community.

“I’ll do my best. How much time do I have?”

“A week. Six days, to be exact.”

We shook hands, and I wondered why I felt a tightness in my gut.

3

“You going to frame it?”

With a quick wink and an assuring smile, Albert Yates ruffled his son’s bushy head of hair, then slowly turned the muscular, powder blue Bentley Flying Spur onto Strait Lane

—“Billionaire’s Row,” as some have called it.

Yates’ net worth hovered just over two hundred eighty million, depending on the markets and the value of his options handed down by the Board of Directors at Evergreen Energy. Being chairman certainly had its advantages. He’d reach that magical billion-dollar plateau soon enough, quite possibly before his twelve-year-old son, Jared, graduated from high school.

“Can you believe it, Dad, a signed baseball from Clayton Kershaw? The best pitcher of the twenty-first century!”

Albert averted his eyes, a full moon casting splintery shadows from enormous eighty-year-old red oaks lining the two-lane road. A rural oasis carved out of the densely populated city, Preston Hollow was home to twenty-acre estates, an eclectic mix of Dallas wealth: old money, new money, Texas-born, European-born. Names included Malaouf, Perot, Hunt, Nowitzki,

Troutt, Cuban. And Yates.

“Just remember, Jared, you said in the twenty-first century. Kershaw is one of the best pitchers playing right now, without a doubt. But baseball goes back a long ways. The best I’ve ever seen? Bob Gibson, St. Louis Cardinals. He could bring the heat like no one else. Summer of 1968, he had an ERA of 1.12, with thirteen shutouts. Opposing players were terrified every time they stepped in the batter’s box. Shit, he was the best.”

“Ha. Remember, Mom doesn’t like you cussing around me, Dad.”

Albert smirked. “Let’s just keep it between us boys.”

The boys had just watched the hometown Texas Rangers drop the season opener to the Los Angeles Dodgers, 2-1, a first for both teams to open the season playing a team in the opposite league.

“Why didn’t you play in the major leagues, Dad? Didn’t you say you played against Don Mattingly in the minors?”

“Ha!” Jared’s dad snorted from the far-fetched notion. “I played against Mattingly in Little League, just before we moved from Indiana.”

“That kind of sucks, you know, the whole moving thing,” Jared said, gripping his fingers across the seams like he was ready to throw a curveball.

“I can assure you it had no bearing on your dad playing in the major leagues.” Albert released a chuckle, then wiped tired eyes. “Besides, the next year I got to see Bob Gibson pitch.”

Jared nodded, saying nothing else, then continued toying with the autographed baseball.

Just past the Nowitzki estate, Albert slowed the six-hundred-horsepower vehicle and glanced at his son. He could see the truth had taken him down a couple of notches in Jared’s eyes. He instantly regretted being so transparent to his son, especially at his preteen age. Thinking back to his own childhood, he wished he’d been spared hearing the harsh reality about his father, although many of the ugly comments were no more than vitriol. God rest his soul.

Turning into their quarter-mile long driveway, hidden tree lamps illuminated a flood of cracked shadows.

Thwack!

“What was that?” Jared gripped the dash, as his dad jammed the brakes.

“Hold on, stay in here.” Albert crawled out of the driver’s seat, his eyes on high alert.

Shuffling to the front of the car, he leaned over, noticed a nick taken out of the paint just above the cage-like grill. A stone with jagged edges about the size of a softball sat under the car.

“Motherfucker.” He gritted his teeth, squinting toward a large row of shrubs lining the far side of the driveway. Unable to spot a living creature, two- or four-legged, he kicked the rock off to the side.

Back in the car, Albert slid the gear into drive.

“What was is it, Dad? Did you see anyone?” Jared’s voice pitched higher, his eyes wide with anxiety.

“We’re fine. I think it was just one of these animals we’re seeing running around, the armadillos. Damn varmints will ruin a foundation, but they’re also predatory if they feel like you’re threatening them. I guess they got scared by the car.”

Jared nodded his head, as if the believability of the story was trying to grow roots in his mind. “Right, the Bentley.”

Rubbing his forehead in the same spot, Albert could feel his heart thump against his chest, his brain on overdrive, churning through who could have thrown the rock. He eyed the dash, considered calling up Tyler, his security guard. But he didn’t want to alarm his son, and he was sure he’d see him at the end of the driveway.

“Nothing can hurt us in here. We’re invincible!” Jared tossed the baseball upward, caught it in the same hand, then raised both fists, like he’d just won the Battle Royale.

Albert wasn’t thrilled with his son’s perspective of the world. But at least it didn’t match the ostentatious attitude of his prissy seventeen-year-old daughter, Sophi, whose nose couldn’t get any higher as she pranced around in designer clothes while driving a BMW 5 Series, all thanks to the spoils of her mother, his wife of the last twenty-four years.

Eighteen-inch tires clipped gaps in the porous pavers, ground cover growing out of each one. Albert checked his rearview, watching for anyone to step out of the shadows. All was clear.

He’d had custom steel plates built into the Bentley’s side panels, making the car virtually bulletproof. But he knew if someone wanted you bad enough, that person could find a way to get to you.

As they rolled up to the garage, Albert clicked the opener.

“Looks like Mom started another one of her projects.” Jared laughed.

They both stared at six rattan rocking chairs, white paint nearly a hundred-percent stripped, slivers of torn rattan dangling this way and that, resting on newspaper inside a six-car garage.

The rockers took up the two open spaces.

“Wouldn’t your mother think it makes more sense to protect a two-hundred-thousand-dollar investment than some crappy old chairs she probably picked up at a flea market sale?”

Huffing through his nose, Albert parked just under the basketball goal.

“Can you ask your mom if she can find a different place for her project? I didn’t see Tyler when we rolled in. I’m going to find him, talk to him a moment. Can you do that for me?”

“Sure thing, Dad.”

Jared jumped out of the car and jogged toward the garage. “Hey, Dad,” Jared yelled with a cupped hand, a good sixty feet away.

Already distracted by his own thoughts and Tyler’s lack of presence, Albert paused.

“Dad, can you hear me?”

“Yeah, sure. What’s up, Jared?” Albert’s eyes searched the surroundings as leaves ruffled beyond a cluster of trees toward the back side of the property.

“Just wanted you to know I had a blast tonight. Thanks for taking me.” Jared tossed the ball and popped it back into his palm.

“Sure thing, son. Glad you enjoyed it.” A warm sensation temporarily replaced a pit of anxiety, and Albert believed that’s why he put up with all the bullshit from stockholders and board members, and even spoiled family members. Moments like those with his son were

irreplaceable.

A yodeling owl from a branch above refocused Albert’s attention, and he walked down brick landscaping steps. Wind tousled his thinning hair as leaves whirled into a mini-spiral, then collapsed onto natural stone pavers. He looked straight up, trying to find a clear view of the sky through the cacophony of tree branches, searching for stars or the moon. He could feel it in his bones, a late-season cold front was blowing in. Leaves and other debris continued stirring, skipping across his path, the only sounds being produced by Mother Nature.

“Tyler, are you over there?” Albert paused, looked across the backyard to the other side of a round pool, which had a hundred-foot diameter. Windblown ripples of water propelled a red, spongy pool mat, and it drifted toward the back end of the pool. With a nice-sized tire hanging over his belly, Albert walked in that direction, noticing a flurry of moss and leaves flying into the water. He’d just cleaned out the pool over the weekend.

“Sometimes I don’t know why I even bother,” he said to no one, bending over and grabbing hold of the weighty foam float, then scraping it along the edge of the pool until it flopped to a stop.

A sound…or so he thought. A quick inhale, then slowly he released a silent breath, a spark of electricity climbing his spine.

“Someone there?” he called into the dimly lit forest of trees that outlined the property and served as a sound barrier against the neighbors’ outdoor parties. Licking his lips, he turned his head back and forth, searching for someone he hoped not to find. His pistol was locked away in a safe inside. Didn’t have time to mess with running back into the house.

Where the hell was Tyler?

Thinking back, he recalled why he’d hired the former NorthPark Center security director.

The Evergreen Energy home office had been the target of two tree-hugging environmental groups, nothing but radical extremists in his mind. Countless times, he had to wade through a mob of screaming hippies holding up signs just outside the gates of their Forest Lane headquarters.

“Evergreen Energy is run by a bunch of frauds!”

“Fuck the frackers!”

“Stop fracking. It pollutes our water!”

“Evergreen—the kings of fracking!”

He’d heard everything. But words never meant much to Albert, as long as the groups didn’t impact the company’s bottom line. His vice president of communications, however, had provided ample evidence of the public relations hit Evergreen would continue to take if the company didn’t respond. So they launched a media campaign to smother those who lived to fight with corporations that fueled the world’s global economy. It took a couple of months and about ten million dollars, but the new Evergreen pro-environment propaganda machine had begun to redirect the noise, creating a new image for the company and for Albert Yates. The flock of stoners slowly gave up hope, or got distracted by a swarm of butterflies and evaporated into thin air.

All except for one small faction—a few demented souls who wouldn’t stop until they’d

bankrupted the company, forced Albert to step down from his lofty position, or convinced the company to alter their gas exploration procedures.

Like that would ever happen.

The group was small, but effective in creating an atmosphere of hate and fear. They left nasty notes with pictures of dead animals on the cars owned by everyone in headquarters. While Albert had received threats previously—it more or less went with the CEO title—the one he received six weeks earlier did a number on him. Late one Friday afternoon after all the administrative assistants and peons had left, Albert picked up a ringing phone, only to hear a breathy voice utter one simple sentence: “Stop fracking, or we will hunt you down and kill you.”

That’s when he’d hired Tyler. He could recall an icy patch form on the back of his neck…

just like now.

The same noise as before…and it wasn’t the wind, or two colliding branches. Was that a grunt, someone trying to speak?

“Tyler?” His voice pitched a half-octave higher, but still soft. He quickly glanced back at the house and spotted a single light through closed shades in the kitchen. Swallowing, his throat felt like it was coated in cold glue. His ear crackled, and he stepped toward the noise near the pool shed.

“Tyler, are you okay?” He spoke only to reassure himself that he was safe, on his own property. Who would dare invade Billionaire’s Row?

Snap.

Dropping his eyes, he found a broken twig under his rubber sole, then allowed his lungs to release air.

Uhh. Uhh.

No mistake this time. Someone was moaning.

Albert could feel his pulse thumping his temples, his head about to explode. Damn, he wished he’d spent a few hours a week working out.

More leaves and branches crunched under his weight as he reached for the edge of the red brick shed that was no larger than a one-car garage.

“Tyler. It’s Albert. Everything okay?” His voice fought to push air through his constricted chest.

Nearing the far corner of the shed he stopped, anchored his arm against the side, edging his neck forward.

Shoes, pants, a knee, jostling around. Arcing around the corner, Albert found Tyler

squirming in the dense underbrush, his hands and feet tied together behind his back, facing the opposite direction.

“What the hell?”

Albert lunged forward, leaned down to Tyler’s face.

“Tyler, what happened? Are you okay?” he panted.

The security guard’s head shook violently, tears streaming down his face. Albert shifted another couple of feet and saw a T-shirt of some kind stuffed into Tyler’s mouth, tied to his head with some type of thin rope. He pulled on the T-shirt, but the rope was taut. He tugged harder, and it felt like he was holding the end of a bone with a dog clamping down on the other end.

The rope finally loosened just enough to allow enough slack for Albert to start pulling the Tshirt away from the guard’s mouth.

“Tyler, I’m trying—”

Without warning, a thin wire ripped into Albert’s throat. He fell backward, but he didn’t fall to the ground. Whoever had the other end lifted Albert off the ground, the wire burrowing into folds of flesh, a heavy scent of copper in the air. Clawing at the wire, Albert’s fingernails dug into his own neck, but they couldn’t wedge behind the wire. Tiny bursts of air escaped, nothing more than feeble gags. Darkness invaded his thoughts as his vision lost focus of Tyler’s blurry back squirming like a fish out of water.

Albert swung his arms back, grasping for human body parts—an arm, hand, maybe the

beast’s testicles. Nothing but air, like he was swinging at a Bob Gibson fastball.

Just before drifting away, he thought he heard words, phlegmy grunts.

Then, with his pumpkin head about to explode from pressure, his neck nearly severed,

Albert Yates said a quick prayer, asking for repentance.

But he couldn’t reverse the undoable.

And then it all went dark.

4

Smacking a hand on the desk, my back arched to attention. Glass had smashed off concrete in the bar one floor below us—the third such smash in the last fifteen minutes. Justin’s pride and joy, The Jewel, was starting to sound like a second-tier honkytonk after hosting a bikini mud-wrestling contest.

“Don’t pay any attention to it. I’ve tried talking to that man, and he’s just in his own world.”

Alisa’s amber eyes peered up and spotted a wayward curl. She blew the wavy lock out of her face.

“A different world than usual?” The Justin I’d known since we were middle school football teammates—the fastest white boy I’d ever seen cutting across the turf—wasn’t inclined to watch money slip through his fingers, unless there was a marketing angle associated with it. A couple of months back he hosted a bartender contest, one based on the flare and artistry of creating adult beverages.

Who knew that elite bartenders were essentially a traveling sideshow, each with their own little posse?

But the man who’d taken an abandoned car parts building off Greenville Avenue and

transformed it into a rather successful small business over the last ten years, counted every dollar that went in and out of The Jewel. From what he’d hinted at, the majority flowed back into the bar.

Alisa huffed out a breath, then brushed a finger under tired eyes. Five years my senior, we’d actually met on the party circuit when I’d attended the University of Texas in Austin. We had a brief, one night fling, then moved on with our lives. She started working for Justin about five years ago, and we’d never really brought up our past. No need. She had her life, and I’d certainly had my share of experiences since graduating.

“He’s going to be the death of me,” she said, fluttering her eyes.

“Got something in your eye?”

“Yes.”

“If you pull your eyelid over the eyeball, the piece of debris usually—”

“I’m not as ditzy as you think I am.”

“I never said you were ditzy. Just blond. That’s not the same thing.” I let out a deep chuckle.

“Ha! I just had my eyelashes done, and I can’t touch them or I’ll look off balance.”

I nodded, acting like I understood her predicament. “Justin asking you to work longer hours?”

“Yes, but it’s not just that. Mentally, he’s out to lunch. Which puts more on me. Sometimes I feel like his mother, running around cleaning up his messes. Then again, he looks like a walking zombie, working night and day on that new business with the Double Ds.”

Against my urging, Justin had partnered with David Bradley, chef and proprietor of a five-star Asian fusion restaurant called Marvel—yes, the one that highlighted such comic superheroes as Spider Man, Captain America, and Iron Man—in a side food truck business. To say I had a history with David and his youthful cover boy toy and partner Dax, was putting it mildly. David had been the focal point of my first PI case. Presenting himself as an investment consultant, he preyed on women who’d just buried their husbands, using his natural charm and good looks to convince them to invest in a Real Estate Investment Trust.

My involvement started when I’d heard he swindled twenty-five thousand dollars from

Justin’s sister, Jenna. Over the course of a few weeks, I located David and eventually pulled information from him and Dax. The REIT, owned privately by Chicago businessman Vincent Sciafini, existed, more or less, but the investors would never see their money again.

Working as little more than an indentured servant, David had secured the investments from unsuspecting women to pay off a massive gambling debt of more than a million bucks that he owed Sciafini, once nicknamed “The Shark.” In addition to retaining debt obligations from his connections to casino owners in Las Vegas, Sciafini owned several Chicago-based companies, most of which gave the impression of a legitimate business.

David once described Sciafini as having ties to organized crime, but I learned Sciafini was organized crime. And he essentially owned David, who apparently had a brilliant financial mind, and his restaurant.

But that’s when it got complicated. I swore to David that I wouldn’t turn him into the authorities if he handed over the name of a Dallas cop who was running a drug-dealing operation, information he’d overheard while running his restaurant. The FBI eventually arrested Ernie Sims, an old nemesis of mine who played a part in getting me pushed out of the Dallas Police Department. But that only created deeper ties with David, and as a result, Sciafini. And now, my old buddy Justin had been sucked into the vortex. I’d yet to tell Justin the whole story.

I’d hinted at some of the risks, but I couldn’t afford for the whole sordid affair to become even more public. I did it to protect Justin, as much as my family and myself, but I quickly realized my inaction had probably created the opposite effect, exposing my best buddy to the tentacles of organized crime.

“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 neck 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.

“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.

“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 think 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.

My face started feeling a bit flushed, but it was obvious Yulia was attempting to drive home a point. I just couldn’t determine if it was completely personal, or if she was making a statement for all women to unite against the dark side. Was she looking for me to provide a formal retort on behalf of the male species?

“I’m not sure what I should say. I’m sorry you’re going through a difficult time.”

I bailed myself out. Sort of.

Extending her hand on the table, she began to shake her head. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to share all of my personal business. And I don’t have a vendetta against all men.”

She brought a hand to her face and released a light giggle. “I just was trying to share why I seem different around my friends and colleagues, openly and honestly.”

Yulia cracked a grin.

Replaying her statement, I wondered if I’d just heard her use sarcasm and, more importantly, if that changed my perception of what she was all about.

7

Threading fifty-year-old, eight-millimeter film through a miniature projector took the same concentration and dexterity as other tasks that he’d mastered over the years. But it was far less dangerous, that much was certain.

A single dog barked in the distance somewhere, woofs reverberating through the two-story apartment complex that was covered in Spanish graffiti, mostly blue and black. The four-legged animal often had these barking sprees. The man wasn’t sure if it signified a hungry pet or that it was caught in the middle of a gang fight. Given the abject poverty, drug deals, and assaults he’d witnessed in the last week, pets were probably last on the list of priorities in this complex.

Years ago, he might have fallen prey to the magnetic pull of illicit drugs so close in proximity. He’d snorted and injected so much money into his system, it was a wonder he was still upright, not a vegetable attached to a breathing machine.

His vision not what it once was, he tilted back his head and used padded tweezers to align the projector threads into the tiny roll of film. He laughed at the sad irony of his personal situation. With unabashed attitude, he’d abused his body like it wasn’t worth two cents since he was eight years old. He could easily recall thinking nothing could take him down, strutting around South Florida with an arrogance of invincibility. Now, with his principles finally aligning with a renewed sense of purpose, his body was wilting. And there was nothing he could do about it, outside of another pointless surgery. And he wasn’t about to flush away what little inheritance he intended to pass along to his two children.

Orange sun spears shot through tattered blinds across the ceiling, revealing a web of cracks.

He flipped on the projector and watched images from another time, before the world flipped upside down. Grainy, colored footage of John and his wife Jacqueline boarding Air Force One, then departing Fort Worth, only to fly about thirty miles before landing at Dallas Love Field Airport. Smiles all around, cheers, a positive feeling for those who’d gathered on the tarmac to greet the thirty-fifth president, young and promising, but also unrelenting in his beliefs. The home movies filmed by George Reid captured the sentiments of the country and much of the world: hope.

Changing out reels, the man sat on a stiff chair, arms leaning on his knees. He rubbed his hands together as he took in a different perspective of the motorcade gliding through downtown Dallas. Elsie Dorman’s home movie had a few seconds of footage, just before and after the shooting, from the Texas School Book Depository building—supposedly the only imagery from that angle. She and her husband had an office on the fourth floor, just two floors below where Oswald had fired the kill shots, as some believed.

Taking in a slow breath, the man released a violent cough, a surge of pain pinging his skull.

He closed his eyes for a moment, turning his mouth toward his bare arm, willing his body to fight off another inexorable attack. A minute passed, and he decided he needed another reminder of the moment history altered its path, impacting millions of people worldwide. He swapped out films, then flicked the metal lever to watch the movie that made Abraham Zapruder famous.

Almost immediately, he could feel his palms sweat, anticipating the shot. No matter how many scrapes he’d been in, how many times he’d seen people die, nothing engulfed his emotions more than watching the skull of the president of the United States explode. He rewound the film seven times, each run-through creating a swell of anger greater than the previous. A jittery hand rubbed his face, then he scratched his head, and nails dug into nothing but tanned skin.

Breathing heavily, he padded over to the vanity and with every fiber of energy he balled up a fist and slammed it to the counter, leaving a satisfying tremor in its wake. Within seconds, he heard someone pounding a shoe or broom against the wall.

“Cállate la boca, gilipollas!”

He picked up a dirty towel and tossed it back at the wall. “You shut the fuck up! Mind your own business!”

Dipping his head toward the sink, he cupped water in his hands and doused his leathery face and neck, over and over again. Nothing would wash away the guilt of being such a lousy father, a pathetic role model for his kids.

Two scars drew his attention in the mirror. He reached up and touched a three-inch line arcing over the left side of his skull, still a bit of pink at the edges. When surgeons split him open like a pumpkin to remove a cancerous tumor, they found an endless hairball of disease. After a double shot of chemotherapy and radiation, little had changed, other than a quicker deterioration of his immune system.

Flipping his head, he focused on the deeper scar, a jagged cluster of raised skin running about six inches from the middle of his head down to his ear. Looked more like a mountain range on a topographic map, he thought. Once a source of pride for surviving a shank mugging during a stint in prison, it now only represented a lost soul.

Through the mirror’s reflection of the drawn shades, he could tell the sun was setting behind the building on the west side of the complex. Flipping on a light switch, he shuffled to a makeshift closet, his clothes already picked out. He took a blue and cream silk shirt off a hanger, then turned back to the mirror as he slipped one arm through the sleeve.

A quick flash. His eyes caught the edge of the tattoo on his triceps. Turning slightly, he flexed the muscle, showing stripes of powder blue and white extending from a red triangle with a white star in the middle. A pole anchored the Cuban flag, but it was the arched dagger in the middle of the flag that made his heart pump a little faster.

He could feel his teeth grinding as he pushed his second arm through and buttoned the front.

A fly buzzed by his face, but he ignored the pest and walked to his bed, eyeing his options. Tan with black ribbon or white with black ribbon. He picked up the tan fedora and set the hat on his head, angled it slightly, and moved back to the mirror to take in the essence of his outfit. Classy was the first word that came to mind.

Straightening the flat collar against his torso, he could feel the fine silk slide between his fingers, the most precious tools he possessed. He’d gone without luxuries his entire life, but on his way out of Florida, he’d taken one last liberty—donations to his cause, he termed it.

He waltzed to his side table, lifted the lid of his Montecristo cigar box, and plucked the one farthest to the left. Holding it up like a trophy, a smile crossed his lips, his mouth already watering at the anticipation of lighting it up.

“Better enjoy this one. Only three remain after tonight.”

He pulled out his father’s lighter, lit the cigar, and puffed three times, then strode to the exit.

“Don’t want to be late. I’ve got a date tonight.”

The door slammed shut, leaving nothing more than a lingering smell of the world’s finest cigar.

8

Justin’s ponytail fluttered behind him as he swooped behind my barstool, carrying three mugs of beer in each hand. If he wasn’t careful I might have to change his nickname from One Nut to White Lightning.

Nah. Given his football accident while returning a kickoff in junior college, and our long, sometimes immature history while being running buddies, One Nut was the only nickname that truly fit Justin Grabowski. Simply because it annoyed him the most. Isn’t that what friends are for?

I slurped a straw full of Sprite—I had a rule about not drinking the hard stuff until I was finished interacting with clients—then popped in a couple of cashews. The Jewel was buzzing early on Friday evening, a gentle roar accentuated by an occasional laugh or shout across the bar as another patron walked in. The crowd tonight was mostly young, urban, and professional, what Momma called Yuppies back in the day.

“Coming through!”

Creases stretched across Justin’s forehead as he squeezed between two blondes that he never noticed, his feet moving at a quick clip.

“Hey, Alisa.” I called down the bar, but she held up a finger while using a rag to wipe up remnants from a couple giggling at each other after one had knocked over a drink. Alisa asked if they needed a refill, then she headed my way.

“Hey, Booker, I know we need to talk, but it’s crazy busy.” She cleaned three glasses, then restocked the ice barrel with bottled beers.

“When’s my meeting with Darla Yates?”

“Eight o’clock. She had an event to attend in honor of Albert, put on by Evergreen Energy over at the Belo Mansion.”

“Speaking of Ever—”

“Hold that thought,” she said, then tossed a couple of drink napkins on the bar next to me and asked two customers what they wanted to drink. Faster than I could say, “Where the hell is Justin Grabowski,” she snatched two wine glasses off the bar, poured one red and one white, and placed the drinks in front of the two ladies with the grace of a swan.

She turned in my direction and forced out a breath. “If you throw in a twenty-dollar tip, I’ll spin plates too.”

“Nice.” I clapped my hands twice. “I don’t have twenty bucks on me. What will you do for a dollar?”

“You looking for a table dance, Booker?” Justin came out of nowhere, his mouth leading the way.

Alisa’s face turned fire engine red, nearly matching her lips. “You can take that table dance and cram it up your—”

“Hold on, Alisa. I think Justin spoke before thinking. Right, Justin?” I was trying to save my buddy, Alisa’s other boss.

“You say something?” Justin’s eyes never glanced at Alisa or me. He was too busy running numbers on the ten-key, spitting out paper, and studying it.

“This is what I get from Justin these days.” Alisa spoke loud enough for Justin to hear, but he hadn’t heard a word. “He’s so damn busy with that food truck, Fajita Rita’s, I’m left running the whole place myself.”

Justin sidled up to the bar.

“Hey, Alisa, I gotta take off. I’m running the evening shift on the food truck. Should be a big night. Great weather. Gonna park that sucker next to Klyde Warren Park and let the smells pull in hungry customers.”

Another sigh. “You said you weren’t working the food truck tonight. You do remember

saying that earlier, right?”

“What? I’m sorry.” He’d already grabbed a pen out of Alisa’s apron, his mind leaping to another topic, and started jotting down notes…for the food truck business, undoubtedly.

“You see?” Alisa stuck out a hip, holding up an annoyed hand. “It’s difficult to put in the time and focus for Booker & Associates when I’ve got to hold down the entire bar and babysit Justin too.”

“Did you say something?” he asked.

She opened her mouth, but he didn’t let her say a word. He leaned in and gave her a peck on the cheek. “You’re the best, Alisa.” He turned and scooted toward the front door, discarding a bar towel on the way. “Remind me to tell the owner that you deserve a raise.” He waved and flew out the door.

Alisa’s glare turned from the door to me. Shrugging my shoulders, I offered a bit of good news. “At least we know that our first client is finally receiving the money that David stole from her.”

“Another member of the Grabowski family.” Alisa sighed, surveying the bar. Then, like a shooting star, her face came alive, displaying a wry grin.

“Booker, you’re a man of many talents. Have I told you that?”

“Uh, never. I’ll play the game. What’s up?”

Her amber eyes shifted across the bar’s landscape. “You need to be at the Yates house in less than an hour. Help me help you. Sound familiar?”

“Jerry Maguire. I think I’m getting the picture. What do you need?”

She tossed a bar apron at my chest. “Don’t want to mess up your cool vibe. You work the bar, and I’ll feed you the orders. We’ll catch up here in a few minutes and then I can share my research with you. Believe me, it’s good stuff.”

Tying off the stained apron, I pulled around to other side of the bar, and my perspective instantly changed. All I saw were faces, some puzzled by my presence, others just glaring in my direction while speaking at the same time, presumably to a friend. Many waggled half-empty drinks. Justin would see opportunity. I felt like I was center stage performing a one-act play under a heated spotlight. The role of bartender, a job in which I had no experience. My audience consisted of half-drunk professionals who weren’t in the mood for experiments.

Part of me wondered if I’d magically swapped places with Justin, looking at the world through his eyes. Who was I fooling? I didn’t see dollar signs, so I couldn’t have shape-shifted into Justin’s skinny little body.

“Two beers, bottled. Heinekens.” Alisa smacked the end of the bar while carrying a tray of empties to the back.

I paused for a split second, then realized she was talking to me. I hopped a step, my eyes searching for the chest full of beer and ice. Next to the fountain drinks. I scooted in that direction, lifted a couple of bottles, but came up empty. I heard two more slaps on the bar and jerked my head right to find Alisa playing the drums against the surface, her eyes scanning the room. Just as I turned back to my Heineken search, a higher-pitched clinging sound got my attention.

“Hey, can we get a refill?” A man wearing an orange-colored scarf—it was April in Dallas—

held up an empty mug and clinked the glass with his ring finger as if he expected me to bolt out of the gate like a horse at the Kentucky Derby.

“What’re you drinking tonight?” I tried to play the part, act like I’d been there before.

“He’s having a Michelob Light. I’ve got a Silver Bullet.”

I must have had an empty look on my face. What the hell was a Silver Bullet?

“You know, Coors Light? Ah, I guess you’re too young to remember.”

I ignored the age dig and tried to remind myself I was doing this for Alisa. And because of Justin.

“Right, Mich Light and Coors Light, coming right up!” I said with a flair that was the polar opposite of my confidence at this stage.

“Booker. Two Heinekens?”

“I’m on it.” Plowing through cubes of ices, I started to lose feeling in my fingers. Loads of ice swooped over the side onto the floor, but my club hands kept up the search, my pulse clocking at a pace that would normally be associated with jogging a six-minute mile.

“Check the fridge.” Alisa shouted instructions, all too logical for my overtaxed brain.

Flipping around on my heels, the fridge was right in front of me. I opened the door, spotted two green bottles. Holding one under my armpit, I attempted to twist off the cap in my hand. It wouldn’t budge. I widened my stance and made a second noble attempt.

“Fuck!” I wondered if anyone heard that.

“Try the bottle opener.” Alisa again with another logical instruction.

I held up a hand, as if I was saying I know that, and searched the back bar. Just to my left I saw the bottle opener, and I moved in that direction. One step, and I tripped over the still-open fridge door, something sharp clipping my leg.

“Booker, watch out!” I heard Alisa yell.

Glancing down, a bowl of cherries slithered onto the grimy floor. I dropped to my knees and tried to use my hands to contain the oil spill. Caging those little suckers was like trying to tackle fifty greased pigs. It wasn’t happening. I’m sure someone was catching all of this on a cell phone and would be posting it to Facebook and Instagram in minutes: “PI can’t find cherry with both hands.”

I shoveled as many cherries as I could capture back into the bowl, shut the fridge door, and took two steps, crushing a dozen of those suckers along the way. I stopped in my tracks, my teeth clenched. I had just put dirty cherries back into the same bowl as the clean ones. Looking around the bar at my audience, all eyes stared at me, not a single one blinking.

“Sorry about that,” I said for some unknown reason.

I removed the cherry bowl from the fridge, setting it off to the side, then grabbed the bottle opener and popped off one top while sliding across the floor toward Alisa with my cherry-soled boots.

Snatching the other Heineken from my armpit, she placed it at the edge of the bar and dropped the heel of an open palm. The top jumped off and fell to the stained concrete.

“It’s really just that easy.”

I felt like a sixteen-year-old kid working my first-ever job, a very odd position for a South Dallas guy who’d always had plenty of street smarts and more than enough confidence to tackle any task head-on. Right now, I think my audience viewed me as a prepubescent freshman placed on the varsity team.

“Don’t worry, it gets easier.” Alisa winked. “Finish up with the backlog here at the bar, then we should have a couple of minutes to catch up.”

Inspired that I’d soon be free from bartending jail, I felt a burst of energy.

“Okay, Mich Light and Coors Light, draft. I got you.” I clapped my hands once, then pulled the keg levers, ensuring I kept the mugs tilted so foam wouldn’t fill the glass—an added benefit from a University of Texas degree.

The pair nodded as I placed mugs of beer in front of them. Two happy customers anyway.

Determined to double the happy pool, I shifted left.

“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.

No way was I touching that topic tonight. Alisa would have to work her research magic, find the pool boy, and determine if there was any truth to it before I confronted Darla—who I still hoped would be a paying client. The two thoughts obviously didn’t mesh well together, though.

“Actually, it was Greg who saved his ass.”

“Greg?”

“Greg Harris, Evergreen’s head of communications. With the stock price and the company’s reputation taking hit after hit, on top of negotiating the acquisition of a smaller competitor, dealing with at least two foreign governments who had changed the terms of their contracts without justification…I think Albert couldn’t get his head wrapped around a strategy on how to deal with the tree-huggers. Until Greg stepped up. He’s a good man, someone you always want at your side. As opposed to just responding to the allegations, Greg took a proactive approach.

He was all about a strong offense,” she said, shaking a finger, apparently infused with a shot of energy.

“A strong offense,” I repeated.

“He presented a sweeping public relations campaign to create a new reputation for

Evergreen to the Board, hitting every media out there, including mole bloggers who they paid on the side to make it look like at least some of this new, positive vibe was a homegrown, grassroots effort. Truly, it was a genius move.”

“I’m assuming it worked.”

“Brilliantly. It took a couple of months and several million dollars, but the number of protestors slowly dropped, as did the lawsuits, online attacks. They couldn’t deal with the heavy artillery from Greg’s PR machine.”

I made a mental note about her seeming infatuation with the brilliance of one Greg Harris. It could all be nothing more than supporting a victory for her husband’s company. Or it could be something completely different. Alisa’s voice swept through my mind again. “Aren’t we trying to get paying clients? ”

I swallowed back a chortle. “So, I guess we’ve checked environmental groups off the list of folks who recently might be viewed as a threat to Albert?”

“I guess so.” Her eyes questioned the validity of my assessment.

“Not convinced?”

“I can’t say anything for certain. But a few weeks ago Albert hired a security guard to stand watch at night.”

“Albert didn’t give you a reason?”

“When I asked him about it, he actually laughed at himself, saying he was probably just being paranoid, but he wanted to make sure his family was safe. Turns out he was the one who wasn’t safe.”

She pulled a tissue from a box and dabbed the corners of her eyes.

“Sorry I’m such a mess. But I know you need to get something in writing. That is why

you’re here?”

Once again, her perceptiveness caught me by surprise. I rested my elbows on my knees. “Do you want me to try to supplement the police effort to find the perpetrator who killed your husband or who might have been involved?”

I had to be blunt, only to show if I took this case I’d let the truth dictate my path. I would not allow my work to become a PR campaign for Darla. I didn’t work that way. I couldn’t work that way.

“From the sound of it, you think his murder could be…more involved?”

“At this stage, I don’t rule out any scenario. The information you provided tonight was helpful. But you must know if I take this case, my firm will investigate everyone, and I mean everyone who has any connection to Albert.”

Her lips parted, and she twirled a strand of hair. “Me included?”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She reached over and extended an arm. “Shake on it?”

I got out of my seat and shook her hand. “I’ll have my, uh…partner, Alisa, email you a contract, just to make it official.”

“I’ll sign it tonight.”

“Hey, Mom, have you seen my baseball?” Jared lumbered into the living room, not as

agitated as he was earlier.

“Oh, hey, Jared. I have something I want to show you when you have a minute,” I said.

“Sure.” He paused, then glanced at his mom.

“I think I last saw it on the kitchen bar, dear, near the caddy holding all of our cell phones and tablets.”

Jared ambled back into the living room, a smile on his face, tossing his autographed Clayton Kershaw baseball. Lifting from my chair, I walked to the kitchen table and picked up a thick book.

“Is that the book you were telling me about? Talks about the great Bob Gibson?” Jared asked, leaning down to the open book on the table.

“Did you know that Denny McClain won thirty games that season? He was the last pitcher to win thirty games.”

“I had no idea.” Jared’s eyes opened wide with interest.

“Were you aware of the silent demonstration of two black athletes at the Summer Olympic Games in Mexico City?”

“I think I recall something about black power.”

I chuckled. “It’s all detailed in this book. But this isn’t all about sports. It bridges sports into other important events. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated, then two months later Robert Kennedy was killed while campaigning in Los Angeles. There were riots in Chicago,

demonstrations all over the country. President Lyndon Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act. A time that impacted so many people then, and even now. The summer of 1968.”

Closing the book, I handed it the kid who’d just lost his dad.

“You letting me borrow it?”

“If you promise to read all of it, it’s yours to keep.”

Jared lunged forward and wrapped his arms around my chest. I could see his mother looking my way, bringing a tissue to her face. Then she mouthed, “Thank you.” I nodded and patted his back, then he ran over to his mother and nestled against her. “Hey, Mom, where were you and Dad when Bobby Kennedy was assassinated?” They skimmed the book, Darla truly engaged in her kid’s life for a change.

“Mr. Adams, can I get you a drink now?” Helen stood at the sink, washing dishes by hand.

That woman never stopped moving.

“It’s Booker. But thanks anyway. I’ll be leaving here in a minute.”

Turning to the windows, I assessed the current weather conditions. Rain whipped across the back in sheets, almost horizontal during some swells. Skies flashed briefly, and thunder had calmed to a somber growl.

Suddenly, motion. Yellow. I took a step forward, opened the shutter even wider.

There it was again. I squinted, moving my head to see if the poor visibility had tricked my eyes. Out of the gray haze, a person in yellow was stepping tree to tree, trying to hide their movement, it appeared.

Without thinking, I rushed to my left and swung open the back door.

“Call nine-one-one!” I yelled and jumped onto the patio then down the steps in one giant leap. Already soaked head to toe, I slowed down, narrowed my eyes, searching for the target.

Swinging my elbow against my torso, I was reminded I’d left my Sig Saur in the safe at home. I ignored the ping of danger in the back of my mind and darted back into a full sprint, racing around the enormous pool, so large it felt like I was running the first turn on my old high school track.

A pool chair. I leaped at the last second, my boot clipping the edge. I stumbled, used my hand to stay upright, and kept churning my legs. Weaving around two tables, an umbrella, and a float that had just blown across the flagstone, I regained my stride. The rush of the driving rain had silenced the smack of my shoes as I spotted the person in yellow heading toward the canopy, now flapping in the wind. I had to get to him before he realized I was coming after him, before he could pull out a weapon.

Just at the edge of the brush, I leaped outward, knowing the sound of my boot crunching twigs, leaves, and anything else in my path would announce my arrival. Landing on one leg, I thrust my arms up, launching my body as if I’d just made the final leap of a triple jump. As I floated through wet air, he spotted me just as he crouched down, I watched his hand reach behind his body, and my heart erupted in my chest, hoping I’d take him out before he could swing the firearm around and shoot me point-blank.

I hit the earth with reckless abandon, yelling at the top of my lungs just as my boot kicked his moving arm. I swung my elbow into his face, connecting with the bridge of his nose, stunning him. Without hesitating, I jumped on top of him and started throwing punches with all I had, my eyes searching for a weapon.

Hands covered his face. Thick hands. Chubby hands. A scream. It was coming from the man.

“Booker!”

A quick glance behind me. It was Darla, running in my direction, her black dress a wet rag, no shoes, her hair a soaking mop, makeup smeared to hell. She looked like the cover to a horror novel.

“Help!” the man said, and I stopped punching.

Darla grabbed my shoulder, her lungs gasping for air. “Stop, Booker, please.”

“Mom, Booker!” I heard a girl’s voice. Sophi.

“Mom!” This time it was Jared. Within seconds, the rain-soaked family arced around me, all leaning on their knees.

“That’s Tyler, our security guard,” Darla finally yelled over the howling storm.

I grabbed his wrists, pulled them away from his face.

“Tyler? NorthPark Tyler?” I almost couldn’t believe my eyes, but then I surveyed his outfit

—the yellow rain slicker covering his security-guard hat.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” I screamed over the rain.

“I think you broke my nose.”

I saw blood smeared on his face, his hands. I jumped up, then helped him stand.

“Let’s get him to the house,” I said to Darla.

She nodded, and the kids each took a Tyler elbow and guided him back through the pool area, strolling at a slow pace as if it was a normal spring evening. Finally under the cover of the back porch, Tyler sat on a green, padded lattice chair, his head leaning backward.

“Sophi, get the stacks of towels from the guest closet, quick. Jared, we need an ice pack.”

Each kid nodded confirmation and ran off. Discarding my weighted, rain-soaked jacket, I approached the pear-shaped security guard, his hand cupped against his nostrils.

“Sorry about the punch, Tyler.”

He tried opening his mouth, but his face bunched up. Then I noticed two cuts on his

forehead, a pair of black and blue eyes, and another bruise on the side of his chin. There’s no way I did that much damage. Or had I?

“Man, are you okay?”

Closing his eyes for a moment, Tyler finally spoke. “I saw my life flash before my eyes the other day. Then, Mr. Yates was murdered right behind me. God, I’ll never forget those sounds.”

“Wait, you were the one who was tied up?”

“The one and only.”

Dammit. Had Alisa told me that Tyler, the security director from NorthPark Center, was the Yates security guard who’d been assaulted and tied up by the person who killed Albert? I was either pissed at her for not communicating key facts in the case, or at myself for not paying attention.

The kids jumped through the open door, handing Darla the towels and ice pack. Sophi also had a roll of paper towels and what looked like a tube of makeup remover pads.

“I thought these might help stop the bleeding,” she said, leaning over and taking care of Tyler.

While it was odd to see Sophi in a caretaking mode, I didn’t interrupt her until Tyler seemed more settled.

“What happened at NorthPark?” I finally asked.

“Remember that Darth Maul shoe thief? He sued us, just like I thought he would.

Management blamed me for not training my people better, and they fired me. But things happen for a reason I guess. I ran into Mr. Yates over at the firing range. We got to talking, and the next thing you know, I’ve got a nice job here. What I thought would be easy-peasy. Guess I was wrong about that.”

“So, can I ask what you’re doing back here, at night, in the middle of a storm?”

He sighed, shaking his head. “I was at home healing up, searching the Internet for a security job, and then I realized I couldn’t find my watch. My wife gave it to me for our anniversary last year. So I got in my car and came over here, figuring it was lost in the brush by the pool shed somewhere. I didn’t want to bother anyone. Calling ahead might have been the wise thing to do, huh?”

“You’re welcome here anytime, Tyler,” Darla said, bringing her kids closer to her.

“Thank you, Mrs. Yates.”

Darla looked my way. “Maybe I should take up the offer from the Dallas Police Department, putting an officer at the house and one at the driveway entrance?”

“I didn’t know they offered. But in my official capacity as your private investigator, yes, please allow the DPD to put officers on your property.”

A couple of minutes passed. Tyler’s egg-yolk-colored slicker was now in a pile next to my jacket, and he was wrapped in towels like the rest of us. Makeup remover pads were stuffed up each nostril and an ice pack sloped across the bridge of his nose.

“The ice actually feels pretty good under my swollen eye. Thank you, Sophi, Jared. You guys are the best.”

Darla had an arm around each of her children, and she kissed the tops of their heads, closing her eyes with each moment. I knew the feeling with my Samantha.

I looked over at the window and saw Helen looking to heaven above, holding up two hands, a smile covering her face. I was right there with her.

10

A honking snort came from the top of the stairs, and Nancy Fitzwater prepared herself for the walking head cold, Marty.

Plodding down the last set of stairs at the Richardson Public Library, Marty’s swollen eyes came alive when he saw Nancy, who was about fifteen years his junior.

“Hi, Marty. Another Friday night at the library? Some people might start wondering about you.” Nancy teased the retired postal worker. Anything to lift his spirits. She wasn’t sure if he had any other physical ailments, but she couldn’t recall a Friday night in the last six months when he’d waltzed into the two-story building without a red nose and a fist full of tissues.

“It’s the perfect way to spend a weekend, what can I say.” He held out his arms, his face squeezing out a smile. Wearing his typical drab gray sweater, which drooped from all the cold medication he stuffed in the pockets, Marty crinkled his nose, then panted three times.

By sheer instinct, Nancy’s feet kicked off the back of the desk, launching her six feet in the opposite direction, clear of the soon-to-erupt germ mushroom cloud.

Ha chew!

“Marty, you need to learn to sneeze into your elbow, like this.” Nancy mimicked the move, as she had every week for the last six months. She’d never been blessed to have kids, but damn, Marty came awful close. Too bad he wasn’t a cute little ball of baby fat and about sixty-four years younger. Geez, she was really stretching it now.

“Six books, Marty. That’s a lot even by your standards.”

He turned and blew into a tissue, emitting a trombone-like sound. “What’s the saying about living vicariously through all the characters and stories? Well, for an old, lonely guy who doesn’t have much money and has spent his entire adult life delivering mail in one city, reading books takes my breath away over and over again.”

Bringing a hand to her chest, Nancy shook her head and smiled, part of her feeling sorry for Marty, while also realizing they shared a similar position in life. They’d fallen in love with books at least partially to help compensate for not having that special someone in their lives, not experiencing the tremendous peaks and valleys that create remarkable adventures. Majoring in creative writing from the University of Houston over twenty-five years earlier, Nancy had always imagined she’d pen novels, most likely focusing on historical fiction. But while she dabbled a few notes here and there over the years, she realized that her approach to life—taking no risks, always playing it safe—had left her with a cupboard barren of experiences to draw from.

At age fifty-one, she hadn’t been on a date in almost five years. The few invitations during that period had come from people just like Marty. She’d always hoped a Dr. McDreamy would saunter through the doors, sweep her off her feet, and take her away to exotic locations full of romance and adventure.

Unfortunately, she was a pragmatist, and she struggled at even keeping her fantasies alive longer than a few chapters in an engrossing book.

“I’m right there with you, Marty.” Nancy lifted her readers from the chain hanging around her neck, placing the metal-rimmed glasses on the bridge of her diminutive nose, then went through the process of thumbing through each book and scanning them into the computer system.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, reaching for Marty’s library card that he’d already placed on the counter. It looked like it had gone a few rounds in the washing machine, or possibly was dropped in boiling water. She held it up, comparing Marty of today with the photo on the laminated card.

“Umm. Marty, if you show this as identification to vote, people are going to wonder if you’re a plant by the other political party.”

Forcing out another horn-tooting nose blow, Marty’s face looked like it might explode from the congestion. “I’ve learned how to trick my mind. If I keep looking at pictures of myself from fifteen years ago, I’ll wake up one day and actually be fifteen years younger.”

Nancy giggled while placing his books in a plastic bag. “Oh Marty, you’ve read so much fiction that now you’re starting to believe in those fantasies.”

He gave her a wink then whistled while walking to the exit.

“Damn, Marty is like clockwork.”

Nancy’s boss, Rebecca, had just pushed up a fresh cart of books that would need to be catalogued.

“Friday night, nine forty-five. He’s as predictable as—”

“A postal delivery person,” Nancy said. The two ladies laughed while attending to their normal duties.

Chirp-chirp.

The familiar text tone of Rebecca’s smart phone. Nancy angled away from her co-worker, waiting for two lovebirds to drool over each other, virtually of course.

“Ah,” Rebecca said to her phone. Followed by, “Uh, huh.” Then, “Ooh, yeah.”

Unable to take anymore juvenile silliness—Rebecca had just turned thirty—Nancy pushed up from her chair, determined to find any other task to occupy her time in another part of the building, one that didn’t involve listening to Rebecca’s sexting session, or whatever it was.

“Hey, Nancy,” Rebecca said before Nancy had disappeared into the maze of book aisles.

“Do you mind if I go ahead and take off and let you close up? I think I saw two or three remaining folks, all on the second floor. I might have a surprise waiting for me once I open my apartment door, if you know what I mean.” Rebecca giggled.

“Of course, get out of here. You deserve it,” Nancy said. Before she finished responding, Rebecca had already pulled her purse out of a drawer and wrangled her keys.

“You’re the best, Nancy.” She pranced across the carpeted floor, placing a hand on Nancy’s back as she passed. “I’ll share all the details with you tomorrow.”

Nancy tried to smile back, and said, “Enjoy it…I mean, yourself.” That came out a little awkward. Rebecca hadn’t noticed, flicking a wrist as she smacked the metal bar on the exit door.

Releasing a lonely breath, Nancy caught her own reflection in the glass door, her vanilla pantsuit, the same vanilla cardigan sweater, and her timeless, vanilla haircut—straight out of the 1960s. Damn, she had nothing going on. Well, except for her six cats, who she knew would be clawing at the door once she got home.

Pushing positive thoughts into her frontal lobe, the career librarian bounced up to the second floor ready to shoo the last visitors out the door. Maybe she could stop and pick up a gelato on the way home, then put on her flannel pajamas, cuddle up with her six cats, and watch a steamy Hallmark made-for-TV movie. What gelato flavor would she pick? What else…vanilla bean.

Rounding the corner off the top of the stairs, Nancy passed the magazine and newspaper section, landing in the corner reading area where she and found a quiet, sharply dressed man sitting in one of the library’s cushiony, black leather chairs.

“Hi, sir. We’re about to close. So if you’d like to check out any books I can meet you downstairs.”

He tipped his hat and said, “Thank you for the warning. Just one more page.”

Nancy continued her typical closing path—searching for any leftover books sitting out, and the last remaining visitors. Turning her head in both directions while stepping down a long aisle, the first three rows were clear on both sides. On the fourth row, east side, a random book sat on the floor.

“Always cleaning up someone’s mess,” she said, accustomed to talking to herself. She

leaned down and picked up the hardback. “Oh, my.” The title was Sloppy Firsts: A Jessica Darling Novel. She’d read this young-adult romance book about a year earlier in one of her guilty pleasure moods. A warm sensation washed across her face, leaving her with red cheeks.

After placing the book back in the one open hole on the knee-high shelf, she continued her trek. Two rows later, again on the east side, a complete disaster.

“Shit,” she said under her breath, her heels pounding the floor en route to a cluster of books sprayed everywhere. Picking up a couple of hardbacks, she tried to make sense of it all. A James Patterson novel, Burn, sat on top of a mess of historical fiction books, including two by Ken Follett, The Pillars of the Earth and The World Without End. Under another pile, she found the red cover of Shogun by James Clavell. A true classic.

Shooting her eyes upward, the bookshelves looked like Swiss cheese, including a huge

chunk of air at about waist level. Was a library terrorist on some type of destructive rampage, purposely creating anxiety for those who sought harmony through structure and organization?

She had a mystery on her hands. Setting her jaw, she left the pile of books in disarray and marched back to the middle aisle, now on the hunt for the perpetrators who dared to mess with her library. Moving quicker with each step, she left the main area of books, angled right, heading for the room reserved for guest authors. In the distance, she saw the opening and the back of a couch, overstuffed black leather again.

She squinted. Were those two heads, almost so close they appeared to be one? Hitting fourth gear, she felt her cuffed pants pop against her ankles.

Ten feet away, the heads rose above the couch, then disappeared again. A boy and girl, both younger.

“I see you,” she said, over-enunciating. “You need to go pick up the mess you made and leave this facility.”

No response. She stuck out her arm and noticed the Patterson novel, Burn, was still in her grip. She might use it to whack some sense into them.

“I said…” Reaching the couch, all she saw was a white ass, the well-defined back end of a young male, quite athletic, it appeared. “What?” is all that came out, her eyes trying to look away, while at the same time noticing his perfectly shaped ass move up and down in a rhythmic pattern. Damn, he looked like a model, and she envisioned a sensuous scene from one of those Tracy Brogan romance novels, Crazy Little Thing, Sadie and her hunky neighbor Desmond.

She got lightheaded and finally had to turn away, fanning herself. Lips smacked, and maybe something else, she couldn’t tell. This wasn’t exactly her area of expertise.

Suddenly, muffled voices, then rustling against the leather. “Someone is actually here?” she heard a girl ask in a concerned tone.

“Yes, I’m here,” Nancy said with surprising authority.

“Oh, shit. You said no one would come here.” The girl spoke in a whisper, but she sounded stressed, and even pissed.

“I…uh…” is all the boy could say in response.

“I’m still here by the way.” Nancy touched her neck, and it felt on fire.

Get it together, Nance. You’re twice their age, but you act like you’ve just watched your first PG-13 movie. Geez!

After a few snaps and trouser pulls, Nancy finally spoke: “Are you appropriately dressed?”

“Yes,” they said in monotone tandem.

Turning around, she saw two good-looking youngsters, timid and embarrassed from the

looks of it. The boy’s hands were stuffed in his front pockets, the girl’s arms clinched under her breasts, her flowing blond hair stuffed in her beige sweater.

“Is this legal?” Nancy asked, realizing it was difficult to guess the exact age of kids these days.

“We’re home for the weekend. We’re both freshmen at LSU,” the boy said, still not looking Nancy in the eyes. “Just not used to being back under the roof of our parents’ houses, if you know what I mean.”

A single nod. “I know what you mean.” Not really, but she had to play the adult role.

“Before you leave, I’d like for you to go clean up the mess of books on row six, plus anywhere else I haven’t spotted.”

“Okay,” the girl said, looking at her nails.

The two ambled off while Nancy made a quick inspection of the room, making sure they

didn’t leave behind any clothes or, even worse, condom packages. Out of nowhere, Nancy heard quick steps. Moving back to the entrance, between the spotty shelves of books, she saw the two kids racing across the second floor, then disappearing down the stairs.

“Really?” The college students were too lazy or rude to clean up their mess.

Nancy huffed out a breath. To top it all off, she allowed herself to recognize she might be the only person in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex tonight that wasn’t getting any. Just like every other night.

Walking at a slower pace, the Burn novel clutched to her chest, she ambled down the aisles looking for the rightful resting place for one of the million Patterson books. Anything to keep her mind off you-know-what.

“Thrillers,” she said to herself, running a finger across the titles on row seven.

Suddenly, something razor-thin clamped against her neck, instantly cutting off her airflow.

Gagging for oxygen, she twisted her head, but the wire sliced into her skin, firing off laser-hot spears of pain. Her eyes felt like they were popping out of their sockets, as she heard herself gasp for air. An arm fell to her side, and she felt something smooth, silk maybe. Somehow, dots connected. It must be the tailored blue and white shirt of the man sitting in the lounge area— the calm, pleasant man who was reading a book with a yellow cover, red title.

Why…why is he doing this?

Tiny flecks of light flickered all around her, the edges of her vision slowly closing in.

Beyond the smell of blood, she picked up a leathery, tobacco scent, possibly a cigar.

The beast wouldn’t let up, carving a deeper trench into her neck. Seconds away from her brain shutting down, her mind and heart fused together, searching for the anchors that had defined her life. But she had few, if any, memorable moments, and regret consumed her, what-ifs filling her oxygen-depraved mind. Her greatest regret? To have never felt love…true love, unbridled love, where it throbs in your core when your lover is in pain. Rebecca, the college kids, so many others she’d crossed paths with, had experienced the ultimate intimacy, but she had not. She’d never had the guts to put herself out there, to go for it. And now she’d die among a sea of books, one of the few things that evoked emotion in her vanilla life.

One final jerk of her neck, and all she could feel was a thick, dry tongue. And for the woman who’d never felt true love, her heart thumped for the last time.

11

“Screw you, bitch. Screw you, bitch. Screw you, bitch.”

“Did you say something, Booker?” Eva, my ex-fiancée, had just called to remind me to

bring my high-end camera to our daughter’s first-ever soccer game.

“It’s just Big Al. You know him,” I said, panting after just finishing my seventy-fifth push-up.

“Yeah, I only know he repeats what he hears. Sounds like you’re being quite the example for Samantha.”

While my pulse had begun to dip below a hundred after finishing an abbreviated version of my morning workout, it took a swift turn north upon hearing Eva’s jab. Knowing I’d never speak like that in front of my little girl, I attempted to take the high road.

“Samantha only hears her dad saying nice things. No four-letter words thrown around here.”

“Then where did your blue-feathered friend pick up that phrase?”

I had no idea, but I’d recently asked a cleaning agency to give my condo the once-over.

They could have said something…maybe directed at Big Al.

“Who knows, but it wasn’t me. Trust me.”

Without thinking, I’d just uttered a phrase that pushed Eva’s button, if taken in the wrong context. This one would be close.

“Okay. I believe you.”

Nice to see she’d learned to look beyond our checkered history. Maybe it had something to do with her rosy future with her new boyfriend, Sergeant Thom Bradford.

We ended the call, and I took a quick shower and finished getting ready by pulling an old gray sweatshirt over my head—the one used normally for stakeouts, the type where I usually ended up face down in a muddy trench or a soupy puddle of oil and gas taking covert images of a secret tryst.

A few months earlier, after watching Spencer Pittman and his former USC cheerleader/porn star girlfriend, Lola, engage in a stomach-turning fetish involving a sexy nurse outfit, pounds of peanut butter, a ping pong paddle, and the old man’s testicles in the sleaziest motel I’d ever stepped foot in, my belief that humankind was still evolving was put in serious doubt.

I’d also seen the great lengths men and women alike took to humiliate their cheating

spouses, or even significant others. Revenge consumed many of our clients, to the extent where they’d sacrifice their own reputation just to see their partners burn. The former Mrs. Pittman took tremendous pleasure in using one of my prized shots of Lola spanking Spencer and splashing it on a prominent billboard alongside Central Expressway. She added the caption: “Mr. Smooth at Work.”

Slipping on an old pair of running shoes and a barn coat, I grabbed my keys and opened the door to my condo.

“So long, Booker. So long, Booker,” he squawked.

I glanced at Big Al’s cage, and he proceeded to defecate at that exact moment.

“Thanks, Big Al. Just what I needed.”

I locked up, took no more than a few steps down the hallway, and found myself in front of Cindy Valentino’s condo. Before a couple of months ago, I wouldn’t have been able to walk by her condo without being accosted. The boorish twenty-something girl with a knockout body and horse-like face had spent a better part of a year trying to spike our relationship, so to speak. Not only was she aggressive in her relentless pursuit of my junk, but she went about it in a way that redefined awkward behavior. While she’d shown to have a heart under her sizable chest, she had more moves than Walter White had excuses in Breaking Bad.

But all of that had ended a couple of months earlier when she and my old college buddy, Henry Cho, had bonded over the hilarity of the Pittman peanut butter billboard. Cindy had actually been the one who had spotted it and taken a picture.

The world hadn’t seen a couple any different than the braniac son to Chinese and Filipino parents who held the position of Dallas County assistant district attorney and the bubbleheaded niece to an organized crime boss who worked as…what? Actually, I had no clue about her employer, what mechanism funneled her money to live a pretty good life. Then again, Vincent Sciafini was her uncle.

The Saab 9-3 started on the first try. I drove about eight blocks east, over to a park behind Samantha’s school, Ignacio Zaragosa Elementary. With my newish digital camera stashed away in my oversized coat, I stood next to my car, my eyes hidden behind my Ray-Bans, searching the sprawling park for a sea of pink. Samantha’s team was called the Pink Ladies.

“Hey, Booker. We’re over here.”

Veering my sight about forty-five degrees, I saw the waving arm of Eva, Thom at her side, next to a miniature soccer field with goals about the size of my living room chair.

A brisk wind filled my ears, the temperature hovering in the low fifties, a few cotton ball clouds drifting across a vivid blue sky. After the previous night’s downpour, I knew today would be a mudfest, both for the fans and the actual players.

“Hey, Eva, Thom. Good to see you.” I stepped around a mud pit, then Thom and I shook

hands.

“Booker. How’s it going?” Most of Thom’s red face had withdrawn inside clinched

shoulders and an oversized, pea green coat. He looked like a turtle.

“We need to talk, during a break or after the game,” I said.

He nodded, but held his glare as if I’d crossed some imaginary line between personal and professional lives. As a self-employed owner of a little startup business, I couldn’t afford not to take advantage of our chance encounter. My paying clients wouldn’t let me hide behind bureaucratic excuses like those who received a regular government paycheck.

“This is so exciting. Samantha’s first soccer game.” Bouncing up and down with little mini claps, Eva was showing more girlish excitement than I could recall.

“Two college scouts were in the parking lot looking for the Pink Ladies game.” I smiled, then moved toward the sideline to gain a better position for taking pictures with my Cyber-Shot DSC-RX10 digital camera. Smaller than the palm of my hand, the camera somehow still fit into my oversized mitts like it was a mold. It had set me back over a thousand bucks, but had proven to be my most effective PI tool. Just through the Pittman case alone, I’d easily recouped my investment.

“Don’t touch my new Cole Haans with your muddy work boots. I was here first,” said a man to my right.

I’d been playing with the settings on my camera, but lifted my head once I heard those terse words. Before I could assess the level of conflict, my eyes stopped blinking for a second, taking in the nut-to-butt procession of dads down the entire length of the soccer field sideline. Well, almost. I glanced left to ensure no one was within nut range of any part of my body, then tried to comprehend the lunacy of these helicopter parents.

Wait. Should I be included in that category?

“Don’t cause a scene, you little jerk. Just because you’re dumb enough to wear fancy leather shoes to a muddy soccer game doesn’t mean you have the right to own the ground you’re standing on. I got here first; this is my spot. Take a hike.” A large man wearing a red flannel shirt over another T-shirt jerked his thumb backward, then held his stare on the shorter man who had a yellow sweater draped around his shoulders, tied in front.

The preppy guy swatted at the thumb and missed, then took a half-step toward the larger man, and within seconds, they appeared to fuse at their chests, each one daring the other to raise arms, throw a punch, or even shove the other one.

I shook my head, amazed at the ease in which these two dads were ready to throw down just before our five-year-old daughters were about to play in their first soccer game.

“You want a piece of me?” The larger guy’s lips moved, but his teeth didn’t budge, like he had lockjaw.

“Ooh. If I wanted to, I could take you down right here and now, you big oaf. I’ll call you Shrek.” The preppy guy turned around and laughed, trying to drum up support for his stupid cause.

“Ha. If I’m Shrek, then you’re Donkey. Nothing but an ass.” The larger man spoke with an Irish lilt.

Comical, if it wasn’t so damn annoying…and embarrassing for every other dad. Hell,

anyone over the age of thirteen was probably rolling their eyes.

“Gentleman, I need to ask both you to separate, move away from the sideline.”

I heard the authoritative, but composed voice, then twisted my neck around to see who finally couldn’t take any more.

It was a kid. Well, a tall, athletic teenager who wore a referee uniform.

“I know you really just want to see your kids play in a soccer game, not get in a fight and force me to call the cops. You’d be suspended by the league, not allowed to see your daughters play the rest of the season. Do you want that?”

The knuckleheads both shook their heads, arms at their sides like…five-year-old kids.

Who was the parent?

“Good. Please do as I asked, then I can get this game going.”

The two jerks separated and plodded back to their respective spouses, and a smattering of applause could be heard from the rest of the crowd as the ref jogged back to the middle of the field.

I spotted Eva in the crowd, and she shrugged her shoulders, probably happy she didn’t have to turn into Eva the cop. Then she would have missed Samantha’s game, and those two bozos would have drawn her wrath. That part would have been fun to watch.

The whistle blew, and chaos erupted. The Pink Ladies, including my Samantha, wore stylish earmuffs, stocking caps, and mittens as they chased a black and white ball like a cat chasing its tail. All the while, the Lil’ Devils did the same, wearing a red and black design. Parents yelled instructions, everyone talking over the one next to them. No way in hell any of the girls could hear a word of coaching. All of the insanity forced out a chuckle.

I noticed two girls, one from each team, at the far end of the field sitting on the ground.

Bringing the camera to my eye, I found they were right in the middle of a moat of goopy mud, playing pat-a-cake. And yes, their hands were coated with mud, both girls giggling each time their hands smacked the other, slinging mud into the hair of their new friend. As I took five or six quick shots, the ball escaped the beehive of girls at the other end of the field and rolled right up to them. The Pink Lady reached over and pushed the ball away with her hand, as if it was interrupting their playtime, and then she and her Lil’ Devil friend returned to their pat-a-cake fun.

Before I could get off another shot, I started laughing so hard I couldn’t keep steady, and most of the other parents joined in.

Seconds later, the swarming hive of soccer bees chased after the ball headed toward the goal at my end, a girl from each team just ahead of the pack. The race was on, parents cheering at the top of their lungs like they were watching the home stretch at the Kentucky Derby. Who would get there first?

The Pink Lady edged ahead, the swell of the cheers rising with each loping stride. But just as quickly, she lost track of the ball when she started waving to her adoring fans as if she could already envision herself accepting the gold medal for the United States women’s soccer team sixteen years later.

Seizing the opportunity of her young little life, the Lil’ Devil cut past her taller, distracted opponent and swung her leg back for a mighty kick—she wasn’t aware that she was about to kick the ball into her team’s net. But the accuracy of her follow-through didn’t match her intensity, and she rolled her foot on top of the ball, which sent her flopping to the turf. A cascade of “oohs” poured through the crowd. Then the girl started crying.

The Pink Lady had recovered, though, and attempted to leap over her opponent and kick the still ball in one fluid motion—a World Cup move if I’d ever seen one. Predictably, she failed on both attempts, her cleat crunching into the Lil’ Devil’s shin, causing another outburst of tears.

The Pink Lady stumbled, falling face first into a patch of mud. Then she started crying.

All was not lost, however, as another player, my Samantha, dodged the scrum, tapped the ball with her left foot, and wound up for a huge right-footed kick.

“Ahhh!” we all yelled as the ball clanged off the shaking goal bar.

But just as the air let out of the crowd, the ball bounced off the left goal bar so hard it ricocheted off her teammate’s head—now on her back throwing a tantrum—and the ball rolled into the middle of the net.

“Yes!” I heard Eva yell above the chorus of cheers as my Samantha jumped up and down, pumping her fists in the air, her braided pigtails lifting off her back.

Suddenly, she noticed a mob of Pink Ladies coming right for her. She cut left, then high-tailed it toward the sideline, her teammates on a mission to get to Samantha, to celebrate the goal by pouncing on top of her. The crowd’s verbal response was now tied to the chase for my daughter. Chants of “go, go, go” spurred on those in pursuit, but my little girl refused to give in and executed a near perfect figure eight, forcing two of the girls to run into each other. Onlookers responded with a pained “ouch,” and the chase continued. Lifting her head, Samantha’s eyes locked onto mine, and she ran right for me, leaping into my arms, her infectious laughter filling the air.

“Save me, Daddy,” she said through cute giggles and a missing tooth.

Holding her tight against my chest, I said, “I’ve got you, Mittens. I’ve got you.” Mittens was my nickname for Samantha, one I’d given her when she was a baby, her hands so chubby it was difficult to detect where one finger ended and the next began.

Leaning her head back, she grabbed my scruffy face, then put a finger to her mouth.

“Shhh, Daddy.” Her brown eyes shifted both directions, her voice in a loud whisper. “No one knows about my nickname. Let’s keep it between us, okay? Our secret.”

“Our secret.” I set her on the ground, and she walked to her teammates and gave each one a high five, including the girl who’d been playing in the mud.

A few other dads approached me, shaking my hand, thumping the side of my arm, as if I’d performed some amazing feat. I found the response strange, as if I had anything to do with Samantha’s goal, as lucky as it was.

By the time the game ended, every Pink Lady and Lil’ Devil had incurred at least one mud spill. We’d watched disinterest turn into goals for the other team, including one Pink Lady who was working on her dance moves in front of her own goal. With music apparently playing in her own head, she performed some type of leaping pirouette to escape a herd of rushing soccer players chasing after the ball. Goal for the Li’l Devils.

Fittingly, the game ended in a tie, 3-3, and no one seemed to care about not winning.

The parents arched arms overhead, creating a tunnel for the kids to run under, and if there were any hurt knees or feelings, they were quickly erased from memory.

“You know I can’t tell you anything about the Yates murder case that I don’t tell the media, right?”

Tom had just sidled up to me as I clicked through about fifty images of the game. Turning to face the height-challenged sergeant, I first noticed he’d allowed his neck to protrude from his green shell. I realized he was playing offense, as opposed to waiting for my questions. Not a bad strategy.

“I guess that can work both ways, right?” I emphasized the last word.

His forehead crinkled, and a confused look turned into a pouty one. I was beginning to see the real Thom Bradford, and I wondered what Eva saw in him.

“Work what both ways?”

Despite earning those sergeant stripes, Thom had yet to display his mastery of the English language, or an ability to add two plus two.

“Information. You catching my drift?”

He glanced away, smacking his lips. More confusion.

I had to dummy down my thought process. I attempted a fifth-grade level. “You’re hesitant to share information about the Albert Yates murder case with me because I’m not an employee of the DPD.”

He nodded, then quickly held up a nubby finger. “I didn’t say hesitant. I said I can’t. Won’t.”

It appeared he enjoyed his newly appointed throne, although it was made from government-issued bullshit.

Ignoring his self-defiance, I tried to complete the if-then statement. “Without receiving any help from your department, I’m going to be ‘hesitant’ to share any information I might stumble across. Are you following my line of thinking now?”

Out of the corner of my vision, I noticed Eva looking our way while she tended to Samantha and half-listened to a mother discussing motherly things, I assumed. Eva could listen in if she desired, but I wanted to keep Samantha out of any adult conversation.

“Are you suggesting that you’d withhold information from a police investigation?”

Once again, he attempted an offensive play.

“If you or anyone else in blue asks me a specific question, I’ll answer it to the best of my ability. But I’ve been hired by Darla Yates to try to figure out who murdered her husband. If I had no need to engage your team, then don’t expect me to voluntarily run into Northwest Division spilling my guts with all of the research we’ve completed.”

“We?”

The question had a mocking tone to it.

“Yes. Booker & Associates means more than one…where the alligator mouth opens this way.” I held up my wedged hand.

Thom rolled his eyes. “No offense, but I thought your work consisted of, essentially, placating your so-called clients, using your experience as a former DPD officer to make them think you were in the middle of the official investigation.”

“You’re using the term official to equate exclusive. And you know, as a licensed private investigator by the state of Texas, I’m allowed to conduct my own investigation, within the confines of the law.”

He nodded slowly.

“One more thing. I’m no babysitter. I don’t placate. I don’t bullshit. I put every ounce of energy into finding the truth, regardless of where it takes me or what I have to do to get it. No offense.”

Eva and Samantha waltzed up hand in hand, my little girl grasping a package of Twizzlers, saving Thom from further embarrassment. I was willing to classify our conversation as a tie.

He’d stuck his stubborn foot in the ground, then I painstakingly walked him through the ramifications if he intended on maintaining the same stance. Getting a key piece of information on the Yates case from him mattered very little at this point. As a new leader in the department, one whose path I’d likely cross going forward, he needed to understand the give-and-take relationship that would allow both entities to succeed. If he wasn’t going to give anything on his end, I sure as hell wouldn’t be offering anything on my end.

I pulled out a buzzing phone and found a text from Alisa.

“Check out the pictures.” I handed my camera to Eva, while I read Alisa’s text.

Dropin off chloe at vet, then headed to jewel

Good timing, I thought, then I sent a quick response.

1st one to jewel needs to tie Justin to bar. Later

“You might think you could be a photo journalist, but you didn’t get this picture.”

Eva handed me her phone. The image, or my emotions, almost made me choke. She’d

clicked the picture just as Samantha leaped into my arms, her face flush with wide-eyed jubilation, dimples in her cheeks.

“Wow,” is all I could muster. “Do you mind sending this to me? This one’s going on the wall.”

“Sure,” Eva said, taking me aside. “Everything okay between you and Thom?”

Uncertain what she thought she saw or how Thom might influence her opinion of my

business practices, I kept it neutral.

“Nothing major. Just an adult conversation about case management,” I said with a wink.

Leaning down, I gave Samantha a kiss on the head and we exchanged a fist bump, then I hoofed it toward my vehicle, the Silver Streak.

Ten minutes later, I sat in the lounge area of The Jewel, trying to figure out a way to hogtie the man who was vying for Entrepreneur of the Year.

“Any idea when your assistant is going to get her sweet ass into work so I can go help Dax prepare today’s food?”

Justin blew by me at supersonic speed, carrying a tray of empties. Early on a Saturday afternoon, an early season baseball game on the big screens, The Jewel was at about twenty percent capacity. Pretty normal. Justin had always been able to run the show on his own, but now it seemed like he’d shed his personal investment in the old bar—not monetarily, but in his level of commitment.

“She was your waitress before she was my assistant, or I guess, partner…whatever she is.”

Alisa and I had never formalized her formal title, other than she did anything I asked for a modest hourly wage. She was damn good at everything I threw at her, so part of me wondered how she’d handle working away from the bar/office as more of a field investigator.

Lines formed at the edges of Justin’s narrowed eyes, his lips moving but no sound. He’d completely zoned me out.

“Earth to Justin.”

Momentarily paused behind the bar, Justin was either saying his prayers or reciting his lines from an upcoming production. I tried to read his lips, but as skinny as they were, it was impossible.

Clearing my throat, I said, “Earth to One Nut, do you read me?”

Shaking his head out of his trance, Justin immediately returned to task mode, clinking four glass mugs while racking them in the bar. His mind was in another universe.

“Are you on acid or something?”

“Huh? Sorry. Working through some numbers in my head.”

“Care to share?”

Justin flipped a towel over his shoulder, resting both hands on the bar in front in him. “Ah, Booker.”

He glanced at me, then surveyed the room, appearing to look at the faded brown brick, the eclectic assortment of pictures on the far wall, wooden beams running across the ceiling.

I let Justin sort through whatever was going on in his head, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts.

“I don’t know, man.” A heavy sigh.

Twisting my head, I think he knew he couldn’t bullshit his best friend since the eighth grade.

“I’m just not sure I’m cut out to be in the bar business.”

I’d seen signs, but hearing him utter those words still sounded anti-Justin. “Not cut out.

Really? I thought you were just hitting your stride, building a loyal base. You’ve forgotten more about the bar business than I’ll ever know.”

“Eh.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Is it that blond temptress? She’s luring you into her lair?”

A puzzled look morphed into a comical smirk. “I wish. You got someone in mind?”

“No, dude. It was a figure of speech. The blond temptress is that sexy, trendy new truck food business. Fajita Rita’s. It just rolls off your tongue.”

“I know, right?”

Chuckling, I ambled to the bar, leaned an elbow against it. “You’re cracking me up. I think you’re going through a midlife crisis. Or at least a midlife small business owner crisis.”

“Damn straight he is.”

Turning our heads toward the front door, Alisa flipped off purple sunglasses, twisting her hourglass hips around random chairs in her path toward Justin and me.

“Don’t hold anything back now, Alisa. Sheesh.” Justin flung off his towel, popping it off the brass railing.

“You know I’m just yanking your chain.”

Justin peered up at Alisa, then over at me, his mouth turning up at the corners. “My chain hasn’t been yanked in six months,” he said, releasing a full-blown laugh, spinning himself around.

Not unaccustomed to teenage humor, Alisa rolled her eyes but still managed to smile. “By the look on your face, it looks like your dog died. If you had one.”

Justin gazed at Alisa, then smacked the counter with his towel.

“Are you thinking about selling this place?”

I heard concern in Alisa’s tone. I knew she relied on her tips at The Jewel to pay her bills.

The amount of money she earned from the PI business wouldn’t be enough to keep her afloat, unless I could use her in the field, at least part-time. That would give us more billable hours, increasing her paycheck while weaning her off the Justin teet.

“This food truck business is fascinating. Having a mobile restaurant takes the whole issue of waiting for people to come to you right out of the equation. Sure, we have Fajita Rita’s, but we could run three more just like it, emphasizing a different type of food. The possibilities are limitless.”

“I see,” Alisa said, slipping her glasses inside their cover and back into her bottomless pit of a purse.

Her eyelid twitched ever so slightly, and I could tell her mental wheels were spinning.

“Hey, Justin, you haven’t made a final decision on selling The Jewel, have you?”

“What? No. I just think I feel a little boxed in here, in more ways than one,” he said.

I couldn’t discount Justin’s feelings, and his vision for the food truck business made sense.

Hell, I was happy he and David were making a killing. That allowed David to pay back the so-called investment money he’d stolen from a host of widows—including Justin’s sister, Jenna.

Besides the fact I’d been able to barter my office space just above Justin’s bar in exchange for running security on nights when he featured a popular local band or former local rap legend, a.k.a. Vanilla Ice, The Jewel had grown to be a bit of a home away from my condo. A respite from my obnoxious macaw, Big Al.

“If I make a decision, you guys will be the first to know. But I also don’t want to leave you hanging, either one of you.” He waved a hand toward each of us.

A phone rang. Justin held up a finger and turned to speak into his cell.

I said, “Nothing to worry about. I hope you know that, Alisa.”

She curled her bottom lip under a tooth in a cute kind of way. “Easy for you to say,” she said, not looking my way.

I touched her shoulder, and she turned her amber eyes in my direction. Disappointed eyes.

“I don’t want you to worry. We’ll work something out, even if Justin kicks us both out. Trust me.”

She leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek, catching me off guard. “Thank you Booker.”

“Alisa, hey, is that you?”

My blond assistant/partner gave me a wink and flipped around, apparently not surprised to see Cindy Valentino strutting toward her. Cindy gave Alisa a double air kiss, her lips smacking chewing gum.

“Booker, how’s it going?”

The one-act circus show known as Cindy had distracted me, and I hadn’t seen Henry

shuffling in behind her.

I reached out, shook his hand. “Man, it’s been a while.”

Shifting his eyes toward Cindy, he grinned. “I’ve been busy. What can I say?”

“We’ll be back in a minute, fellas. Just need some girl-talk time.” Alisa draped an arm around Cindy, and the pair of unlikely friends walked around the bar into the kitchen.

“Didn’t know they were friends.” I tried like hell to not say anything derogatory about Henry’s new flame, my old stalker, Cindy.

“Yeah, I think Cindy looks up to Alisa, like a big sister.”

Had I entered a world where everything was opposite of what made logical sense? Alisa acting as a big sister to Cindy was as odd as Henry dating Cindy. “That’s cool.” There was a moment of silence, then I said, “Can I get you a non-alcoholic beverage? Justin’s okay with me pouring out a Coke or Sprite.”

“Uh…sure. Sprite’s good,” Henry said, stuffing hands deep in his pockets, his body

suddenly tense.

I wheeled around the bar, found a glass, dipped it in the ice bucket, and filled his glass with the carbonated drink. “Here you are.”

“Listen, Booker…”

I’d seen that look before. A look of mournful pity. “Henry. You’ve got something to tell me about…”

Saying the name of my ex-girlfriend—the one who’d murdered two innocent girls because of some psycho jealous issue—was something I’d been able to avoid. It brought back way too many memories. Categorizing her as more of a generic murdering psycho as opposed to one who made my heart bounce like no one else before her somehow allowed me to move on with my life, even though she’d disappeared from authorities and had been on the run for the last few months.

I could feel my pulse starting to increase with every second Henry stood there, a pained expression on his face.

“Come on now. I won’t break. Spit it out.”

He released a deep breath. “I figured you’d want to know this before you read it online or, worse yet, someone from the media sticks a microphone in your face asking for your comments.”

I leaned forward while mentally holding up a blockade to keep my mind from racing off with wild, pointless theories. I even wasn’t sure what I wanted to hear, but if Henry didn’t say something in the next few seconds, I knew my filter would disintegrate under pressure from the dark side.

“News came into our office from the FBI, via Interpol, about Britney.”

He’d said nothing really, but the sound of her name in the same phrase with the FBI and Interpol ignited a burning sensation in my chest, creeping upward. Where was my nearest canister of Tums?

“They picked up an image of Britney walking through the airport in Hong Kong.”

“An image? They don’t have her?” I knew my voice pitched higher, an edge to it, like the rest of me at this very moment.

“She used a fake passport to get through customs, but later, while scanning video looking for known terrorists, someone recognized her.”

“That wouldn’t be too hard.”

Dozens of images slammed into my conscious state, apparently diverting around my mental filter. A cute picture of her lean, taut body scampering across my condo wearing nothing more than my old Longhorns T-shirt, her happy face after waking from a long night of sleep and lovemaking, her crystal blue eyes sparkling under a full moon, and many, many more. Most just reminded me how much she’d completely fooled me and the rest of the world, how I’d finally allowed myself to feel something I thought was love.

But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. She’d killed two innocent girls for no reason. She’d assaulted Momma, and then did a number on me. So many thoughts raced through my mind, feelings of resentment for the beautiful woman with a bitch heart who masterfully pulled me into her fucked-up web, guilt for not seeing right through her to prevent the murders, and even a bit of empathy. Mental illness destroyed thousands of lives, and I wondered if hers had been diagnosed and treated earlier in her life, would she have been the same person that melted my heart…but a truer version of that? I’d never know, and I sure as hell didn’t want to harp on what could have been. It was pointless and would quickly morph into a black hole, sucking me down.

Henry cleared his throat, and my brain awakened from its trance-like state.

“Apparently, she’s changed her appearance quite a bit. Cut off her hair, and she’s now, or at least was when the image was pulled, a brunette.”

I couldn’t help it, my thoughts trying to converge her beautiful features with short, brown hair.

“Even with brown hair, B…” I almost said it. “…she was a beautiful woman, about five-

nine, lean, blue eyes. I’d spot her a mile away.”

“Have you ever been to Hong Kong?” Henry asked with a slight chuckle. “The airport is situated on an island, Chek Lap Kok, almost completely manmade, only a few feet above sea level. Anyway, the number of people rolling through the airport alone makes DFW or LaGuardia seem like regional airports.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Alisa and Cindy had pulled up a few feet from us as we were still engaged in conversation.

Taking in a breath, I detected a small but recognizable pit in my stomach feeding off hidden thoughts. The kind that typically festered if left unattended. The only way to temper them, or better yet, to eradicate them, was to take action about the issue.

I forced up another filter, searching for my analytical side.

“Are officials looking for her?”

“The city is so vast, with so many people, they can’t shut it down and go high rise to high rise until they apprehend her. But they have notified all the local authorities. They don’t want a murderer wandering their streets, potentially looking for more victims.”

“Still, even without her signature long, blond hair, you’d think she’d stand out, literally.”

“Lots of expats live in Hong Kong. If she had new identity and a good backstory, she could blend in pretty easily, I think.”

“And she does have access to a decent amount of money.”

“Hong Kong is known for its high volume of plastic surgeons.” Henry arced an eyebrow.

Swallowing, I felt sandpaper in the back of my throat. I poured myself a glass of water and downed a big gulp.

“Can’t they track her whereabouts before she landed in Hong Kong?”

“They did. She flew in from Sydney, Australia. Before that, she was in New Zealand. That’s where her tracks disappear. One theory is that she might have been living on one of the dozens of smaller islands in the Pacific, allowing things to die down a bit while she figured out a plan.

Then she executed the plan and dropped off the radar again in Hong Kong.”

“Sounds like a woman with experience in alluding authorities across the globe,” I said.

“Yep.”

“She could have had help.”

Henry nodded, his eyes glancing away then back at me. “Good theory, but Booker, I can see you’re starting to get sucked in. I didn’t mean to take you there. Let’s bring it back to Dallas.

There’s enough crap here to deal with. What’s-her-name will always have to look over her shoulder while living in a foreign land. Eventually, she’ll screw up and they’ll catch her. Forget about her.”

“You’re right.” I said, but I couldn’t convince myself to not think about her, in so many ways.

“Did I hear someone say Chek Lap Kok?”

Cindy walked toward us, her face contorting like she was a member of a traveling road show.

Rocking his head back, Henry broke out in laughter.

“Isn’t she the funniest?” He brought Cindy in closer, kissing her on the cheek.

I think I needed my Tums again.

“Get it?” Cindy continued, playing to the crowd of one. “Do you want my lap on your

cock?”

Henry’s face lit up like Rudolph’s nose, not from embarrassment but out of sheer lack of self-control. I hadn’t seen him so unrestrained since he’d downed ten cups of trashcan punch at a toga party in college.

Alisa shifted in my direction, a hand to her chin, looking a little like my eleventh-grade English teacher.

“They’re quite a pair, aren’t they,” she whispered without turning my way.

Cindy started snorting she was laughing so hard, which admittedly was a bit contagious. But I think Alisa and I might have been laughing at her more than with her.

Still in a lather, Henry took hold of Cindy’s face.

“Isn’t that the cutest face you’ve ever seen?” he asked as if he was talking to a dog.

Come to think of it, she did look a bit like a Chinese Shar-Pei. “Something like that,” I said, a bit under my breath.

“Oh, Henry, doesn’t the game tip off in less than an hour?” Cindy pulled out her phone.

“Tip off?”

Alisa connected the dots. “Henry and Cindy are going to the Rangers game.”

“Baseball. They throw the first pitch in less than an hour.” I motioned my arm like I was throwing a ball.

Ignoring my input on sports—what did I know?—the odd couple kissed like wet seals, then walked toward the door, arm in arm. Cindy pulled a red Rangers cap out of her purse and fit it on Henry’s head.

“See you guys. Thanks for the advice, Alisa,” Cindy said with a wave.

Curiosity would get the better of me later. For now, my mind reverted to the fruitless exercise of trying to figure out how to hunt down my murdering ex-girlfriend.

12

“What are you daydreaming about?”

Alisa had just walked into our office and caught me gazing at the lone stained-glass window perched on the opposite wall, my thoughts still in a foreign country, my gut twisted like a pretzel.

“You and Cindy.”

Arching an eyebrow, Alisa gave me one of those looks, as if I’d been too transparent with my naughty thoughts.

“What? I didn’t mean it that way. Well, I didn’t until you gave me the ’tude.”

“Right. You go ahead and tell yourself that.” She paused, then winked, opening her laptop on the other side of our shared desk. With an office the size of an oversized closet, sharing space was unavoidable at Booker & Associates.

“You going to share your dirty little secret?”

“Which one?” she asked.

“It’s not mandatory that I know. I’m just curious how you and Cindy became besties.”

“We talk occasionally.”

I chuckled, realizing she’d avoided my inquiry about how they became friends, or whatever they were. “Can you be any more evasive? It’s like I’m talking to a teenager.”

“Sorry. It’s no big deal. Today, she just wanted a little advice, that’s all.”

Leaning my neck forward, I think she could see my curiosity was piqued.

“Listen, Booker, I know you and Cindy have a bit of history and all.”

“It’s more like a series of creepy events. I kept a log of them in case she ever drugged me and held me captive in an S&M dungeon.”

“Cindy’s got a strange side, I’ll agree with you on that,” Alisa said, logging in to our cloud-based documents. “But at her core, she’s just like every other twenty-something girl. She’s a little insecure about her body.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“And she’s interested in finding Mr. Right.”

“Okay...” Was she alluding to Henry?

“She’s not sure how to act around Henry all the time. He’s a buttoned-up lawyer in a serious job, and she’s not sure he knows how to handle her goofy side.”

“Given her Chek Lap Kok reference, that’s surprising.”

“That’s the thing. She says she can’t control herself all the time.”

I let out the loudest laugh I could muster, then smacked my hand on the top of the metal desk. “That’s a good one.”

“Seriously. At least she recognizes some of her…challenges.”

“Your advice?”

“I suggested that Henry, like most men, want their significant other to be multidimensional, to be able to have an adult conversation, but also to not take herself too seriously.”

“So, you’re sort of her life coach.”

“I wouldn’t use that term.”

“That’s true. Henry said you’re more of a big sister.”

Alisa’s eyes narrowed a bit, and her lips formed a straight line.

“Sorry if I said anything that upset you.”

“No worries. It’s just my little sister. She’s…uh, gone off the reservation lately. Hard to rope in, she is.”

I paused, giving Alisa time to continue down this path. She decided to move on.

“Okay, last night at the Yates Motel.” She paused, giving me a sheepish grin. “The very definition of a dysfunctional family. Did you stay clear of the mother/daughter cat fights?”

I brought Alisa up to speed, including my latest run-in with Tyler, the mall cop turned security guard.

“And he never saw the killer?”

“Nope. What’s more interesting is the fact the murderer could have killed him, but didn’t.

He went to great lengths to ensure Tyler didn’t see him. It was a risk.”

“No way this was a random killing,” Alisa chimed in.

“I’m split on two theories right now. Part of me believes someone on the fringe of one of those environmental groups couldn’t take the fact that Evergreen was winning the PR war. He did it for the cause, theoretically.”

“Perhaps you’re talking about Trent Meadows.”

Angling her laptop my direction, I found a picture of a man who hadn’t shaved in a few days, a serious look on his face.

“When did you have time to do any research?”

“Started late last night, but did some more this morning. Trent Meadows has been arrested at least nine times, from what I could uncover. Most of it pretty normal stuff. Trespassing on private property at various corporate headquarters, endangering a crew from a Japanese whaling ship. His group’s website, SaveTheEarth.com, details their positions on many topics, including fracking. It reads like a thesis. Very detailed, very convincing.”

I nodded. “But…”

“Trent has one violent arrest on his record, and it’s a disturbing one. He beat up his wife.”

Glancing at the stained glass window, I thought about all the recent reported incidents of domestic abuse across professional sports. “How long ago?”

“Six months. As we’ve heard so many times, the wife eventually dropped the charges. Even with the local DA pressing, she wouldn’t turn on her husband.”

“Where?”

“San Francisco.”

“They still married?”

“Apparently, yes. By the way, he recently signed a book deal with Penguin.”

“You think her acceptance of his apology was actually an admission of her love of money?”

“I hate to be cynical, but isn’t it always? Or least most of the time?”

I scratched my goatee. “A little cynicism is healthy in this profession.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She winked an amber eye.

“A one-time arrest for domestic battery. Hard to make the leap to brutal killer.”

“Two letters. OJ?”

“Touché.”

“I have no idea if Trent murdered Albert Yates or not. But he does mention Evergreen in his fracking white paper.”

I held up a finger.

“I know, more research. Just need a little more time and we should see if he has an easy alibi to rule him out.”

“Or in.”

She nodded while typing notes. “Your second theory?”

“Third-party intervention.”

Crinkling her eyes, Alisa finally looked up. “Mrs. Yates?”

“Hanging around that family is like watching an old rerun of Jersey Shore. It’s a train wreck.

Hard to not watch, but you walk out wishing you hadn’t. Man, Darla and her daughter can really sling the mud.”

“It’s that mother/daughter thing,” Alisa said, like she’d been there.

“Glad I’ll never have that experience with Samantha.”

“True. But you might have to help through those turbulent years when she’s locking horns with Eva.”

I winced, thinking about Eva’s somewhat demanding style. I was damn glad my little girl was still all dimples and cute smiles. The teen years could wait.

“The other night, Darla’s daughter, Sophi, accused her mother of sleeping with the pool boy.

Sounded pretty random, like she was just trying to take out her anger on her mom,” Alisa said.

“Last night was different though. When talking about what pulled Evergreen and Albert out of the environmental quicksand, Darla named the Evergreen VP of communications by name.

Greg Harris.”

“Okay…”

“She’d been sipping her cognac and was in the mood to share a lot. Greg, evidently, created the PR campaign that turned public sentiment back to Evergreen. I think Darla called it a genius move. She said he was someone ‘you always want at your side.’”

“So they did it that way?” Alisa raised both eyebrows, a smile cracking her lips.

“Don’t give me a visual, please. But…”

“More research. This one won’t be easy. Not often that you get grown adults to admit to an affair. It might take some leg work, following Greg around,” Alisa said.

“It might. I guess I’m open to working a few late nights. Or perhaps you want to get your feet wet in the field?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

“Seriously?”

“Test run. I could even let you borrow my camera. But before you get too excited, let’s first see if you can get more information, just so neither of us wastes our time holed up in a car for hours and hours, day after day. Time is money, and we need to be efficient.”

She gave me a sassy salute, then her eyes focused on the screen, her full lips moving.

“What’re you reading?”

“Just received an RSS feed from this website I subscribe to.”

More lips moving.

“And?”

She held up a finger, her lips still reading.

“Don’t tell me Justin Bieber was just arrested for driving a hundred forty through a school zone, and before the cop could give him a ticket, a mob of hormonal teens pounced on Bieber, and he’s now in the hospital suffering from post-traumatic groping disorder. Has to be something similar, something to capture the nation’s star-crazed attention span. Right?”

“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 no.”

“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.”

He thumped his chest twice and yelled out for everyone to hear. “Do you fucking hear me?

Pack up your things and take your family to another place, where prostitutes don’t serve as role models for young girls, where drugs aren’t sold like candy. Do it today, and your life will change.

I promise you.”

Silence engulfed the open space, and he felt eyes on him from everywhere. The two men before him nodded slowly, then turned around and walked across the parking lot to another building.

Licking salty lips, Javier spotted his hat. It had been crushed in the fight. A black heel mark had defaced the perfect white rim. He threw it to the dirt and weeds, then leaned down and picked up the sack. Its contents still intact, he padded across the dusty yard toward the external staircase, a single dog barking in the distance. Perhaps another drug deal had just gone down.

As his shoe hit the first step, it felt like gravity had just grabbed him by the ankles, his legs as useless as wet noodles. Using his one free arm, he pulled himself upward one slow step at a time, each one sending a blunt message to his ailing body that he’d just sped up the dying process. He was drained physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Finally at the top of the staircase, he glanced to his right. Splashed across the horizon, just above the ridge of trees, colored clouds rippled against the fading blue backdrop. Purple and orange mixed in with gold, creating an iridescent glow. An amazing sunset. He took a mental snapshot, knowing this might be his last.

Javier shuffled a few more steps, entered his apartment, and walked straight to the sink. He doused his face with water then looked into the mirror. He’d aged at least another five years, just from this last confrontation. That’s how little he had left in his tank.

Thoughts of a woman entered his mind, his first wife, and he could feel a smile form at the edges of his mouth.

“You abuse your body day in and day out, and nothing happens. You’re still just as strong, just as good looking. It’s not fair, I tell you. It’s just not fair. Look at me. I go to water aerobics twice a week, and my hips look like a weapon of mass destruction,” she’d said to him many times.

“But I love those hips,” he would say. “These are the hips that brought my little treasures of life.” Then he’d smack her ass, and she’d unleash a thirty-second barrage of Spanish curse words.

He spoke to her like she was in the room with him now. “You will have the last laugh. Look at me now. I am a feeble, dying man.”

Minutes later, after showering and changing into another set of Cuban traditional garb, Javier sat on a wooden chair, his bare feet burrowing into thin carpet as he puffed on his Montecristo. Trumpets and drums grooved in the background, and his head swayed to the dulcet tunes of Buena Vista Social Club, a 1990s breakout album from remarkable Cuban musicians, including Ferrer, Gonzalez, Segundo. After being squelched by dictators for more than thirty-five years, the Timba recordings, which spawned a similar movie, reinvigorated an international love for Cuban music, even if the musicians couldn’t play on the island that had transformed music for centuries before. He could recall the buzz of the dance club scene in Little Havana, near Miami.

Amid Javier’s quest to reestablish the globe’s focus on what mattered most, it was nice to relive old times, at least the ones connected to positive memories. Donut-shaped smoke rose to the ceiling, the leathery tobacco taste lingering in his throat, and he thought about his father, the bravest man he’d ever known.

Not the strongest or biggest, Javier’s father stood tall among a country full of people who had cowered to the leftwing Bolsheviks, so-called revolutionaries who seized power following a seven-year war against President Batista. Pre-Castro, Cuba had its set of issues, but it also had a fire in its belly that made it a destination for people across the world.

Papa had made an honest living working the tobacco fields providing for his small family until the new revolutionary leaders starting seizing assets, both from foreign countries and from Cubans who even appeared to sympathize with the former rightwing government.

As his madre had told Javier years later, once his Papa had found his way to South Florida and practically sold his soul to the devil himself, he was fiercely loyal to his homeland and watched dear friends arrested for nothing more than expressing an opinion, like writing an editorial in the local newspaper. More and more dissidents were taken into custody, threatened, psychologically tortured, all in the name of the revolution.

As the story goes, Papa had learned that a lifelong friend who’d held a low-level position in the Batista government was one of many put to a public trial. Initially, this friend was found not guilty, but the self-declared leader of the revolution demanded a retrial for him and hundreds more just like him. Everyone knew the second trial was a farce, little more than a showcase for how business would be conducted in the new Cuba, the oppressive Cuba.

Papa’s friend was convicted of treason before a crowd of seventeen thousand people, what was deemed “revolutionary justice.” While many were sentenced to life imprisonment—the government for the people took from the people, leaving the families of those convicted with nothing. For a few, however, they never had the opportunity to experience life in prison.

Considered examples to others for being so vocal about their disloyalty, they were put in a line and killed by a firing squad.

Papa watched his hooded friend crumple to the earth that day, and as his madre had later revealed to her youngest son, her husband and his father wept like a baby, for the death of his best friend and for the nation he’d once loved. It was at that moment that Papa had declared his allegiance to the counter-revolutionaries.

In late 1960, Papa began meeting with others who had the same beliefs, and through cloaked conversations, they began to organize across the land, from one farm to the next, then on to the next city, reaching nearly every farm and town across the wide island.

Despite harsh crackdowns from Castro’s military, Papa’s group secretly began to

communicate with others outside of the country, people who’d been exiled or had fled out of fear for their safety, and their families’ safety. Some of their contacts lived in Guatemala, others in the United States.

Papa had said that the United States had always been friends with true Cubans, and shortly after Castro and his henchman took control, the US government publically accused Castro’s administration of suppressing civil liberties, removing freedom of speech. Everyone believed Cuba’s intent was to spread the revolution across the Western Hemisphere.

With fuel in short supply, once bustling farms became completely abandoned, and food was scarce. Papa and his cohorts banded together to attempt an overthrow of the Castro regime. They felt certain it would work since it was led and funded by the American CIA.

On April 17, 1961, a military force landed at the Bay of Pigs, while Papa and his lightly armed band of brothers attacked a government military institution. The man’s family holed up in their shabby home, and like many others who had loved ones involved in the attempted coup, they awaited word that the counter-revolutionaries had reclaimed the government.

But that moment never arrived. Within three days, the insurgence was smoldered, and

anyone who was associated with it was quickly arrested and thrown in jail without a trial.

A single tear escaped Javier’s eye, as he relived the day when his mother recited the story of his brave Papa. The man stood for something. For freedom and liberty. For his family.

And soon Javier would stand just as tall.

14

A bright morning sun warmed my face, but I could still see my breath in the air. My shades molded against my face, providing an aerodynamic sensation for my run.

With my feet spread apart in the grassy area in the middle of my condo complex, I eased both arms down one leg until I felt a good amount of tension in my hamstring. Holding it for twenty seconds, I could feel my muscles start to warm up. I repeated the stretching routine with the opposite hamstring, then performed similar stretches on my calves and thighs.

An engine fired up, and I turned toward the pool area, spotting a man with a mask covering his face holding a long pole, angled at the end, and a hose hooked into the portable device. He flipped a switch and began to power spray the textured cement, water and fragments of debris blowing all over the fenced-in area, a bevy of tiny leaves and dirt finding its way to the empty cavern that usually held up to ten feet of pool water.

Checking my phone, I saw the time was just before eleven on Sunday morning. For some

party animals who lived in my complex, I knew it was still too early to endure the water-scraping hiss, and they’d probably share their displeasure rather vocally. Not in the mood to break up more confrontations, I stored my phone inside a clear pocket, then wrapped the Velcro holder around my bicep. I placed the buds in my ears, but held off on starting my jogging jam session—

I had a few things I need to think over first.

Rounding the corner off the grassy area, I nearly ran into Winston, one of the three

handymen who worked the condo complex almost every day. I spun right, while holding out an arm. “Oops. Sorry to scare you, Winston. Check you later.”

As usual, Winston barely moved his head and continued moving at the same methodical

pace, a snail shuffle, while dragging an empty trashcan behind him. On his best day, he appeared disinterested.

I dodged two cars exiting our lot when I caught a glance of a white Nissan Altima huddled among the many parked sports cars and sedans. Was that Henry’s car? I think I made an audible noise, thinking about Henry hunkered down in Cindy’s condo just a few doors down from my place. Henry was a good a guy—the best—but seeing him and Cindy interacting like a horny couple was unsettling, almost like watching two animal types attempting to breed. It was just creepy. And Alisa serving as a life coach or big sister to Cindy didn’t make it any easier to stomach.

Pushing that set of images to the back of my mind, I wove around light poles and hopped off the curb heading east on Bryan, a four-lane road with a fair amount of traffic, even on a Sunday morning. Within a hundred yards, I passed Liberty Street on my right, settling into a nice groove, and the five-mile course felt attainable.

Replaying the details Alisa had read off Underground.com, I tried to walk through the scenario in which Nancy Fitzwater had been murdered. The perp, who I assumed was a man because of the strength it took to tear into her neck with a metal wire, had put in a great deal of thought and preparation. And he exhibited patience, waiting until the library was clear of any other people. The murder showed characteristics of a professional hit, especially the methodical planning. Since most murders involved violent, emotional responses to a person experiencing drama, the few that were conducted without a heated, spontaneous reaction stood out. But there was something different about this murder—the two novels, Burn found under Nancy’s head and Cuba Libre propped open, standing next to her body.

The perp had to be sending a message or providing some type of symbolism. For starters, it told me he had killed before. Whether Albert Yates was on his resume, I still wasn’t certain.

Crossing to the other side of the road, two dogs barked on the other side of a gray wooden fence, and then raced parallel to me until I hit the corner and they ran out of space. It happened almost every time I took this route. I hooked a left onto Pavillion, a two-lane road with a heavier concentration of homes. I spotted a couple outside painting their bungalow a forest green color, then ran by a father and his son, maybe Jared’s age, throwing a baseball in the front yard.

I felt an empty pit in my stomach, knowing Jared could no longer share that experience with his dad. Being twelve years old with no father around sucked. I had first-hand experience, although mine had exited the scene by his own accord. I’d seen him a few times since I was a youngster, but not enough to make a damn bit of difference in my life. I had to look to my Uncle Charlie for male guidance and advice, and many times I had to figure it out on my own.

With that streak of independence built into my life, maybe that was why I’d been able to make this PI business work, putting the DPD in my rearview mirror rather quickly.

I turned right onto San Jacinto, jogged past four more homes, then went right on Marseille. I envisioned Nancy’s body on the library floor, thinking again about the positioning of the books.

Could the Patterson novel signify that the man believed he’d been burned by Nancy or some group she was affiliated with? Was there symbolism in the fact her head rested on the book? Or was there any way that her body had simply landed on the book when it dropped to the floor?

More questions, but not many answers. Not yet anyway.

I turned left onto Basil, running under a huge canopy of evergreen trees and could feel a layer of sweat coating most of my body, especially my back. The run was doing its job, giving me a strong cardio workout and opening up the blood vessels in the portion of my brain that focused on deductive reasoning. Basil T-boned into Spenwick, and I hung a right, the vivid sun glaring in my face as I picked up the pace a bit.

The orange cover and red title from the digital cover of Cuba Libre stuck in my mind. I’d downloaded the book earlier this morning and read the first four chapters. Allowing my mind to drift, I visualized pieces from the Elmore Leonard novel: Havana, Cuba, in 1898. The destroyed remains of a ship, the USS Maine, in Havana Harbor. The vivid characters, Ben Tyler and Charlie Burke, along with the female lead, Amelia Brown, being sucked into the Spanish-American War, the fight for Cuban independence.

While there were elements of fact in the novel, it was still fiction. I wondered why the killer had selected that particular book to stand next to his victim. Was I overthinking it? Perhaps the killer had grabbed any random book, and he was communicating that the murder of Nancy Fitzwater had been as easy as…reading a book.

I was grateful to have the information we did, the website revealing all of the evidence from

“sources,” but I could see it had only left me wanting more. Had the CSI unit found any trace evidence that could lead to DNA? I could feel my pulse tap a little faster, thinking about what would be revealed through the library’s video footage. Alisa had reached out to

Underground.com last night. When I texted her earlier this morning, she’d yet to receive a response. As quickly as they appeared to move on sharing new evidence, I guessed their mute response was not an oversight. The reputation of Booker & Associates was still in its infancy, so I shouldn’t be surprised.

My head on a swivel as I approached the Bryan Street intersection, I timed my attempt in between a cement mixer and an SUV and galloped across without breaking stride, a lingering trail of exhaust catching my nose. Still moving at a decent clip, I jogged into Exall Park, my body instantly more relaxed without four-thousand-pound metal objects around me. I reached for a branch as I passed under the first tree, snapping off a new leaf and rubbing it between my fingers. It seemed the deluge from two nights earlier had infused a growth spurt on all the trees and grass. Inhaling, I smelled a hint of tree sap, fresh grass, and dirt.

A buzz at my arm. Glancing down, I felt it again, on my bicep. I was either receiving text messages or a phone call. I attempted to angle the plastic pocket to where I could see the cloudy screen without stopping, but it didn’t work. I ran a few more strides, then gave in to my concerns and curiosity.

“Hi, this is Booker,” I said with a heavy breath, now at a walking pace.

A phlegmy growl, and I realized it was a man clearing his throat. “Booker.”

Sounded familiar, but not in a pleasant-memory kind of way. “That’s the name. Who’s this?”

Another growl, this one twice as long, with a loud bark at the end. “It’s…it’s Vincent Sciafini.”

My pace automatically slowed, and I heard his garbled voice say, “Get me some water.

Now!”

Seconds passed, then I heard a loud “Ahh.”

“Booker, you there?”

The same New York accent from when I sat in his limo a few weeks earlier just before he asked me to save his kidnapped daughter, and a few months before that when I sat in his high-rise Chicago office and officially asked for a favor from the leader of a crime syndicate.

“Yep. I’m trying to get in my workout. What’s up?” My clear, stress-free mind had

evaporated into the blue Dallas sky.

“Ha chew!”

“Damn,” is all I could say.

“Fuckin’ allergies.”

A loud bump, then I caught a disturbing sound, something resembling a subway rumbling through a tunnel into a station, its brakes screaming at the last second, and the rush of a dirty wind. Sciafini was blowing his schnoz.

“Fuckin’ allergies,” he said again, this time with a nasally New York intonation.

Glad as hell I wasn’t within shooting distance—of the germ variety—I knew he didn’t call to talk about the prospects of the Cubs this season.

“Can you talk, or do you need Beavis to relay your message?”

“I don’t have time to play games,” he said with an edge to his voice. “I need your help on something.”

I knew Sciafini wasn’t accustomed to asking versus telling, but distance had its advantages. I was connected to the piece of scum more than I wanted to admit to myself. He was in business with the Double Ds—David and Dax—essentially owning their restaurant, Marvel, as part of his REIT. David actually helped Sciafini with his investments, all because he owed the man almost a million bucks. When a dirty cop kidnapped and threatened David, Sciafini’s money-making machine, I convinced the crime boss to help me take down the drug-dealing cop, as long as he agreed to let David’s new food truck business fund the payback to my client and others like her.

And now Justin had partnered with David. To say I had buyer’s regret was putting it mildly.

But I’m still not sure if I would have made different decisions if I had another chance. That was how fucked up everything had become.

“I did you that one favor only because it involved the life of a seven-year-old girl. But normally I don’t work for known felons. So unless you’re asking me to run to the grocery to buy skirt steak to help the guys prep tonight’s dinner for Fajita Rita’s, I’ll pass.”

He paused just long enough to make it an awkward silence. Maybe the old man had keeled over, saving us all a lot of trouble. Finally, he sniffed. I knew I couldn’t be so lucky.

“Quit playing games. I don’t have time. You don’t have time.”

He put it on me. Why? I became even wearier of Sciafini’s call as I watched a squirrel scamper up a red oak. I couldn’t allow the Chicago mobster to think he had one on me.

“I’m going to act like you didn’t just threaten me.”

“Ha. Damn…”

“What?” I could tell he had a racist comment clinging to his slithery tongue. The mob wasn’t exactly known for its inclusiveness.

“Booker, your ego is blinding you. I need you to listen to me for three minutes. After that, you decide what you want to do.”

“The clock has started.” I tapped the stopwatch app on my phone, and the seconds starting ticking.

A quick growl of phlegm. “Carlos Marcello. Does that name mean anything to you?”

Watching another squirrel race up the same red oak, I searched my memory banks.

“Familiar, but I can’t place it.”

“You might have heard his name in reference to some of those silly rumors about organized crime being involved in the Kennedy assassination in Dallas.”

He had my attention. I chewed the inside of my cheek.

“I’m listening.”

“Carlos died a few years back. God rest his soul. But he and I had done some business together.”

“New Orleans. He was based out of New Orleans, right?”

“That’s the one. He was a decent man,” Sciafini said.

Probably considered a huge compliment in the Sciafini world.

“Just before he died, Carlos and I had a conversation, and we made certain promises to each other. Promises to protect certain assets if either of us happened to pass.”

He paused again, perhaps waiting to see if I would balk. Not yet.

Sciafini continued. “There’s a guy down there in Dallas, name of Dominic Ferrigamo. One of Marcello’s old guys.”

I jumped in. “Never heard of him.”

“Not surprising. He’s been keeping a low profile for about twenty years.”

That was a not-so-subtle code for Ferrigamo committing some heinous act and had to go underground to avoid the police, FBI, or retribution from some rival thugs.

“As I told you before, I’m not doing any favors for known felons.”

“Someone is planning to kill the man. Will you help stop a murder?”

I stopped breathing, then forced air through my lungs. “Tell me what’s going on and why you called me.”

“Ferrigamo has been living on the estate of the late Carlo Piranio in North Dallas. He’s one of the originals…from Sicily. He, uh…started operations in Dallas many years ago. I don’t have any love for him or his family. I’m more aligned with Marcello, if you know what I mean.”

That could mean anything. “Why do you think someone is going to murder Ferrigamo?”

“Sources tell me someone is targeting nice Italian businessmen with certain connections. I’m hoping there isn’t some vigilante out there trying to make a name for himself by killing law-abiding citizens. That’s just not the American way. But Ferrigamo is the name that keeps coming up.”

Sounded like a win-win in some respects. But with my conscience, I couldn’t sit idle while I knowingly let a man die.

“Who’s behind this?”

“Not sure. Lots of hearsay and noise, though. It could happen today.”

“Today?”

“That’s what the sources said.”

I had the media on one end and the mob on the other, both quoting anonymous sources. Not helpful.

“I’m not sure where to start. And why are you putting this on me?”

“Who else do I know in Dallas with your kind of skills?”

“Your son is living down here.”

“We already talked about him. He’s not equipped for this work, you know that. We don’t have much time.”

Adrenaline flooded my veins. I started jogging back to my place. “I need more information.”

“We don’t know for sure. Ferrigamo goes to lunch every Sunday at Campisi’s with his two bodyguards.”

The family-owned pizza place off Mockingbird. Rumors had swirled for years about the

family’s connections to organized crime, but I never had the incentive to learn more. Now I wish I had.

“Why can’t you ask the bodyguards to handle this? Isn’t that what they’re paid to do?”

“Ferrigamo hasn’t spoken to a soul outside of those walls in years. The Piranio family and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms. They think they’re better than everyone else. Fuck ’em.”

“Any idea what time they go to lunch?”

“High noon.”

The time on my phone read eleven fifty-one. I took off in a sprint.

15

Fishing my condo key out of my shorts, I tried the deadbolt lock. It didn’t seem to fit.

“Dammit!”

I wiggled the key until it finally found the groove. Smacking the solid wooden door against the sheetrock when I opened it, I didn’t waste any time. I removed the cell phone holder from my biceps and tossed it on the floor. Without missing a beat, I pulled my shoulder holster out of the closet, looping my arms through and over my sweaty Dri-FIT shirt. I yanked a sweatshirt jacket off a hanger, then kneeled down. Shoving aside two boxes of clothes that needed to go to the Salvation Army, I flipped the dial on my small safe: 6-10-26, my daughter’s birthday followed by my age when she came into my life.

Clutching the Sig Sauer P226 X-Five beavertail frame, I loaded the magazine with the

maximum fourteen rounds, then shoved it in my holster and snapped the pistol in place. I slipped on my jacket as I jogged to the door.

“So long, Booker. So long, Booker.” Then Big Al whistled.

I slammed the door shut, and while turning the key to the deadbolt, I heard him release a sexy whistle. Can there be such a thing as a gay macaw? Imagining Big Al doing the big nasty with any living creature was like envisioning your own mom having sex. It was just wrong.

Seconds later, I squealed out of the parking lot in my Saab 9-3, popped the clutch, and shifted into second gear, propelling the silver sedan up Bryan Street. A red light at Fizthugh, but just as I slowed I could see the perpendicular set of street lights turn yellow. Once green flashed in front of me, I shot out of the gate, passing a slower SUV while still in second gear. I caught the light at Greenville and scooted through without interference. Instead of staying on Greenville the entire trek north, I hooked a right onto Ross, then a quick left onto Matilda, where I found more lanes and less traffic.

Attempting not to shatter speed records, which would likely draw untimely attention of my former comrades, I motored the Saab past Richmond Avenue, where I could see the roof to The Jewel off to my left. I think I even spotted the stained-glass window to my office. With no time to ponder if Justin would commit to keeping the bar open, I pushed away concerns of having to relocate to an office that actually required rent to be paid.

I zipped by Goodwin, then Vanderbilt and Marquita, and I could see Mockingbird in the distance. I’d been in nothing more than reactionary mode up to now. My elbow clipped my side, and I felt the comfort of my Sig in its holster. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks.

What the hell did I expect to take place once I arrived on the scene? I could imagine a few scenarios, most of which ending with me or an innocent bystander on the sidewalk, bleeding out after taking two bullets to the chest. If there was someone out there with balls big enough to kill a guy in organized crime, one who’d essentially been in hiding for umpteen years, I had to believe he wouldn’t hesitate in murdering your average Joe, or Booker. I forced out a breath, ensuring oxygen would still reach my brain.

I swerved around a dog dragging a leash behind him; then just before Marvel Avenue, I noticed the backside of the historic Granada Theatre on my left.

Hearing Sciafini mention the Kennedy assassination, even as a side note, was disconcerting.

He’d always scoffed at the notion that organized crime had been connected with the killing that put Dallas on the map for all the wrong reasons. I now recalled reading about Marcello, his connection to other mob figures, and various rumors and conspiracy theories that tied him to Kennedy. Was Ferrigamo somehow part of this? Was I rushing to save the life of a man who could have played a role in changing the world’s political landscape?

I could hear my colorful Uncle Charlie offer me a piece of advice. “Put coulda in one hand and shoulda in the other, and you know what you got? You ain’t got shit.”

Wiping my face, I tried to clear my mind. From what evidence I’d been exposed to, I

couldn’t help but make a couple of leaps. Kennedy’s vice president and successor once he died was LBJ, whose top aide while in office was Hank Fitzwater. As of yesterday afternoon, I was aware that Fitzwater’s daughter, Nancy, had been viciously murdered while working at the public library in the northern suburb of Richardson.

I’d spent all morning reading a novel about the Spanish-American War and trying to get inside the killer’s head, wondering if he’d meant anything by the placement of two books by Nancy’s body. It sounded more ridiculous as the idea danced in my brain.

I shifted the Saab into third gear, then quickly crunched down on the brake to avoid a slow-moving Cadillac that had just turned onto Matilda.

“Old drivers!” I yelled to no one, while trying to find a way around him.

“Now,” I said to no one again, downshifting into second gear, then jerking the car left and right to move beyond the sedan the size of an oil tanker drifting along at about fifteen miles per hour. Glancing right as I passed, I saw a lady who looked thirty years older than Momma. Her eyes barely peeked over the steering wheel. At least her hands were at ten and two, although they had the appearance of a white, veiny prune, if those existed.

Her wrinkles brought me back to Sciafini. We both loathed each other, but for a myriad of reasons, we’d maintained a shaky truce. Now he was leaning on me…again, after I’d helped bring his seven-year-old daughter to safety. But why? I was skeptical that his version of this scene was completely true. He always had an angle, and I knew he’d throw me under the bus—

or into the sights of a sniper—if it improved his position, especially his bottom line.

Looking left while sitting at a red light at Mockingbird, I craned my neck to try to catch a glimpse of the scene in front of the sixty-year-old strip center that was home to Campisi’s.

Modest traffic, spotty clouds now drifting overhead, but no commotion. Yet.

I turned to move west on Mockingbird, then hooked a left at the first opportunity, finding an open space in front of a tailoring business. Glancing through the dark windows, I saw a male mannequin dressed in a leisure suit with shaggy blond hair, smiling, pointing a finger at a plastic water feature in the shape of a Longhorn, liquid bubbling out of its steers. This crap predated the original Dallas program, the one that threw a stereotypical noose around every person born in Texas.

Walking past a frame store, I saw a couple of employees milling about, one settling behind the counter messing with the register. The business appeared to have just opened. I checked the time on my phone: 12:04 p.m. Moving past a closed Radio Shack, I crossed the Campisi’s east parking lot, no more than eight total spaces. A pickup and two cars took up three of the angled spots, and I noticed overgrown weeds and small trees creating a barrier at the back of the small area, a perfect place to hide. I stopped and peered into the sea of greenery, but saw no movement.

I kept walking and hopped onto the next sidewalk, a bank of cars parked in front of the businesses.

Glancing across the street, a couple of bushy trees in the median obstructed my vision somewhat. Between branches, I saw the outline of a gas station on the right, a burger place on the left, and much farther back, a chain grocery store, the parking lot less than half full with vehicles.

I’d been to this area hundreds of times, but I’d never noticed so many trees planted in pockets of green across the large lot. I found it annoying not being able to easily scan the lot and find anyone who looked suspicious. Then again, did I expect to see a man lying horizontally in the parking lot or on top of a car, resting his rifle on a tripod, his eye pressed against the scope?

Recalling the DC snipers, how they used the trunk of their car as a cover to terrorize the DC

area for weeks, I took another scan of the lot, looking for an open trunk or even a lowered window. Nothing stood out on my second sweep.

Turning to face the restaurant, I stepped aside as a couple and their two young kids ambled past me. I stood just in front of a wall of windows on the newer east side of the restaurant. An uneasy feeling came over me, knowing this might be the only area to reach someone sitting inside.

A brown and white sign affixed to a space of tan brick read “Egyptian Restaurant.” I’d heard years ago that the Campisi family didn’t want to pay for a new sign, so they replaced Lounge with Restaurant.

I zipped up my jacket to ensure my pistol wasn’t visible, then moved through two doors and entered the dimly lit restaurant. If it wasn’t for the opening into the eastern, sun-filled space off to the left, a patron would have a difficult time telling if it was night or day. The older section appeared to be completely full, wait staff moving briskly carrying trays of beer, their trademark pizza sliced in thin rectangles, and small side salads with iceberg lettuce and a large, pitted green olive in cheap plastic bowls.

Surveying the room, I paused at every individual, at least the males, trying to get a read on whether they had the eye of a killer.

“How many are in your party?”

A fifty-something man with thinning hair pasted against his forehead had little energy behind his question.

Part of me simply wanted to ask if he could point out Dominic Ferrigamo, but something told me that question would not be well received. “I’m just looking for a friend I’m supposed to meet up here.”

“Fine. Look around.”

He vanished, and I walked down the aisle, my head moving left and right, looking for a killer as well as anyone who might be sitting with two guys who could pass as bodyguards.

Menacing and stupid-looking were my new keywords.

A waiter bumped my shoulder, causing my arm to catch against my holstered gun.

“Sorry,” he said, balancing an enormous tray of about twelve salads.

I realized I couldn’t eliminate the employees, so I kept them in my scope-and-review

session. Walking by the smallish bar, the bartender gave me one of those what’s-up nods. His eyes averted momentarily, then he returned to watching a baseball game.

I got to the edge of the east side, a square, open room, with much less character but far more space. I only noticed one empty table. Wait. Was that…?

Feeling a bit underdressed in my workout gear as I padded across the carpeted flooring, I made my way to the other side, my eyes searching for an old mobster flanked by two thugs and a killer, still unsure of gender, ethnicity, and age—all key factors when trying to stop a murder.

“How are you doing, boys?”

Taking a free chair from a neighboring table, I sat down almost right next to Justin, giving me a clearer view of the room while David sat across the two-person table.

“Hey, Booker,” Justin said.

“Do you think I bite?” The original bullshitter, David had a sardonic wit. But I knew he was referencing the fact he was gay.

I could have cared less. Frankly, besides wondering what the two entrepreneurs were

cooking up, I was more concerned about their safety.

“You guys almost done?”

Looking for a spot to plant my elbow, I finally leaned it awkwardly against the table, just next to Justin’s bowl of salad. He shifted it to the right side of the table.

“Sorry if I’m in your way,” he said.

“Oh, did I interrupt?”

“You’re welcome to stay, but this is a working lunch. We’re discussing expansion ideas for Fajita Rita’s,” David said.

“Actually, we’re looking at the whole food truck business. Always good to be planning for the next big thing.”

I could see Justin was in the zone, his mind a million miles from The Jewel, even though it sat, seemingly unmanaged, about four miles due south from where we were situated.

I was torn. I’d been Justin’s number one supporter since he went down this entrepreneurial path years ago. And watching him turn nothing into something had made me feel proud, not just because he’d been my best friend, but also because he showed that someone out of the old hood could make it. But I also knew Alisa relied on the bar to pay her bills every month. In addition, whether Justin realized it or not, under his guidance The Jewel had woven itself into the fabric of the eclectic Lower Greenville night scene.

Words hung at the edge of my lips, but I could sense this wasn’t the right setting, certainly not the right time.

Scanning the room once again, I spotted an older man with dark sunglasses sitting at a round table with one other man. They both ate pasta, and I could feel my body inch up in my seat, my eyes glancing around to see if anyone was staring at the pair. Neither said a word to each other.

They both continued cramming pasta and meatballs into their mouths.

“So what brings you to Campisi’s on a Sunday? Are you by yourself?” David asked.

Swinging my head back around, I caught David’s glare, the one that questioned everything.

If he wasn’t one of the city’s best chefs, and a financial wizard with a pedigree for breaking the law, he might make a good PI. Then again…

“I…uh, finished my workout and told myself I hadn’t tasted Campisi’s pizza in a while, so I drove up here for takeout.”

“It’s not ready yet?” Justin said, looking around me toward the front, where it appeared he’d hoped to find a sign that read “Booker’s pizza is ready so he can go now.”

My eyes caught an older woman shuffling out of a back room, a brown polyester skirt pulled up to her boobs. She attempted to squeeze between two chairs. She made it, but her sagging water balloons bitch-slapped a brace-faced boy. Shocked initially, his face grew wild with excitement as he turned and instinctively reached out, like he was looking for his pacifier. His mom popped him on the side of the head, then turned to his father and swung a mean finger, uttering something about “your son,” “Sunday,” and “confession.” Poor guy.

“Did you say something?” I asked.

Justin started laughing, and just by the sound of his jarring pitch, I could envision his shoulders bouncing up and down. Normally, I’d be laughing at him, but I kept my eyes on the old man and his bodyguard, my hand loose, ready to reach inside my jacket, unsnap the holster and draw my firearm if the situation called for it.

“What are you all worked up about?” I asked, still not turning toward Justin.

“Dude…” he started, but couldn’t finish. Dropping silverware onto the table, Justin had just about lost all control of his bodily functions.

“Get a grip, man.” I chuckled while glancing over my shoulder at him.

“I would if your tongue wasn’t hanging out of your mouth while watching that…uh, mature woman walk out of the bathroom. She’s got toilet paper stuck to her shoe.”

He nearly spit up a mouthful of salad, his arm extending over my shoulder. I followed his pointer finger, my eyes noticing the tail of toilet paper fluttering behind her. Then she really caught me by surprise. She stopped…at the table with the old man and his bodyguard, if that’s what he was. Resting a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, she leaned over, pulled out dentures, and smooched the older man, who I guessed was her husband.

“Did she just pull out her teeth and French kiss that old fart in the middle of this restaurant?”

David’s eyes didn’t blink, and he brought his napkin to his mouth.

“Is there no God?” Justin chimed in, the laugh all gone, his voice filled with horror.

Unsure how anyone would have an appetite after witnessing that felony, I was more annoyed that my possible identification of Ferrigamo and company was no more than a loving family out for Sunday lunch. Or something like that.

“I didn’t know there would be a third.” A waitress too old to be working the floor had stopped and pulled out her order pad. “Can I get you something to drink?” She then hollered toward the kitchen, “Hey Ramon, can you set a place setting for this one here in the shorts?”

“He’s not staying. Right, Booker?” Justin stared at me, forehead scrunched like an

accordion.

As much as I wanted to share the inside information from Sciafini, I’d done my best in the past to keep Justin clear of anything smelling liked organized crime. Checking my phone, I saw it was twelve forty-five. Everything seemed quiet, normal even. Maybe Sciafini had bad information? The imminent murder maybe wasn’t imminent after all. For now, I was comfortable leaving Justin and David to drum up new ideas in their new business venture. I’d make another round through the restaurant, then check all the parking lots outside. If the scene remained uneventful, I could possibly dart home and pick up where I left off in my jog.

“I can tell when I’m not wanted,” I deadpanned. Shaking my head, I held up a hand to the waitress, who shrugged her shoulders and walked off.

David leaned back, splayed his arms. “From my perspective, you’re welcome to stay. As you know, I’m now an open book. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Glancing at Justin, he looked down, twisting his glass back and forth. I could tell he felt differently about me sticking around. Perhaps he was feeling judged, knowing my fondness of The Jewel and Alisa, professionally speaking.

“I need to get going. Alisa and I are meeting in my office this afternoon. Need to compare notes on this crazy murder case.”

Justin seemed to relax as I stood up.

Suddenly, a splintering crash, as if someone just dropped a glass on concrete. I reached for my Sig. Then, two more glassy pings followed, but they were crisp, and then some secondary popping sounds. Screams from the other room.

“What the hell?” I heard Justin call out as I cut toward the older, darker part of the restaurant, my eyes searching for trouble, a victim, a perp. My heart pinged my chest wall.

Pausing at the border to the room, I saw everyone standing, wide eyes locked on the exit.

First booth, a man was bleeding at the head; a lady was next to him shaking and holding a white cloth napkin against his ear. I darted to the table, my Sig down by my leg.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s bleeding everywhere.” Her quivering voice matched her hand.

Glancing around to ensure I wasn’t in an obvious line of fire, I pulled her away and found a small chunk of his ear missing—Mike Tyson style—a sharp piece of colored glass buried in cartilage and skin.

“Keep applying pressure until the paramedics get here. He should be okay.”

A waitress appeared, holding a tray. She began to sob, as her hand pointed to the top of tray.

“What?”

“S...s…someone shot into the restaurant. Hit the beer bottle on my tray.”

I noticed her face and shirt drenched, likely from the exploding beer.

Turning my head around again, I saw no sign of Ferrigamo or the killer from best I could tell, unless they’d somehow blended in with the crowd. For now, I took my best guess and assumed not.

“Has anyone called nine-one-one?”

Scanning the room, I saw three of four heads nod, most eyes on me.

“Good. Please move to the back of the restaurant and stay down until the police arrive.”

A few people started to move, then a woman yelled out. “He’s got a gun. He’s going to slaughter all of us!”

A piercing shrill splintered the room, and two large men moved in my direction as I pointed my firearm to the ceiling.

“I’m a former DPD cop. I’m a private investigator. Do as I said. Now.”

“Shots came from outside,” moaned the man with the bloody ear.

“I’m headed that way.”

The grip of the pistol clutched with both hands, I hit the first of the two doors, realizing it was padded with thick leather. I’m sure it helped maintain a quieter setting on the inside of the restaurant. What other purpose it served, I couldn’t be certain.

Leaning against the door, I peeked through the crack into the portico and spotted broken glass on the floor, a small window above four feet of brick rimmed with only small jagged edges of glass. I kept my head below the line of the window and shuffled over to the brick wall, and tried to get a better view of outside through the second door to the restaurant, which was a metal framed glass door. There was a problem. The glass was coated in dark window tinting, old and warped, crinkling in spots. Angling my face to look down the sidewalk, I only saw gray. Wait. I noticed movement, a shade of purple.

Ping-ping!

Another shot, damn close to the door and me, and I slammed my back against the brick wall, my body still hunkered under the broken glass window. Breathing like I’d just sprinted four hundred meters in world record time, I replayed the gunshot. It must have bounced off the sidewalk, then hit the brick wall behind it, about five feet outside the door. Someone was likely using a rifle, wanting the cover of distance.

Glass crunched under my shoes as I waddled back to the glass door. Extending a hand, I nudged it open. I could see upward, the blue sky and a few clouds, the trees at the median, and a building of some kind across the street. I couldn’t recall what it was. I shifted my neck to try to look west down the sidewalk.

There! Three men practically lay on top of each other huddled behind the front end of a Honda Pilot, a look of panic on the one face I could see. He wore a purple sweater—the flash of purple I’d seen earlier. Some movement, and a barrel-chested man with a buzz cut appeared to be looking my way, but I’m not certain he noticed me. Maybe he was contemplating running back inside the restaurant. Just then, his lips came together as if he was blowing out a breath. I noticed a pistol in his right hand. Pushing up to his knees in one quick motion, he brought the firearm in front of his face. Clutched in both hands, he fired three quick shots, then smacked the guy to his left on the back. Buzz then grabbed the third man, taking a fistful of purple sweater, and they lunged forward behind another sedan. They paused a couple of seconds, then jumped forward, now behind another vehicle.

This had to be Ferrigamo and his bodyguards. They were trying to get to the west parking lot. Had they even considered waiting on help from the DPD?

I guess they lived in a different world than the rest of us. Opening the door a few more inches, no one fired in my direction. I could feel my pulse pounding like a rabbit’s foot, shaking the breath leaving my nose. I scooted one foot forward, shards of glass embedding in the rubber soles of my running shoes.

Eyeing my landing point at the Honda Pilot, I licked my lips, a hint of uncertainty peppering my mind. I was a private citizen, not a cop. My job description no longer required me to put my life on the line, particularly not for a man who most likely killed for a living. In some respects, this was his payback, wasn’t it?

I forced out a breath. “Dammit!” I was mad at myself. I could feel the power to protect others impose its will over the power to protect me. Three. Two.

“Booker!”

My heart felt like a smashed tomato as I turned to the interior door, Justin’s small head poking through, no more than two feet off the ground.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Nothing. Go back inside. Get to the back of the restaurant and stay down.”

I kept my eyes outside, peering through the swaying branches of the trees planted at the median. I’d almost forgotten there was a fancy apartment complex right next to the grocery store parking lot.

“Are you actually going out there in the middle of a gunfight?” His voice pitched so high it sounded like prepubescent Justin.

“I’ll be fine.” I swatted a hand at him.

“Are you fucking crazy?”

“Justin, I’m trained to deal with this. Go back inside.”

“Cock-sucking asshole,” he said under his breath as he disappeared inside.

I knew Justin didn’t understand. Hell, even I questioned my judgment. But I couldn’t change where I came from or who I was.

One more peek outside, and I spotted the three men attached at the hip, farther down the sidewalk, practically kissing concrete behind the sleek, low frame of a black Corvette. I glanced toward the complex, but mostly saw leaves and branches. Unsure of the sniper’s exact location, I didn’t count this time. I jumped out, still no more than three feet high, and scooted to the Honda Pilot, practically eating my knees along the way.

The three men hadn’t noticed me. Buzz smacked his partner on the back again and tried to move the man in the purple sweater. But he didn’t budge. I could hear yelling, then the heavyset guy with a bushy mustache that seemed to droop over his mouth plodded back into position behind the Corvette. More discussion, then a “Fine, fine. Enough already.” I was more certain than ever that the man in the purple sweater was Ferrigamo. I could see his face. It was round and wrinkly with an enormous nose, thick glasses, and a mat of dark brown hair on top.

I realized no shots had been fired in the last couple of minutes. The sniper probably knew he only had a few minutes before cops and SWAT arrived on the scene. We might be clear.

Just then, the three wise guys took off from behind the Corvette, Ferrigamo moving pretty well for a guy who must have been in his upper seventies, maybe older by the number of lines on his face.

Ten steps, and they dipped out into the front parking area and circled a wall at the end of the sidewalk. Just as the first bodyguard vanished behind the wall into the west parking lot, shots rang out. Buzz and Ferrigamo skidded to a stop, hands first, on the pebbled pavement. I heard a scream to my right, a young lady walking down the sidewalk headed my way.

“Get back. Shots fired,” I yelled. She scampered away in the opposite direction.

A car honked as it passed, and I flipped my head back around. I could see the purple sweater moving slightly. Crouching, with both hands on the pistol while aiming across the street, I shuffled my feet like a linebacker and moved down the sidewalk. I got to a sedan and noticed an opening in the tree canopy. A quick scan, and all I saw were a few shut windows. The reflection in the sedan’s windshield showed I was in front of a bridal shop, white wedding dresses splashed all along the front display windows.

A quick glance over at Ferrigamo, and I could see him inching along on his elbows, as if he was scooting under barbed wire at boot camp. It couldn’t get any more real than live bullets whizzing over your head.

Three quick shots. Chipped concrete sprayed a layer of dust just next to Ferrigamo. Then I heard a man. I think it was the large guy with the mustache.

“Shit. Ah! I’ve been hit,” he moaned.

More voices, muffled, but angry and even scared.

Feet scraped the hard surface, and I felt certain the sniper had them pinned on the other side of the wall. Raising my pistol toward the complex, I searched for the gunman. Nothing. Was this guy fucking invisible or what? Dammit!

Sirens echoed in the distance. About damn time.

Another shot. A man screamed like he’d just lost a limb.

Tension built in my body, my throat too parched to swallow. Another shot instantly followed by another wail, this one sounding like the end of life.

“Fuck!” Gritting my teeth, I sprinted to the end of the sidewalk, ramming my shoulder against the white-painted cinderblock wall. Not wanting to give the shooter a stationary image, I flipped around the corner. The man with the mustache lay on his back, blood trailing across the pavement starting near his thigh where a hole ripped through slacks. He whimpered, his hands covering his face, almost as if he was praying.

Just beyond him, Buzz and Ferrigamo were crouched behind a dented metal trashcan turned on its side. Buzz held his gun toward the complex, but his eyes were on me.

“I’m on your side. Don’t shoot.”

Taking a slight chance, I holstered my Sig, ran behind the wounded man, grabbed his elbows and dragged him as quickly as I could behind Buzz and Ferrigamo. The closest car was fifty feet away on the other side of the lot. But I did spot another trashcan behind us.

“Hold on,” I said as I ran back to retrieve the metal can.

Just as I set it down next to the one lying horizontally, another shot. I could feel the air move as the bullet whizzed by before I heard the noise.

“We gotta get out of here and get me to the hospital.” The man with the mustache reached up and pulled at Ferrigamo’s sweater.

Buzz swung his gun and clipped the guy’s hand. “Shut up!”

Another shot, and Buzz fell back, his hand covering a gruesome wound on his opposite

shoulder.

We were fucking sitting ducks, the sirens too far away to make a difference in the next thirty seconds. And I could sense it would be all over in less than that.

Out of nowhere, a spear of light bounced off my eye. Was that from the sniper? Removing my pistol while looking toward the complex, I spotted movement five, six floors up. I think it was a rifle. Knowing I had little chance for an accurate shot, I had to put this asshole on the defense, force him to take cover until the blue uniforms showed up in droves.

I set my arms on top of the trash can and found the target. I couldn’t be off by much and have one of my bullets harm an innocent person in a neighboring apartment.

I could hear a pair of moans from behind me, one whimpering, the other coming out in

sputtering gasps.

Seeing the barrel of the pistol shake, I inhaled and forced out a slow breath, steadying my aim. Three. Two.

“No!” A woman cried out just as someone tackled me from behind, smashing my head

against the trashcan.

For a few seconds, I only saw metal and the pavement. I hadn’t been blindsided like that since I played quarterback in high school.

My pistol. It wasn’t in my hands. Pushing my body up, I lifted my head and saw two legs covered in some type of yoga pants. A woman’s legs. Inching my vision upward, steely eyes glared my direction, the barrel of her pistol aimed right at me.

“Who are you?” I asked without thinking.

“You can’t shoot that man.” She was demanding, but there was emotion behind her voice, and a slight accent. I noticed her bronze skin against her silver jacket, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. But her eyes still meant business as the pistol moved from me then over to Buzz, now leaning on an elbow.

I should have said, “Anything you want. Please put down the gun.” Instead, I asked,

“Why?”

“Because I believe that’s my father.”

16

Justin flipped the sign on his front door to “Closed” and locked the deadbolt for good measure.

Behind the bar, Alisa shoveled ice into tumblers, then added shots of alcohol and carbonation to finish off the mixed drinks.

“A vodka tonic and a rum and Coke.” She set the drinks in front of her.

I reached for the glasses, but my partner/assistant held tight. Looking into my eyes, she whispered, “Can you trust her?”

“I’m not sure. I think so.” It was an honest response. Walking to the lounge area, I paused at the first leather chair, seeing Magdalena Calero talking on her cell phone, standing with her back to me. I heard a lot of Spanish, not understanding a word. She shook her fist with emotion, then turned and leaned her hand against the white and brown brick wall. A baseball game played on the big screen just to her right, but she never noticed.

I guessed she wasn’t speaking to her father, but I couldn’t be sure. I had a ton of questions for Magdalena. As the cops arrived at the shooting scene, she’d quickly said that she would share everything with me if I agreed to stay quiet about her father possibly being perched in the apartment complex across the street, trying to murder at least one person. The trio of mobsters was as mum as mutes. The two henchmen were carted off to the hospital, while Ferrigamo never said a discernible word to anyone, me included, the guy who’d essentially saved his life. His statements to the police were artfully vague, and because of our tenuous pact, Magdalena’s and mine weren’t much better.

Dropping her phone to her side, I heard her mumble more words in Spanish. From my

experience with Eva, I believe we called those four-letter words in English.

“Get it out of your system?”

“I’m just getting started,” she said.

“Vodka tonic, right?”

She nodded and took a sip. “Thank you.”

“All I really know about you is your drink of choice and your name. And that’s only because the police asked to see your identification. Can you share a few more details?”

I could see Alisa inch closer along the bar. I was fine with it. Justin rummaged around the bar, staying noticeably busy, which I found surprising given how he’d mailed it in recently.

“Chinga, where do I start?” She took in a deep breath while shaking her head.

I think she’d just the F word…again.

Swiping a small hand across her face to corral a few loose, brown locks, she curled her lips inward, then marched to the overstuffed leather chair and opened a small red and black fabric purse. From recent dating history, I believe it was Vera Bradley.

She removed a wallet, slid out a card from an inside pocket, then walked toward me holding it up.

Meeting her halfway, I squinted my eyes. “D-E-A?”

“It’s my old employee card. But yes, I’m former DEA.”

I glanced over at the TV, my mind more confused than ever. “You’re telling me this

shooting, your dad going after a named mobster, is all about a drug smuggling operation?”

“No, sorry. I just wanted you to know my background. I quit the DEA about eighteen

months ago. I’ve been working solo since then as a private investigator.”

Alisa coughed, and I looked in her direction. I could see her smile as she wiped down the bar with a rag.

“That’s funny. I’m also a PI.”

“I know.” She dropped her purse back in the chair, then brought the tips of her fingers together. “Booker & Associates. I did my homework. That’s why I’m here.”

I could sense her endless abundance of nervous energy. “If this is here, then where is there?”

“South Florida, in and around Miami mainly.”

“Booker was just worried about competition.” Alisa gave one of her sassy smiles.

“Oh, no worries there. That’s not what I’m about. This is your turf.”

“She’s kidding. It was a joke.”

Magdalena reached for her drink, tipped her head back, then wiped her mouth with the silver sleeve of her fashionable workout ensemble. She definitely had an edge to her. No more than about five-five, she was packed into a lean, mean, taut package.

“Sounds like you’re a hell of a good investigator if you can hunt me down in the Campisi’s parking lot. The question is why?”

Opening her cute mouth, she released an anxiety-filled breath. “Three days ago, after not hearing from my father for the last week, I went to his place. I could tell he hadn’t been there in days. I found a magazine on his coffee table flipped open to a story about the fifty-year anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.”

I leaned forward and cocked my head to the side. “There’s more, I hope?”

Swaying left and right as if she had a difficult time standing still, she held up a hand.

“My father has a brain tumor.” Her eyes peered holes into the chair, her face suddenly rigid.

“Oh my gosh, Magdalena. I’m so sorry.”

Alisa had beaten me to the punch.

“I’m very sorry. Treatable?” I asked.

“When they diagnosed him several months ago, they gave him only a small chance to live more than a year. They operated and then began an aggressive dose of chemo and radiation. After one round of both, he walked out, saying he wouldn’t leave this world that way. He wanted to die with his dignity. Stubborn hijo de puta.”

More four-letter words, but I could understand her frustration, her pain.

“If you don’t mind, I think I need to sit down.” Magdalena shuffled to a chair in the lounge and fell back into the cushion.

Motioning to Alisa, she joined us in the lounge area. We each sat in chairs near the South Florida PI. I glanced at Alisa and I could see a look of concern, a few extra lines visible at the corners of her eyes. She sat on the edge of the overstuffed chair, her arms crossed.

A few seconds of silence passed as Magdalena rubbed a temple. Alisa apparently had lost her patience. “So, essentially you’ve traveled to Dallas to find your father, take him back to Florida, and make him go through chemo and radiation treatment for his brain tumor? Where in there did we miss the part of him transforming into a sniper assassin, going after organized crime figures?”

Alisa wasn’t normally this blunt with people she interviewed, especially women. She was supposed to take on the role of the compassionate, forgiving PI, not nail their asses to the wall.

“I think Alisa is trying to ask—”

“It’s okay. I get it. I’d be asking the same tough questions. I just wish I had all the answers.”

Anchoring her chin with her fist, Magdalena looked to the front of the bar, her face still stressed. Then I noticed her bottom lip quiver, her eyes now glistening. She used a finger to wipe under one eye, perhaps concerned about smearing makeup, one of the great mysteries about women I’d never understand.

I looked over at Alisa, who hadn’t budged, her emotions seemingly unaffected by

Magdalena’s concern about her father. I found it quite anti-Alisa. It appeared her trust barometer was still pegging in the red alert area, despite Magdalena exhibiting a bit of emotion.

Out of nowhere, Justin showed up carrying a box of tissues, surprising me and everyone else in the room.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that.” Magdalena took a tissue. “What was your name again?”

“Justin.”

“But sometimes we call him One Nut,” I said, attempting to lighten the mood.

The cute PI from South Florida let out a laugh while dabbing a tissue to both eyes.

“We really only go there around friends,” Alisa blurted out. I think I noticed her shoulder shake for a little emphasis. Queen Diva had made an appearance.

“Oh, sorry.” Magdalena picked up on Alisa’s cold demeanor, and she widened her eyes as she reached for her drink.

Looking up at Justin, he took my signal. “No, it’s okay, really. It’s one of those stories your friends bring up just to create a little embarrassment.”

Magdalena smiled up at Justin, who shook his head then turned to walk back to his chores, shooting me a quick wink. As appreciative of his aid in a sticky situation, I was just as annoyed by Alisa’s belligerent attitude. This wasn’t the woman with whom I’d worked for the past six months.

Removing another tissue from the box, Magdalena sniffed and brought it to her nose, then took in a deep breath.

“My father…is a killer, that I’m almost certain.” She shook her head, mumbling something in Spanish under her breath.

Alisa looked at me, then scooted her derriere even closer to the edge of her seat.

I held up a finger. “But he didn’t kill anyone at Campisi’s. He came damn close, injured the two bodyguards, and came within a whisker of putting lead in me.” I stroked my goatee and recalled the rush of air whiz by me as Magdalena’s father took target practice on us from an apartment complex across the street.

Another deep breath. “My father has committed many crimes in his life, many I know

nothing about. He’s served time in prison twice that I know of, once for armed robbery and once for assaulting a police officer.” She paused, then looked into my eyes. “On the law enforcement side, he’s what we called a lifer. He was either going to die in prison or die on the streets. He had committed to crime for the rest of his life.”

She squeezed her eyes shut while pressing her hand to her mouth, tears bubbling through the tiny creases of her lids.

Alisa lifted from her chair. I leaned forward, unsure what she might do, given what I’d witnessed in the last thirty minutes. My partner shuffled a few steps, then sat on the cushiony arm of the leather chair and touched Magdalena’s back. A few pats, then she rubbed it.

Magdalena filled a tissue with tears, her face now splotchy red against her bronze skin.

“I’m a mess. This is not like me. I’m sorry to break down like this.”

“It’s all right. I can see your tears are real, as is your hurt over your father.” Alisa looked at me as she spoke. I understood now. Alisa had thought Magdalena had some type of ulterior motive, but now she could see and feel the woman’s pain.

I gave Alisa a concealed wink, then sat up, a hand on my knee. I was still trying to determine how many pieces to the puzzle were still missing, my mind still recalling that bizarre phone call with Sciafini earlier. But I didn’t want to share everything I knew until I’d heard the whole story.

“Magdalena, I—”

“No one calls me Magdalena except for my mother and father. Everyone else calls me

Maggie, even Mags.”

Smiling for a second, I continued. “Maggie, your father was trying to kill Dominic

Ferrigamo, or his bodyguards, maybe both. Any idea why?”

“No, not specifically. I have a few theories. Maybe we can brainstorm, all of us. That might help us find him…before it’s too late.”

Alisa moved back around, then sat on her chair, her face relaxed but serious. “I still think we need to understand how you found Booker. How you found your father.”

“A little evidence, research, and a couple of good hunches. I already mentioned the

magazine article in his apartment. I’d heard him mention JFK before. He seemed like he had a lot of respect for the thirty-fifth president. All the stories about JFK and Marilyn Monroe...Javier, I mean Dad, ignored those, it seemed.”

I held up a finger. “Javier Calero. That’s your dad’s full name?”

“Yes.”

“If I can ask, why did you call him Javier?”

“We hardly spoke for years. He was what you Americans call a loose cannon. He was

violent at times, unpredictable, and even when he tried, very unreliable. He was a rebellious, punk teenager in a grown man’s body.”

Images of my father reached my conscious mind, not the punk/teen component, but certainly the aspects to his personality that made him unreliable. A loser.

“I get it now.”

“He was that way up until he was diagnosed a few months back. Then something changed.

Perhaps seeing the end changed his life. He approached us.”

“Us?” Alisa asked.

“Yes, my sister, Elena, and I. That’s who I was speaking with earlier. She has a bit of that rebellious streak in her. Oh mi, ella es un puñado.”

She looked up and noticed our poor translation skills. “Sorry, I just said my sister is a handful.”

She’d avoided the four-letter word barrage.

“By the way, where are your roots? Were you born here in the states?”

“Yes, but my father was born in Cuba. As the story goes, mainly from mother and

grandmother, Dad came to the states in 1962 as part of a child immigration program created by the U.S. government to remove as many kids as possible from Cuba. They called it Operation Peter Pan. I think my father was seven, maybe eight years old at the time, and they placed him in a foster home in the Miami area, eventually known as Little Havana. My grandmother, though, wasn’t able to join him in the states for another four or five years. By the time she arrived, he was already in with the wrong crowd and had served time in juvie.”

She took in a deep breath, and I could sense her unease, as much as I felt inside. The mention of Cuba, along with his fascination with JFK made me think about Nancy Fitzwater, her father working for LBJ, and the book left at her side, the one I’d read earlier this morning.

“You mentioned that you found more evidence to help locate your father?”

“Actually, finding Dad was almost sheer luck. I was convinced he’d come to Dallas. To do what, I didn’t know.” Gripping the tissue in her hand, she hopped to the edge of her seat, more energy in her body and eyes. “Here’s the deal. I found a story about Booker online, when he played a part in taking down a dirty cop leading some drug-dealing operation.”

Alisa shot me a wink, and I nodded. But it wasn’t about me.

“I knew of no one else in Dallas. Well, I could have called a couple of old DEA buddies, but I didn’t want them to compromise their positions with the agency. I needed to partner with someone who knew the area, could operate freely, and who’d understand the sensitivity of trying to hunt down a criminal—my dad.”

“I guess you know I’m a former DPD cop.”

“Seven years until you were pushed out. It’s only been three days, but I’ve put in the time on this.”

She yawned, bringing her arm to her larger than expected mouth. “Sorry, I drove all night to get here, then fell asleep in your parking lot.”

Touching my chest, I said. “Mine?”

“I tried your office first.” She held up her arms. “But The Jewel was closed early this morning. Not surprising. A few searches later, I found your apartment. Knowing what you looked like, I spotted you racing across the parking lot, heading back to the apartments. I usually go where the action takes me, so I followed you when you squealed out of the parking lot in your Saab. A 9-3, isn’t it?”

I nodded slowly, not feeling as comfortable being on the receiving end of a PI tail. I made a note to myself to ensure my residence was untraceable. How, I had no idea, but I’d put it on Alisa’s task list.

“You almost lost me, but when you stopped at Campisi’s, I pulled around to the side lot.

Frankly, I almost fell asleep again. I heard gunfire, then a minute later saw three guys eating pavement making their way into the parking lot. I pulled out my scope and spotted a man with a tan fedora holding a rifle, what looked like a Bergara Tactical BCR17. Excellent range and accuracy. The kind of rifle you buy when you’re trying to hit a target from a good distance.”

She swallowed hard while trying to hide the fact she was digging a fingernail into her palm.

Anything to plug the tear ducts.

“Are you certain the sniper was Javier, your father?” Alisa asked.

“Not a hundred percent. I didn’t have the best angle, and I was getting a real bright reflection, but I’m almost sure of it. The hat alone is strong evidence. He favors a tan fedora with a black band around it. That’s what this man was wearing.”

“Did you know your father had sniper type of skills?”

“Unfortunately, my father developed many skills in his lifetime, most of which have been used to do bad things. Mean things. But I think he was…is a very smart man. Not educated in the traditional sense, but things come easily to him. He has that type of gift. Probably a wrong choice of words.”

Maggie dropped her head, her chest attempting to pull in a full dose of air.

Alisa and I traded looks. She twisted her full lips, a sign that she was still attempting to find the core of this hairball.

“Your father’s surgery. Is there any way he’s not acting with a sound mind? I’m just

wondering if the surgery or even the tumor might be impacting his ability to act reasonably.”

She released a single chuckle. “Before the surgery, I would have said he was always acting in a rash, selfish manner. No respect for his life or anyone else’s. But afterward, he mellowed quite a bit. We actually had two or three meaningful conversations. To answer your question, the doctors told him he needed to limit his stress, have positive thoughts, work out. Live the healthiest life possible, mentally and physically. But they also said he could have episodes of tremendous pain, even to the point where he might hallucinate or black out. They didn’t want him driving or operating anything dangerous.”

I took a sip of my drink, mostly watered down ice.

“I think you need to know that I’m willing to pay you for your time, like any other client.”

Holding up my arms, I said, “That’s not what this is about. I’m simply trying to figure out how this all went down and what we do next. On top of that, I have a couple of other pressing cases.”

I scratched my scruff and coughed, then noticed my two bloody knees. I guess that occurred when I was scrambling for my life in the Campisi’s parking lot.

“Please understand I’m not trying to keep my father from being brought to justice. I know how authorities operate, though. They will consider him a danger to society and will shoot to avoid any risks. I only want him to live as long as he can, get his treatment. Even if it’s behind bars, I want him to feel that he has family who loves him.”

“And you want to feel your father’s love as well.” Alisa extended a hand, and Maggie took hold.

“I lived without it for, what, twenty-seven years? So, yes, I guess I’m selfish too. A few more months, that is all I hope for.”

Maggie crossed herself, then pulled a necklace from under her shirt and kissed the cross.

I gave Alisa a straight-lipped shake of the head, realizing Javier could be a danger to society.

“I think we’re taking a risk by not telling the authorities—for him, us, and innocent people walking the streets.”

“Hold on. I don’t think he’s a danger to just anyone. I truly feel like he’s put that part of his life behind him. Like I said, I think he changed after his surgery.”

“Then why did he travel to Dallas to kill someone, even if it was a mobster?”

She licked her lips. “I cannot say for certain. I…I’m thinking that he has some purpose in mind.”

She looked away, then brought both hands to the side of her head. “Wait. I recall something he said after his surgery. He was still out of it, not completely awake, his head still loopy. He said…let me see if can remember this. ‘My life would have been very different if Cuba had been free of Castro. I only regret not leaving a legacy.’”

I paused, replaying her words, letting them seep into other pockets of my mind. “Isn’t that a typical opinion? Former Cubans wishing Castro had never come to power?”

“True. It sounded so very personal for him, though. And now, seeing that he’s on some type of mission, I wonder if he believes a free Cuba would change anything.”

Suddenly, a glass crashed behind the bar. “Shit!”

“Everything okay, Justin?” Alisa got up and walked that way.

“Oh, I was trying to break my world record for holding the most mugs in each hand. Can I get everyone another round of drinks while Alisa cleans up this mess?”

He smiled, and Alisa picked up a towel and tossed it in his face.

“No alcohol for us. Straight caffeine. We’re going to be up a while.” I stood, then paced a couple of times in front of the big screen.

“Cuba libre.” I said the first phrase that came to mind, and Maggie’s face came to life.

“The battle cry for Cuban liberation at the turn of the twentieth century,” she said, pushing herself out of the chair.

Alisa moved in my direction, joining Maggie and me near the TV.

“Alisa, grab your laptop. I need you to research everything you can find on Dominic

Ferrigamo. Check that, and while you’re digging into the history of the Italian connection, include Carolos Marcello and Sciafini in your scope. Where they overlap. If there is any connection to Cuba or JFK.”

“I’m on it.”

17

“Sorry, man, I can’t help it. A pipe burst in the kitchen, and we have no water pressure. But if you come back tomorrow night, I’ll give you fifty percent off all well drinks. Deal?”

Justin’s negotiation with the guy at the front door—his sixth such turn-away in the last hour

—was like asking him to chop off a finger. Money had just slipped through his fingers, even if he just had nine left.

Scarfing three different types of appetizers, The Jewel’s leftovers from a busy Saturday night, Maggie and I both sat at the bar with plates, drinks, food trays surrounding two open laptops, and wads of paper with various theories and ideas on them. We’d been in brainstorming mode for a good couple of hours, but had not made significant progress. Up to now, Maggie and I had not figured out how to dance, at least not without a lot of crushed toes, so to speak.

“Justin, can you holler up for Alisa?”

My better half had taken the high road, literally, right up to our cramped office seventeen steps above us. She said she needed a quiet setting if she was going to produce quick results.

Maggie, who’d begun to develop circles under her eyes, munched on a macho nacho, while sketching something on paper. I saw the outline of shoulders and the top of a back, maybe ocean waves in the background.

“Is that your dad, Javier?”

She nodded, turning her head slightly, her neck muscles suddenly less strained it appeared.

“It’s my best memory, really my only good memory of me and my father when I was young.

I was five years old, maybe six. It was a simple walk along the beach, and we were talking about fish and how groups of fish are called a school. I was rebelling against going to school.”

“Sounds like all Caleros have a little bit of rebel in them. I mean that in a good way. Can’t say I don’t have a little of that myself.”

She glanced up and popped an eyebrow, then brought her eyes back down to the sketch, her pencil creating seashells, a few crabs, but it was her father’s large physique that dominated the sketch, the sun peeking through clouds high above the ocean.

“You’re quite good. Have you published any work or put it on display at an art gallery?”

She chuckled just once. “Oh, no. I’d never feel comfortable letting anyone else see my scribbles. I do it when I need to relax. And think.”

Looking into her eyes, I could see depth, and some pain. Shoes clapping on stairs turned my attention away from the sketches.

“Booker, Maggie, I’ve done a lot of digging. Not sure what it all means, but you need to hear this,” Alisa said, rounding the corner of the bar to make her way inside the pit. She nearly ran into Justin, who tried to move out of her way. Every time she moved, he moved the same way. It was like watching two mimes at the park. Finally, she juked around him, but he grabbed his towel and snapped it off her ass.

“If I wasn’t busy trying to keep another killing from happening I’d kick your ass all the way to Fort Worth.”

Justin howled and winked my direction. “I’m just messing with you, Alisa. Can’t you take a joke?”

Alisa plodded toward Maggie and me, a stoic look of indignation painting her face. She spoke under her breath. “He thinks he can just flip a switch and screw with me just for fun when he’s about to turn my life upside down. Screw him.”

Looking over at Justin, who appeared to be busy at the other end of the bar unpacking a new shipment of liquor, I could sense he probably had heard her. But, she had a point.

“What ya got?”

“We’ve been living in Dallas our whole lives, and we had no idea what was going on around us. At least I didn’t,” she said, lifting her screen. “We have two branches of information, from best I can tell in my short time pouring through old stories and testimony at hearings.”

“Testimony?” Maggie asked.

Alisa held up a finger. “Let’s start with the owner of the restaurant Campisi’s. The original owner, Joseph Campisi, testified before the House Committee on Assassinations in 1978.”

“I’d heard rumors, but I had no idea.” I took another drink of watered-down Sprite.

“Allegedly, Campisi was the head of the Dallas mafia. You should read all of his answers in this testimony. He’s an expert dodger, that’s for certain.”

“What did he say?” Maggie said, pushing her sketch to the side, leaning on her forearms.

“Campisi admitted that he knew Jack Ruby, had known him for years. Ruby actually had

dinner in Campisi’s the night before the Kennedy assassination. Get this, Campisi went to visit Ruby in jail after he killed Oswald.”

Alisa paused, looked at each of us, then returned to the screen. “Awhile before that, Ruby and a guy named McWillie were in Cuba running a gambling business. This is where it gets convoluted, and it’s hard to determine a clear path and motivation.”

“That’s fine; just give us the facts, as much as you know anyway.” I noticed Justin had stopped unpacking the liquor and, even from a distance, seemed riveted to Alisa’s every word.

“It appeared the House Select Committee members were trying to get Campisi to admit

knowledge of some type of conspiracy with Ruby, without using the term.”

“Didn’t work?”

“Campisi knew it. The transcript reads like he was answering the questions, but not really providing any detail. He never said why. He was good at sounding naive at the right time.”

For obvious reasons, Sciafini came to mind. As gruff a person as I’d met, I could still imagine him attempting to charm and manipulate to evade the authorities. In fact, he’d done just that with the FBI a few years earlier.

“More?” I asked.

“McWillie and Ruby visited a guy named Santo Trafficante in Havana at the Trescornia

detention camp, held there by Fidel Castro. See if you can follow two different paths back to someone we know.” Alisa glanced up, and I motioned for her to continue, my eyes dry from not blinking.

“Trafficante controlled the Tampa mob and was partners with Johnny Rosselli, an underboss for Chicago mobster Sam Giancana. They ran a bunch of casinos in Havana during the heyday of the Batista regime, the one Castro overthrew. There’s one possible connection to Sciafini right there, the Chicago gang.”

“True,” I said.

“In another article I read, basically a hypothesis of what could have happened behind the mob scene, Rosselli, Giancana, and Trafficante all were alleged co-conspirators with Carlos Marcello. Campisi admitted knowing Marcello, the New Orleans crime boss.”

“And Sciafini said he knew Marcello, said he owed him a favor, which is why he asked me to go to Campisi’s today to stop a murder,” I said.

“That’s how you got there?” Maggie’s smooth complexion tried to crumple, but hardly a line was seen.

“It’s a long story. But I’ve been pulled into dealing with Sciafini a couple of times. Every time we talk I want to puke, because even though he’s never been convicted of anything, I know he’s committed some brutal crimes. Not just his people, but he, himself—only to line his own pockets.”

“One more thing I read.” Alisa rested both hands flat on the bar. “According to an

anonymous source quoted in this article investigating JFK conspiracy theories, if the rumor was true about someone from the mob being involved in Kennedy’s assassination, it was Dominic Ferrigamo, who had ‘a great eye and an itchy trigger finger.’”

Alisa closed the lid of her laptop, then anchored her arms on the bar, her lips pressed together. Chewing the inside of my cheek, I could sense her anxiety. It felt like we’d been pulled back in time fifty years or more, the ruthless old guard using every means to protect itself against the contemporary idealists elected to office by a younger, progressive generation.

“I just want to find my father. Uggh!” Maggie said, clasping her hands and lifting them to her face. Her body seemed much more anxious than when she was creating her sketch.

Maggie turned and pushed up from the swivel chair, pacing away from the bar, a hand

pressing her temple.

“Booker, do you think you guys should call it a night, get some sleep, and come back

tomorrow rested with a clear mind?” Justin had a concerned look on his face as he stacked dishes onto a tray.

Checking the time on my phone, I blew out a breath. It was almost ten p.m. “We can’t stop until we find Javier or figure out his motive, his plan, and try to get that next person before he does.”

Suddenly, I just realized we had taken a position without much thought or discussion.

“We’re making the assumption that Javier is still in town and off somewhere plotting his next move,” I said.

“Well, he didn’t kill Ferrigamo. Maybe he’ll go after him again.” Alisa shrugged her

shoulders as Maggie paced behind me.

“Maggie, what does your gut tell you?”

She stopped in her tracks and turned to us. “Why would Javier, my father, try to kill someone connected to the Kennedy assassination, a murder that is covered in conspiracy theory and rumor? I just can’t wrap my head around it.”

I nodded, sensing her frustration building again, wondering how long she’d be able to keep it together.

“Maggie, I think we need to share something with you, another case we’ve been pulled

into.” I stood and looked over at Alisa. “There was a murder two nights ago at a library just a few miles north of Dallas. A librarian was killed by strangulation, apparently through the use of some type of metal wire.”

Maggie closed her eyes for a moment and rested a hand on a nearby chair.

“Earlier, I said the phrase ‘Cuba libre’ and your face lit up.”

“It just reminded me of stories I’d heard from the older generation, my grandfather,

grandmother. It can actually mean many things these days. There is even a drink called the Cuba Libre.”

I looked back at Justin, who pulled a pen from behind his ear and grabbed a pad. “Sounds very Caribbean. I’m game.”

“I’ll tell you later, Justin.” Maggie cracked a smile, but it was gone in an instant.

I continued. “Standing upright near the body of the librarian was a book by Elmore Leonard called Cuba Libre. We’re unsure why the killer left it there, if it was symbolic in any way. Hell, it could have been an accident, although it seems less likely. I realize it seems farfetched to connect a single statement your father said while under heavy sedation following surgery to this phrase or this book title, but the pieces of data can’t be discounted.”

Gripping the chair, she nodded, then wiped a hand across her face. I could see each piece of evidence, every theory or speculation tearing into Maggie’s heart, and it pained me to have to continue to chip away at her core. But I had no other option at this point.

“Booker, we can’t forget that under Nancy’s body they also found another novel, Burn by James Patterson. Does that title or the book itself mean anything to you, Maggie?” Alisa’s tone was gentle.

“Only that James Patterson is one rich son of a bitch.” She let out a tired chuckle, and we reciprocated.

“The thing is, Nancy, the librarian…well, her father was Hank Fitzwater. The top aide to LBJ when he became president. We can’t get a feel for whether her father and his position had any connection to why she was murdered.”

“No sign of rape?” Maggie asked.

We shook our heads.

“Nothing stolen?”

“From the story we read, nothing stolen,” Alisa said.

I turned to Alisa. “No word back from the folks at Underground.com on the possible video footage at the library?”

“Hell no. I’ve sent three emails and nothing.”

“Send another and try to come up with some new angle that would make them want to

contact us.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

I looked over at Maggie, and now both arms rested on the side of the chair; it seemed she was pressing her head forward in between her arms.

“Are you getting sick?”

“What? No,” she said, her head still down. “It’s a form of stress relief, stretching key muscles and ligaments in my body. My shoulders and back carry most of my stress, so this is the best way I can alleviate the tension.”

Her shoulders had appeared double-jointed.

“Good for you,” Alisa said, rubbing the back of her neck. “I wish I knew of a way to relieve my tension.”

Justin popped his towel against her backside again.

Her eyes shifted right without turning her body. “I knew your dirty mind would go there. In your dreams, One Nut.”

“Are you guys ever going to share this secret behind Justin’s nickname? Or am I not

officially part of the club yet?” Maggie raised her arms straight up, then bent at the waist, stretching her torso.

“Later, when we have time,” Justin said, backing up a few steps.

“What he really means is he doesn’t want another woman thinking he can’t—”

“Okay, I think we get the picture. Let’s focus please,” I said, a tad annoyed.

Justin went back to his routine of unpacking the liquor, while Alisa had already opened the lid to her laptop and started tap dancing with her fingers on the keyboard.

Maggie approached me, touching my arm. “Sorry, the stretching eased my tension, but the little bit of comic relief with Justin and Alisa reminded me life can’t be taken so seriously every minute of every day.”

She paused, then licked her lips, a natural red. “For most of my life, I thought I only had one parent who cared for me, loved me. I found every excuse to not love my father, and for good reason. But in the last few months, I realized I’d missed so much. I love my father, Booker. And I just want what every other girl wants…a little time with her papa before he’s gone. Which is why I want us to find him before the authorities do, and before he hurts anyone else, or himself. I don’t know what’s impacting his decisions…whether he has some kind of warped bucket list he’s finishing or maybe he’s lost his mind from the surgery and the tumor. I just pray we can find him before it’s too late.”

I gripped her shoulder. “I’ll do everything I can, Maggie.”

With a tear in her eye, she took half a step in my direction and then hugged me. Her grip around my chest nearly caused me to gasp, but after a brief second I realized I needed to hug her back, for her and maybe a bit for me.

Bottles clinked behind us, and we both let go of each other. Maggie took a step back, once again circling her eyes with her finger to ensure mascara didn’t smear.

“This really isn’t like me. I’m usually the one with the stone personality, not letting anything get to me.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. You’re surrounded by friends. And friends know when to say…”

“When!” Justin yelled out as I held up my hand.

“We didn’t rehearse this.”

Maggie let out another giggle, as my mind refocused on the evidence we knew about, the evidence we wanted to know more about, and the evidence we’d made assumptions about.

Turning to Alisa, I put a hand behind Maggie’s back and set the course for our next steps.

“Alisa, call Granville at the Sixth Floor Museum. Need to meet with him as soon as

possible. Tonight, early tomorrow morning. He’s the expert on everything related to the JFK

assassination, and I’m certain he’ll be able to provide us limitless feedback on conspiracy theories.”

“He might ask you about the investigation into his stolen artifacts.”

“Good point. Didn’t you reach out to some computer hacker who was going to help you

search the Dark Side?”

“Dark Web. Josh is the guy’s name. It took a little prodding from his probation officer, but Josh is meeting me here at The Jewel bright and early tomorrow morning.” Alisa yawned so wide I thought she might pop her jaw out of socket. I’d once seen a dog get his jaw stuck in that position. I almost chuckled, drawing the comparison, but Alisa was no canine.

“Okay, so I can give Granville some good news about on his case. At least we’ll have the capability of making progress. Just need this Josh fella to come through for us. Is he charging us?”

“The detective said his services to us are pro bono, and we shouldn’t be charmed or

manipulated into thinking we owe him something.”

“Oh, he’s one of those. Well, good luck with that. And let me know once you hear from Granville. If you’re up for working a late night, we need to identify every possible target in the Dallas area. Anyone who is high profile or might have been associated with the JFK

assassination.”

Alisa’s eyes grew wide, and she released a breath. Overwhelmed?

“Hey, I know I’m asking a lot, especially with very little indication of what Javier might be thinking. I know it’s not going to be easy.”

“I’ll help.”

Justin had been so quiet I’d almost forgotten he was still in the room.

“Thank you, Justin. I…uh…”

“I’m no PI or detective, but I know Dallas. The high rollers, the ones who make all the headlines, show their made-up faces in the party pictures. I can help Alisa, at least some. Hell, I didn’t shut down The Jewel for an entire night just to count bottles of Bacardi rum. This is some serious shit going on, and we’ve got put an end to it.”

Draping an arm around her boss, Alisa pinched Justin’s triceps.

“Ouch!” he yelled, jumping back.

“That’s for the obnoxious comment earlier. My own version of snapping a bar towel off your ass. Pretty effective, huh?”

“Shit, I take it back now,” he said, a scowl on his face.

“Oh, come here.” She gave him a hug, thumping his back once. “I appreciate your help on all of this, Justin, I really do. Break out your laptop and join me.”

He disappeared into the back, while I pulled out my cell and tapped a recent number.

“Hola, Paco. Como esta usted, mi amigo?”

“Don’t give me that shit, Booker. Do you know how late it is? My old lady has got to get her beauty sleep, man.”

Hearing my Spanish and Paco’s animated response, Maggie gave me a confused look. I

whispered to her, “It’s just my old partner.”

She winked, and I went back to talking to Paco. A few minutes later, I punched the line dead and Maggie and I agreed to partner up to look for Javier. I grabbed my jacket to throw over my holstered gun.

“Paco’s texting me three or four places where he thinks Javier could be staying while he’s in town. It’s a bit of a long shot, but between our search, Alisa and Justin scouring the Internet, and our conversation with Granville, hopefully sometime in the next twelve hours, we can locate your father, or where he’ll be next.”

Maggie gathered her things, and we headed for the Saab.

<><><>

A metal gate with three missing rungs, the lower third looking as if a semi had used it as roadkill, had been derailed, with just enough space to drive a car through. I craned my neck to make sure both of the Saab’s side mirrors cleared dangling pieces of rusted metal. They did, but by no more than an inch on each side.

“You love this car, don’t you?”

“Not like my daughter, no. But it’s a close second.” I winked at Maggie, but I’m not sure she noticed, only the dash providing a soft orange glow in the four-door sedan. The apartment complex had a single light at either end, both low wattage.

Coasting in between buildings, we saw another world from one that existed just a mile east.

The lot was about half full, and half of those vehicles were either on blocks, had a tire blown or a front hood open, tools and rags scattered around. I noticed black and red graffiti sprawled across three buildings in both Spanish and English. Symbols were included in the rants, but I couldn’t discern what they represented.

I pulled to a stop in between a tow truck and a pickup with lawn equipment in the back.

“Ready for a walk-around?” I asked, unsnapping my holster and checking my firearm one last time.

Maggie removed a short-barreled pistol from behind her back and ran her own self-check.

“Sure would be easier to stop by the manager’s office and ask if they have someone by the name of Javier Calero living here, then to give us a key to the apartment with no questions asked.”

I let out a quick chuckle. “We both know they’re closed up for the night. If they were open, we’d get stonewalled. At a place like this, they’d get more than their tires slit if they opened their mouths to two strangers. If they’re not on someone’s payroll, they’re certainly on someone’s threat list.”

We got out of the car, shut our doors with minimal noise, and walked heel to toe toward building one, not a soul in sight. Knowing we were in full view of anyone looking out the window or hiding between cars, we kept our heads on a constant swivel, my hand on the grip of my firearm tucked inside my jacket.

Muted lights came to life behind two different apartment windows, and I gave a signal to Maggie. Someone peeled apart two metal blinds and looked in our direction. For all we knew, it could have been a curious grandmother up to have a cup of late-night tea. Or it could have been a gangbanger whose sole purpose was to watch out for rival gang members or cops and then communicate that to others, who would then likely try to ambush us. Although I knew Maggie could hold her own against anyone, being a female could also elicit an even greater animal-like response. All it takes is one alpha pervert leading the pack of wolves.

I wasn’t sensing a warm-fuzzy reception.

Approaching building two, we walked a few more steps, then I stopped in my tracks and held up a hand. I’d heard voices, a shuffling sound. My eyes honed in on the wedge of space between buildings one and two. I squatted lower and stepped toward the sound.

“You heard that, right?” I spoke just above a whisper, my eyes trading between the pitch-black space between the buildings and the rest of the complex, ensuring we weren’t walking into a trap.

“Didn’t you know women can hear everything?”

“I almost forgot. You can also see behind your back without turning around. Super powers that we men don’t have, at least not around you gals.”

A quick twist of my head, and Maggie reciprocated and flanked right while I shifted left, the wedge still black as tar. Glancing overhead, I noticed the dark sky was flat, not a single ray of light from the moon or any star. Two quick gusts of wind blew against my face, and I wondered if another destructive storm was imminent.

My ears crinkled as I swallowed, and I could sense that whoever was in the wedge knew we were only twenty feet away.

I held up a hand for Maggie, and she slowed, both of us stopping just in front of untrimmed bushes that outlined the brick walls from each building, the gap of space in between us. The space went quiet, only a surge of wind gusts whipping in my ear, fluttering between wild branches on the bushes. Then I spotted something white at the second floor just above our heads.

Upon closer inspection, it was a plastic grocery bag that continued dancing in the air as I turned to peer through the dark void between the buildings, no more than five or six feet at our end, angling out like a V.

Holding up a single finger, I pointed to my chest, and Maggie gave me a nodding

confirmation, then she turned to make sure we were covered from the back.

I took a single step forward. “Whoever is in there, I need you to walk this way with your hands above your head. We need to ask you a few questions.”

No response, only another gust of wind much stronger than the previous. I looked at

Maggie, her eyes not blinking. She brought a hand to her ear, then stepped into the pit of darkness. I tried waving her off, but she ignored me.

Dammit! What the hell was she doing, besides putting her life at risk, and mine, too, for that matter?

“Maggie,” I whispered through a stiff jaw.

She kept walking, her pistol in one hand while pulling her phone from her jacket pocket with the other. Suddenly, the wedge had light. Maggie had clicked her phone out of sleep mode.

Two people rolled up in a quilt lay on the grass and dirt, hands covering eyes blinded by the light that had split darkness. With bare arms and shoulders exposed, it appeared we’d stumbled upon the local Romeo and Juliet.

“Qué demonios estás niños haciendo aquí?” Maggie asked in a strict tone.

“We speak English,” said the boy.

“How old are you?”

Maggie acted like a parent, which seemed appropriate, given the setting and the time of night.

The teens looked at each other, then back at Maggie.

“Do we have to tell you?” asked the girl. “I don’t want Juan to get in any trouble. I love him.”

“How old?”

“Sixteen. He’s seventeen.”

Maggie released a twenty-second tirade of expletives, all in Spanish. Given the kids’ pained facial expressions, they understood every word.

“Stand up.”

The teens stumbled over each other and their ripped brown and yellow quilt, keeping it at the appropriate height as they stood.

“Stop touching each other. A foot of distance between you…now.”

Damn, Maggie wasn’t playing games.

The teens stepped apart, the quilt still under their armpits.

“Have either of you seen this man?”

Maggie held her phone closer, a picture of Javier sitting in a high-back chair in a hospital room, his head shaved, colorful tattoos lining his arms. I could see he was attempting to smile for his eldest daughter.

“What, around here?” the boy asked with fear in his voice.

“Look, we’re not here to hurt you or the guy in the picture. That’s her father, and he’s sick.

We’re trying to find him before something bad happens.”

Both shrugged their shoulders. “Sorry, I haven’t seen anyone like that. We’re either in school, studying, or working at the pizza buffet,” the boy said.

“Our parents never let us have any spare time. It’s either school, studying, or working. We hardly ever get to see each other.”

The boy shuffled his bare feet. “That’s why we were so desperate to meet like this.”

“You sure you haven’t seen him?”

Maggie held up the phone again.

“If you can tell us what apartment he’s in, I’ll give fifty bucks to each of you.” I wasn’t sure I had the money on me, but I’d gladly run to an ATM if it meant they could lead us to Javier.

The teens shook their heads.

“I wish we could say yes. We need the money.”

“That’s for damn sure,” the boy said. “Oh, sorry.”

Maggie angled the glare of her phone light into his eyes, a reminder that he should speak respectfully, apparently. She then turned to me, her lips a straight line.

“Let them get home. We need to finish our search here, then we have two more to go,” I reminded Maggie.

“Okay, put your clothes on and get back home,” Maggie instructed.

The teens looked at each other, then gave a pained expression.

“Our clothes were stolen,” the girl said.

“Yeah, my best friend thought it would be funny to take our clothes. Prick.”

I think I saw Maggie’s eyes roll even in the reduced light. She huffed out a breath, then swiped her sleeve across her forehead.

“You, Romeo. You live nearby?”

“Third building, but I can get in through the back, climbing over our first-floor fence.”

“And you, Juliet?”

“Second floor, building one here. I left our door unlocked.”

“Guys, I know you think you’re in love, but you have to be more careful. Promise me you won’t do this again.” Maggie shined the light in their eyes.

“Promise,” they said in unison.

“Okay, Romeo. You’re going to run like a bat out of hell back to your place. Got it?”

The boy’s face contorted into a prune. “Without any clothes? You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.” Maggie glanced at me, and we both shrugged our shoulders.

The girl leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, then she gradually slid the quilt in her direction. In the blink of an eye, he flipped around and ran off, one hand covering his front, the other on the back end, an embarrassed yelp shaking with the thud of each step. His girlfriend giggled.

“Something funny?”

Maggie was born to play the bad cop. I was impressed, while at the same time glad I never crossed anyone like her when I pranced around the mean streets of southeast Dallas as a cocky teenager.

The girl curled her lips together while cradling the bulky quilt.

“You might think he loves you. You might think you’ve fooled your parents. But the only person who’s getting screwed over in this deal is you. And that doesn’t include the part that it’s dangerous as hell out here. Do you know how many girls I’ve found dead, raped after the fact, tossed in a trash field?”

The girl wrapped her arms, shook her head, and looked down. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to convince me. I’m gone. You need to make smart decisions. No one else will do it for you. Get on home.”

“Thank you.” The girl curled hair around her ear, then walked in between us toward the staircase on the front side of the building.

“You look like you’ve had some practice dealing with teenagers.”

“I’ve been a Big Sister back in Miami. If you give an inch, they’ll take a mile,” Maggie said, shining her phone light in my face. “And if they don’t respect you, it’s a lost cause.”

We continued our trek around the complex, finding two guys sitting on a staircase smoking rolled-up cigarettes. Both had calluses covering their hands, which told me they were working men simply looking for a respite. Neither claimed to have seen Javier.

Ambling back to the Saab, our firearms tucked away, I felt a buzz in my pocket.

“Got a text from Alisa. Looks like we’re meeting Granville at the museum at eight a.m.”

I checked the time on my phone. “Paco sent me two more addresses, and it’s almost two a.m. Let’s stop and get a coffee, then—”

Maggie darted left out of her stance, gravel dust crunching under her rubber-soled shoes so fast it seemed like she had four legs. Unaware of what or who she saw, I reached for my Sig, then hoofed it her direction.

Leaping three feet up to a ledge, I ran across a large, open area of grass and dirt. Maggie had just stopped next to a hedge of shrubs by the stairs.

“What the hell did you see?” I’d just run up next to her, my chest heaving a bit, while hers didn’t budge.

She turned around to face me, holding a white bucket that normally held fried chicken.

“My eyes are playing tricks. I thought it was my father’s fedora.”

“Sorry. We’ll find him.”

“We have to find him.” She stared into my eyes, a look of defiance on her face. After a few seconds, she turned and walked back to the car, neither of us saying a word.

I turned right onto Northwest Highway and within two miles found a twenty-four hour gas station, four cars parked out front.

“Coffee first, then we have two more places to visit, one of which is a motel I’m familiar with.”

She gave me a confused look. “Do I want to know the story behind that?”

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep it to myself. It’s that bizarre and warped at the same time.”

We strolled up to the door and stopped just as my hand touched the handle, our tired eyes suddenly wide. A sign in bold red letters read: Better to be tried by twelve, then carried by six.

“You think the owner is sending a message?” Maggie asked.

“Some will choose to turn away, but the ballsiest gangbangers will take it as a challenge.

While on the beat, I ran into far too many kids who weren’t scared of anything, until they had a bullet lodged in their leg.”

Once in the store we found the coffee station and pumped two cups. She added a heavy dose of cream; I took extra sugar. I grabbed a banana on the way to the counter.

“Two coffees, one banana. Any condoms for the road?” The wiry man with oily blond hair parted in the middle stepped to the side while extending an arm to the back counter, where we couldn’t help but notice a rack of colorful, shiny packages making bold claims about sensation and ribbed this or that.

Maggie tightened her face and started to reach inside her jacket. I quickly wrapped my arm around her.

“Whoa. Uh, that’s not something we’re interested in. We’re just—”

“Friends,” the clerk said with a smartass grin.

“Colleagues,” Maggie and I said in unison. We looked at each other, then back at the pervert.

“Uh, sorry about that. I just thought, you know, she’s a PYT and all. In this neighborhood, lots of folks are looking for a little quick love, if you know what I mean.” He chuckled.

Maggie hooked a thumb in his direction. “Is he calling me a hooker?”

I opened my mouth, and then she turned and pointed a finger at the fella. “You’re lucky he is here. Otherwise, I’d cram that jury of twelve up your greasy ass. I’m going to go look through the magazines.” Maggie marched away.

“What did I say?” He scratched the back of his head, and I could have sworn I saw

something tiny leap between his fingers.

“You really need to ask?” I shook my head, then swiped my credit card.

Before I was able to stash my wallet away, loud voices erupted from the other side of the store. Flipping around, I saw two guys pinned against the glass doors in front of the orange juice section, tiny fists swinging through the air above the aisles.

“Oh shit.” I ran toward the glass doors.

“Maggie, stop!” I only saw more fists. When I rounded the corner, I first noticed her red face, then her hands grasping a younger Hispanic male by the T-shirt. He held up an arm and spoke in rapid-fire Spanish. His friend had gravitated toward the magazine rack and ripped open a magazine that was wrapped in plastic.

“What’s going on?”

“This asshole is wearing my father’s hat, and he won’t tell me where he got it.”

I put my hand on Maggie’s shoulder, and I could feel her whole body vibrating from sheer intensity. She let go, took a step back. The shaggy-haired guy barely had peach fuzz on his face, and his eyes were ninety percent white.

“Who gave you this hat?” I asked, looking down at the guy, who was at least a foot shorter.

He paused, then glanced at his friend as if he’d been sacrificed. “No hablo ingles.”

“Maggie, can you—”

“He’s full of shit. I heard him speaking in English to his masturbate buddy over there when I walked up. He’s trying to play us, and I’m not going to let him do it. My father’s life is on the line.”

She took a step forward, her fist cocked and her jaw rigid.

I stepped in between them, then gave the guy a couple of options.

“Since you can understand everything I say, you can either tell me who gave you the hat or we’ll take you behind the gas station and I’ll leave you alone with Ms. Feisty.”

He closed his eyes, then took the white fedora off his head and clutched it against his chest.

“No one gave me this hat, I just found it.”

“He’s lying. I can see it in his eyes.” Maggie’s expression spewed venom.

Perhaps he was lying, but Maggie’s overall temperament had devolved rapidly in the last hour. Not surprising, given no sleep and the anxiety of believing her dad might be out there plotting to kill innocent people because of a possible vendetta related to a presidential assassination more than fifty years ago. I had nothing but empathy for my diminutive partner, and a fervent desire to find Javier.

“Have you seen this man?” Maggie shoved her phone six inches from the guy’s face.

“Uh…” He looked away again at his buddy, who had unfolded the magazine centerfold.

“Have you seen him or not?” I asked.

“Uh…I think I recall seeing him now.” He held up a single finger, the last knuckle chopped off.

Staring at his hands, I could see abrasions, discolored fingernails, and a deep coating of dirt and grime. This guy had been exposed to a rough way of life, the jobs he’d held, or maybe what kind of hobbies he enjoyed.

“And?” Maggie’s voice pitched higher, her fuse about to go off.

“I know, I was at a certain motel, and I saw him crossing the parking lot.”

A quick glance at Maggie, then I moved a step closer to Peach Fuzz.

“At the far east side of the city, on the border with Rowlett, a small place called Motel 9.”

“You mean Motel 6?” Maggie asked.

“He means Motel 9. I’ll explain it later.”

Maggie gave me a confused look, then tried to snatch the white hat from Peach Fuzz, who jerked his shoulders around and hung on tight to the hat.

“And you’re telling us this guy that you recognized from her phone did not give you this hat?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“So, where did you get it?” My voice had an edge. I felt like I was speaking with a five-year-old, one who’d already learned the art of bullshit.

“No one gave it to me, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I found it.”

Now I was beginning to question this guy’s honesty, and I took another look at the hat. Some of the edging had been frayed. The brim had three creases like it had been crushed, and a black scuff mark stretched across the center of the top.

Maybe this wasn’t Javier’s hat. Or maybe Peach Fuzz and possibly others had taken this from Maggie’s dad forcibly. I could feel heat gather at the edge of my collar.

Just as I took a step toward Peach Fuzz, I heard the chamber of a gun load, and I turned around.

“I’m tired of putting up with you low-life maggots. Take your shit out of here, or I’m going to fill you with lead.”

A sawed-off shotgun hung next to the clerk’s leg, his stature much more confident than earlier. I assumed he was the guy who’d rather be tried by twelve, which didn’t sit well with me.

Maggie’s eyes met mine, then I looked at the manager.

“No need to get upset. We’re just having a discussion, trying to locate a sick family member.”

“Every one of you coming in here has a pathetic excuse. I’ve heard them all, but it’s all bullshit. You can’t fool me.”

I had a lot I could have said, wanted to say, but I wasn’t going to risk our lives.

“We’re cool.” I reached out for Maggie, brought her behind me, and starting backing away.

“Sure you are. Only because I’m holding a gun that could spill your guts all over this floor.

But I really don’t want to clean the floor again. I already cleaned it last month after I shot another one just like your kind. Fucking scum.”

Reaching out, I grabbed the arm of Peach Fuzz, and we all moved backward toward the

front door.

“There you go, keep it moving.” He swung his shotgun like it was a loaf of bread, his finger on the trigger. “You know how to take orders. I guess that’s what it takes sometimes.”

We bumped into Peach Fuzz’s friend, who was still flipping through the magazine.

“Did you rip open one of my magazines, muchacho?” The clerk’s eyes narrowed, a trench forming between his deep eye sockets.

“Uh…uh.” The friend jerked his hand forward, the magazine pages bent every which way.

“I don’t want a magazine you’ve already used. God knows what you did with it.”

The kid dug in his pockets and pulled out fabric and lint, his expression pained.

“Nada.”

Apparently, his English wasn’t as good as his buddy with the fedora.

I quickly dug in my pockets, but I had no cash on me.

“Let’s go swipe my credit card, and I’ll pay for it. Then we’ll all leave, and everything will go back to normal.”

The clerk gave me the once-over.

“I’m charging you double. The rest of you out. Now!” He held up his gun.

I nodded at Maggie, who corralled the other two and marched through the door.

With his eye still on me, the clerk shifted toward the register, scooting around the counter to face me, his shotgun waist high, held in his right hand.

“That will be seven bucks times two.” He punched a few keys with his left forefinger. “Then we have the PITA tax.”

I looked him straight in the eye, and he slowly showed a wide grin, revealing a set of mangled, discolored teeth that looked like something I’d seen in pictures from the seventeen hundreds.

“Pain. In. My. Ass. That’s what all of you are to me.” He chuckled.

I managed to keep my expression blank, although a thin coat of perspiration lined my spinal column.

“With the PITA tax, the total comes to one hundred fourteen dollars.” Another sickening smile.

I swiped my card, but the little machine beeped and displayed an error.

“Try it again.”

I gave it another swipe, knowing what the response would be. I’d used the wrong side on purpose.

“Give me your card.”

I tossed it on the counter, then stuck my hands in my pockets, releasing a tired breath. He gave me a quick glance, then set the shotgun on the counter and picked up the card with his right hand. Just as he inserted the plastic into the card swiper on his register, I lunged forward, scooping up the shotgun then spinning it in the palm of my hand. He dove onto the counter for the shotgun, but was woefully too slow, and I watched his forehead drop with a regretful thud.

Flipping the gun between my legs, I took hold of his forearm and yanked him toward me, scraping his torso on the edge of the counter.

“Ah!”

“With your left hand, tap the keys and charge me the cost of the magazine, and that’s all.” I spoke with a stern voice, my heart pumping adrenaline through a tired body.

He tried twisting his body, and he acted like his left arm couldn’t reach.

“I can’t. See?”

I jerked his right arm up, then back down.

“You’re going to pull my arm out of the socket!”

“Do it. Now!”

“Okay. Just don’t dislocate my shoulder.” Grunting as he did it, he tapped the keys, then said, “Swipe the card.”

I completed the transaction, then let go of his arm. “Don’t move. Stay right where you are.”

He looked silly splayed out on the counter, but after having a shotgun pointed at me, Maggie, and the two teenagers, I considered tying his ass down. But I didn’t have the time or the energy.

I backed toward the door while I emptied the shotgun of its shells and placed them in my pocket.

“Your customer service needs serious improvement.”

He grunted in disgust, his eyes glaring at me with his head cocked at an awkward angle.

“If I ever hear of you pulling a gun on anyone who’s not robbing you, then I’m going to pay you another visit, and I won’t be as nice.”

“Are you taking my shotgun? That cost me two hundred bucks.”

“Call it a PIMA tax. Pain in my ass. That’s what you should have said earlier, asshole.”

“Whatever.”

My hand felt for the door handle. “If I see one strange charge hit my credit card, it better be a one-way ticket to Beijing, because when I find you, it won’t be pretty. Capiche?”

“What do I do for a weapon?”

“Buy a can of mace.”

I swung open the door and almost ran over Maggie, who held the fedora in both hands.

“Booker, you got to see this.” She’d put the shotgun incident behind us so quickly it caught me off guard.

“When I pressed the boys further about my father and where they got the hat, the one boy tossed it in the air and they took off running, escaping into the dark neighborhood behind the gas station.”

Turning the brim over, she put a finger next to two small letters written in ink: JC.

“Javier Calero,” I said out loud.

“This confirms it. My father is in Dallas. He was shooting from the window of that apartment complex.”

I could see her chest heaving, as if she might start hyperventilating.

She fell into my arms, her head nuzzled into my shoulder. “We’ll find him, Maggie. You have my word. We will find him.”

I just hoped it occurred before anyone else died.

18

He swirled the colored liquid in a plastic cup, then dipped his head back and let the smooth liquor coat the back of his mouth.

Javier released a hearty “Ahh,” then set the cup on the pockmarked table, wanting to savor the one serving he was allowing himself to drink the night before his final act.

He felt a slight burn at the top of his chest, and he wondered if his body was rejecting the alcohol. He thumped his chest twice with a closed fist, a trace of emotion entering his thoughts, catching in the back of his throat.

Magdalena, his eldest daughter, had the natural beauty of her mother, but also possessed the feisty spirit of a Cuban crocodile. He was almost certain he’d seen her through the scope of his rifle fifteen hours earlier, and she of him. His heart had skipped a beat when he saw her leaping through the air in the parking lot. While he’d taken steps to cover his tracks, he wasn’t shocked to see her. Not only was she a damn good private investigator, but she reminded him of the neighbor’s pit bull. Nothing stopped her when she set her mind to it, and there was no sacrifice too great to reach her goal.

Perhaps she’d inherited that dogged determination from her father.

Leaning back in his chair, he placed a hand on his freshly cleaned custom rifle, a Bergara Tactical BCR-17. His accuracy had not been the best when he attempted to take down Dominic Ferrigamo. A bright sun and too much distance between him and his target had allowed the breeze to alter the trajectory of his hollow-point ammunition.

He’d considered going after Ferrigamo again, earlier, before midnight. The chickenshit mobster assassin hid behind the walls of a compound, afraid to show his ugly mug in public, aside from his weekly visit to Campisi’s. With the crime families now alerted to his plans, though, Javier knew any future attempt on Ferrigamo, or any other similar person from that way of life, would not be successful. Javier would likely never survive a gunfight where he was up against a dozen or more men.

Javier at age twenty-eight would have never been able to tame his inner fury, to not make another attempt at taking down Ferrigamo. Whether it was old age or the fact his life was near its end, the man with nothing to lose now was driven by the end game, the ultimate impact of his body of work.

The pit of his stomach felt a sharp pain. Unsure if it was a return of his ulcers or another side affect from his worsening condition, Javier willed his mind to bypass as much of the pain as possible.

He flipped on the projector and replayed the home movies that captured the moments of John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s last day as president of the most powerful nation in the world. He heard the cheers and adoration from the crowd as hands reached for John and his beautiful, classy wife, Jacqueline, a joyous occasion on a picture-perfect day in Dallas, Texas.

Javier stared at the remarkable, but grainy, November blue sky and was reminded again of the sacrifice so many people had made, his father included. As a youngster, his family meant everything to Javier, and in the blink of an eye, it was gone, taken from him and thousands just like him.

As he slid aimlessly into a life of crime, with no respect for anyone, Javier knew he’d lost his way. But instead of analyzing how it all happened, how he could repair the broken relationships and shattered dreams of his parents, he wallowed in the slimy ditch of mud like a pig in slop. He ignored his family, just like he’d ignored the searing pain in his skull for far too long. He had been in a pit of despair when Magdalena appeared in his life like an angel from above, although it took her relentless prodding to get him to see the first doctor. The first of many. Too many.

Grabbing the bottle of Bacardi rum by the neck, he eyed the red and white label, thumbing the words, Made in Cuba, and a wave of bile started its ascension. He massaged his right temple and waited, prayed, for the surge to subside. He’d hoped he could avoid another episode, but perhaps it was meant to be, to remind him of the fragility of life, to sharpen his bludgeoned mind so that he could fulfill his ultimate mission.

For weeks going on months, exasperation had churned in his mind like a blender, his skull on the verge of exploding. But then he’d read an article that literally made what little hair he had stand at attention. The pieces and parts of how the world had evolved, or devolved, since the untimely death of the thirty-fifth president of the United States.

But Javier knew it was only untimely for those who drew hope from JFK, from what he

represented to so many people across the land, and many who lived beyond the U.S. borders.

As if on cue, he felt a prick at the base of his skull. Grabbing his head with both hands, he rocked back and forth, knowing the ensuing attack was unavoidable. Every second that passed felt like someone was twisting in a needlenose corkscrew, burrowing deeper and deeper into the core of his skull. Tears flowed and perspiration coated his entire body as the intensity of his scream matched the tortuous pain.

“Please, God. Help. Me. Please!”

With the echo of his desperate plea lingering in the musty air, the inescapable agony pelted his body until there was nothing left. Minutes passed, and he realized he was curled up on the floor, the touch of the matted carpet against his fingers, the rhythmic click of the off-balance fan providing a focal point for his thoughts.

Counting the beats of the fan up to thirty-five, the intense pressure in Javier’s head dissipated, his pulse dropping below a hundred. Just as he heard a breath leave his mouth, he sensed part two of this act was only seconds away. He pushed upward, his veiny arms shaking to support his weight, and crawled toward the sink. It felt like he’d just returned from an extended trip to outer space, the gravity ten times what his body was accustomed to holding up. Twice he crumbled to the floor, giving his face a rug burn.

Javier’s fingers touched the cold porcelain edge of the sink at the exact moment his gut launched an attack for the ages, the initial blast of vomit spewing like a runaway geyser. Up on his elbows, he caught a quick vision of someone he hardly recognized in the mirror. Two deep breaths of precious air, and then the heaves started, his abdomen thrusting grenades to the surface, his body nothing more than a witness to the rapid-fire assault. All he could feel was fire, towering flames of hate, flames of self-loathing, flames of shame for not being the man he could have been. Should have been.

And then there was calm. Again he counted the clicks of the fan up to thirty-five, and again he searched his mind for peace and then for purpose. There had to be a reason he was being put through this hell. But after his disgraced life, he knew the reasons all too well.

He picked his frail body off the floor, washed off the grime, amazed at how much of him was pasted on the mirror, walls, and counter. Wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, he found the chair and opened the box of Montecristos. He paused, then plucked the last cigar he’d ever smoke from the container. He lit the end, took a few puffs and sat back, allowing his mind to play out the next several hours.

He’d rarely felt fulfilled with any endeavor. But as he took in a long drag, savoring the Montecristo, he also knew nothing could stop him from finally proving to the world and himself that life is a gift to be cherished.

Until it is taken.

19

The door opened, then shut in less than a second, a spotless pair of Santoni silver-buckled shoes peppering the dense hardwood floors in Granville’s office. I almost had to peel my puffy eyelids apart to notice.

“Did Mary get you guys a drink, water, orange juice, a coffee maybe?” Granville spoke as fast he walked, his thin forefinger scrolling through something important on his iPad mini.

“I think she forgot that part of the routine,” I said through a gravelly voice. My knees locked into a standing position behind two stylish plaid armchairs that angled toward the chic glass desk of the Sixth Floor Museum director. Maggie was already seated, her crossed leg kicking up a storm. A strange sensation permeated my body, my hyperactive mind fighting through an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. I think Maggie’s hyperactivity had already won the battle with her body.

“Assistants. Are there any good ones left?” Granville shook his head, then called his admin to fetch a tray of drinks.

My mind instantly went to Alisa, and I chuckled internally, thinking about what her response would be if I asked her to serve drinks to our clients. Likely, she’d quit on the spot and post another sign on The Jewel’s door advertising her own PI firm. And she’d be a tough competitor, no doubt.

A pear-shaped woman in polyester pants entered the office, her chafing thighs the only sound for a few seconds. She set down a tray with a carafe of coffee, bottled waters, orange juice, and a tomato juice. I also spotted sugar and cream, two important staples for Maggie and me. More chafing, and then Mary disappeared as Granville waved, “Thank you, Mary. You’re the best, as always.”

The corners of his mouth turned up at the corners. “What can I say? You have to keep them motivated. Maybe she’ll turn the corner someday.”

He extended a hand toward the tray, and Maggie had I nearly butted heads lunging for the coffee.

“Oh, sorry. Ladies first.”

“Whatever,” she said, her mahogany eyes peeking up at me. “We can act like scavengers at the same time.”

I gave a quick smile to Granville, who pushed his rolling chair back a tad, then turned his attention back to his iPad mini

Our focused quest to consume coffee was caused by sleep deficiency—Maggie and I had

been up almost the entire night. Upon concluding that the former DEA agent had indeed confiscated Javier’s actual fedora, virtually assuring us he was still in the city for an exact purpose we’d yet to completely understand, we’d proceeded to Motel 9, a pay-by-the-hour rat hole on the outskirts of the city. Months prior, one of my spouse-cheating cases had brought me to the fleabag. I was almost devoured by a spider web of rusted metal fencing before I survived the disturbing peanut butter episode that left me never wanting to eat the substance again in my life. Through it all, I managed to capture the images on my digital camera for our client. Success, even at the expense of future nightmares, couldn’t be overlooked in the PI business.

Unfortunately, my second trip to Motel 9 didn’t provide the same positive results.

Essentially, we struck out, and not many people could say that about Motel 9.

Beleaguered, on our final stop of the night, we toured an apartment complex where drug dealers, prostitutes, and pimps ran roughshod over the compound. Broken syringes and crack pipes were scattered across the grounds. Every person we asked about Javier either responded with a vicious laugh or a plea for some type of illicit drug. On one occasion, a tall redhead offered a special, late night, fifty-percent discount for a threesome. The interaction between Maggie and the redhead reminded me that Maggie was ex-DEA, not ex-cop. While I laughed it off, my diminutive partner took a confrontational stance, threatening to take her in. When I asked to where, the hooker jumped in and said, “Oh, but I’d much rather be handcuffed and put in the naughty corner.” I cracked up while Maggie mumbled something under her breath before

returning to our car.

With nothing more than a hat in our possession and a possible sighting by two teens, our trail to Javier had hit an impasse, and so had our ability to think straight. We headed to my place to get in a power nap. I gave Maggie my bed, since I didn’t want to expose her to a night of catcalls from Big Al. I took the couch, my mind stuck on an endless series of dead-end leads to find Javier, to try to understand his end game of this exercise.

I wasn’t a great sleeper even in a relaxed mental state of mind. With Maggie’s father lurking in the city, possibly planning another attempted murder clawing at the back of my thoughts, my brain never completely shut down.

Prior to running out my condo door fifteen minutes before our planned meeting with

Granville, I managed to burn my cheap coffeemaker, creating a nauseating stench that led to a foul response from Big Al. “Full of crap. Full of crap. Full of crap.”

Slurping a hot mouthful of black coffee with three packages of sugar, I let the warmth soothe my throat all the way down.

“How’s the coffee? Did Mary make a good batch this time?” Granville asked.

“Mary did excellent work,” Maggie said, grasping the mug with both hands.

“It looks like you two spent the night on the park benches in Dealey Plaza. No offense,”

Granville said.

Knowing we didn’t want to piss him off, Maggie responded with a simple, “Not much

sleep.” And then I could see her lips press together.

“Alisa said you wanted to discuss an area that is near and dear to my heart, the JFK

assassination. It relates to this case that kept you up all night?” Granville propped a hand under his chin, then rocked back in his chair.

“Possibly,” I said, now seated, taking another sip of liquid energy. “I can only give you so much information. I have to maintain client confidentiality. I hope you understand.” Even though Granville was a client on one case didn’t mean I could share every detail of this case.

He nodded, gesturing with his hand for me to continue while increasing the pace of his rocking motion.

“Can you give us a feel for the political environment in Dallas, around the country, even the world, near the time Kennedy was assassinated?”

Granville inhaled and adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses. “That’s the kind of question I live for. Honestly, I’ve given four-hour lectures on this very same topic. I’m sure you don’t have that kind of time.”

We could have four minutes, for all I knew. “We are pressed for time. Can you try to

summarize? A CliffsNotes version.”

“For starters, Kennedy was our first Catholic president. That and the fact he was a wealthy man from the Northeast made people in Texas not trust him or his politics, at least people in the political arena. Kennedy’s trip to Texas had been planned for some time, negotiated to a degree.

John Connelly, the Texas governor who rode in the same vehicle as Kennedy, was said to have been cautious about being seen with Kennedy, despite the fact he was also a Democrat. But back then a Texas Democrat was not that same animal as one from Massachusetts, especially one who supported unions.”

I nodded, letting the overall vibe of the era sink in a bit.

“Were you aware a US senator and the UN ambassador, among others, told Kennedy that

Dallas was too dangerous to visit?” Granville asked, his forearms resting against his desk. “Yet the Secret Service did not adjust his security detail.”

“What was the danger?” I asked.

“It came from every direction. Back in those days, organized crime had its roots in a lot of businesses, different cities, not just in the Northeast. New Orleans and Dallas had its share of mafia-like activity. JFK’s brother, Robert, was attorney general, and had made it his mission to identify the mobsters and find people who would turn on them. It really created a huge amount of noise and panic in mob-run cities throughout the country, and in the unions.”

“You specifically mentioned Dallas?”

“There’s definitely a Dallas/New Orleans connection. Oswald visited New Orleans. Crime boss Carlos Marcello ran the scene down there; Joseph Campisi here in Dallas. Allegedly.” He used air quotes and chuckled slightly, as Maggie and I gave each other the eye, recalling Alisa’s reciting her research several hours earlier.

“Isn’t that one of the JFK conspiracy theories, the mob being involved?”

“Certainly. It’s one of many theories. Of course, many people have pointed to the Oswald-Soviet Union connection. But with the mafia, or mob, I’ve read several possible conspiracy scenarios. Various names have been tossed around. Some you could say had motive. Interestingly enough, the mob folks were very much connected to the scene playing out in Cuba, a well-known adversary of the United States, and Kennedy in particular.”

“The Bay of Pigs,” I said.

“Cuban Missile Crisis,” Maggie added.

“The Cuban Missile Crisis actually was seen by some as an embarrassment to the Soviet leader, Nikita Khrushchev. On the other hand, the Bay of Pigs and Kennedy’s overall Cuba policy were viewed as a public defeat for the president. By some accounts, the U.S. government apparently sponsored eight assassination attempts on Castro in the early days. It was a different world back then, as far as how much information was shared, what citizens were privy to.

Everyone in the Castro government wanted Kennedy dead.”

“So it’s safe to say that anyone who was anti-Castro was likely a big supporter of

Kennedy?”

Granville nodded. “While a few blamed Kennedy for screwing up the Bay of Pigs invasion, he truly served as a beacon of hope for so many people, many in the younger generation, many from outside of this country. You remember his famous quote? ‘Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.’ Peace Corps enrollment increased

exponentially for years after that speech.” He popped his pointer finger on the desk, his passion for the topic evident.

“Back to the dangerous environment here in Texas,” I said, shifting in my seat. “You

mentioned Connelly. LBJ was Kennedy’s vice president, and obviously, he was appointed president when Kennedy was shot. Did—”

“What a picture that is.” Granville’s eyes looked to the window, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. “The first lady, Jackie, standing on Air Force One next to Johnson as he was being sworn in by a local federal judge, Sarah T. Hughes. So many people crowded on the plane as it sat on the tarmac at Love Field Airport.”

I recalled the picture he was describing, especially the empty look in the first lady’s face.

How she stood there with so many people looking over her shoulder. It seemed so invasive to her life. But, as we’ve learned since then, she and her husband endured a lot of complications in their marriage, their personal world. Living under that enormous spotlight must create tremendous tension…not anything I would ever voluntarily seek.

“I can see it in your eyes. You’ve seen that same photo. Am I right?” he asked.

“Yep. Not easy to forget.” I looked at Maggie, who also confirmed her visual knowledge of the photo.

“Just two hours after Kennedy was assassinated, Jackie stood on the plane wearing the same pink Chanel suit. They say that LBJ suggested she turn at an angle so that when the

photographer, Cecil Stoughton, took the snapshot it wouldn’t pick up the blood stains from her husband.”

“So LBJ was riding in the car behind the president and the governor, right?”

“He, along with his wife, Lady Bird Johnson. Texas Senator Ralph Yarborough also rode in that second car.”

“Obviously, LBJ wasn’t injured.” I made more of a statement.

“Johnson had suffered a heart attack eight years prior, so there were initial rumors that he might have suffered another one, but like so many other pieces of information that came out of this event, it was fiction.

I licked my lips and realized my mouth was parched. Too much pure caffeine. I leaned over and picked up a bottled water, cracked the cap, and took a swig.

“Have you heard any theories about LBJ somehow being connected to the assassination?” I almost bit my tongue when the words fell off my lips. It sounded ludicrous, but my thoughts kept going back to the murdered librarian. Maybe it was because my simple mind was connecting the political figures to two crimes fifty years apart.

“Sadly, yes. There have been numerous books written on this very topic, all of which are chronicled down in our museum, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Many point to the fact that Johnson believed he was going to be dropped from the Kennedy ticket in the 1964 election. One book outlines a plot where Johnson was the mastermind with the help of an Austin attorney. The author points to evidence of a partial fingerprint found near the window on the sixth floor belonging to a Johnson colleague.”

“Wow.”

“And then there’s the extended theory of the assassination being funded by Texas oil

magnates H.L. Hunt and Clint Murchison.”

“Clint Junior was the original owner of the Cowboys.”

Maggie cocked an eyebrow, as Granville nodded his whole body.

“Does the name Hank Fitzwater come up in any of these theories?”

I could see Maggie lean forward as Granville drummed his fingers on his desk.

“Of all the names that have been thrown out there in various conspiracies theories, I don’t recall that name coming up. But, if my political science history mind is working correctly, I think I recall him being an aide to LBJ.”

I nodded, my eyes gravitating toward a swirling blue and gold pattern in the office rug under his desk. Definitely not cheap.

The door to the office burst open and without turning, I knew it was Mary by the thigh swishes. “Granville…uh, we have a situation by the window on the sixth floor. I think we need your help to…calm some nerves.”

I looked back and saw her jaw stick out, unmoving.

“Oh, I understand,” Granville said, popping out of his chair. “People come from all over the world, and when they actually look at that window, it creates such a rush of emotions. Not all the same, mind you. But it’s almost like we need to have a psychiatrist on staff. Anyway, it shouldn’t take me long. Have another drink. Back in a jiffy.”

The door shut, and Maggie turned her head my way. I could see gears cranking behind those deep eyes.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” She moved her hand to her lap, and I could see it shaking.

I nodded. “The librarian murder. Her father, an aide to LBJ, who very possibly could have been behind the assassination. I guess when I say it, it sounds absurd. But when Granville recites the theories and supposed evidence, it at least sounds plausible.”

“But was it plausible to my father?”

“Granville said that Hank Fitzwater’s name never came up in all the research and books he’s seen. And Granville is the authoritative source.”

“I’m not trying to put my father’s prints on that librarian’s murder. It’s the last thing I want.

But if he did do it, I need to know. And I need to know why. It could help us figure out what he might do next.”

I thought about the research that Alisa and Justin were working on last night when we left The Jewel. I pulled out my cell and found no text messages from Alisa. I pushed up from my chair to stimulate some blood flow to the brain and found myself near a wall with a corkboard, all sorts of flyers attached. One mentioned the dedication of the new works of Russian artist Dmitry Merinov at the Dallas Museum of Arts today. I also found a number of flyers dedicated to upcoming musicals at Fair Park in South Dallas, my old neck of the woods, as well as Wyly Theatre in the Arts District, which made me think about Renee Dubois. Maybe my mind went there because she was the one who recommended me to Granville.

“Booker, you still with me?”

“Uh, yeah. Sometimes I can drift off in my own thoughts. The Fitzwater murder. Yes, it would help a great deal if we could get our hands on the library video footage. Alisa is meeting with that computer hacker this morning, I think.”

I typed in a quick note to Alisa just as the office door swung open.

“Okay, where were we?” Granville asked, blowing by us. “Yes, Lyndon Baines Johnson. A complicated man. He pushed through the Civil Rights Act, yet was caught on tape saying some pretty awful things, racially speaking.”

I felt a buzz in my pocket, and I read a quick text back from Alisa.

Josh just showed up. Says he knows u. Already working

Tapping the back of my phone, I picked my brain. I hadn’t known a Josh since elementary school, and he’d moved away.

I realized Granville had been speaking, but it sounded more like white noise at this point.

“The day Kennedy died is the day modern cynicism was born. Hope for so many was blown away with a single bullet, as one theory states. I’ve equated Kennedy’s assassination to that of a high-powered bomb, with shrapnel tearing through the very fabric of this country and many parts of the world.”

I nodded from behind my chair, agreeing with everything he’d just said, at least what part had registered in my brain that never sleeps. While his was a metaphor, I knew all too well what real shrapnel felt like puncturing your skin.

“What other questions can I answer for you?”

Glancing at Maggie, I wanted to ask Granville if he could make a definitive connection between the librarian murder and the attempt on Dominic Ferrigamo. On top of that, I would have really appreciated his insight into who Javier might be targeting next. But I knew I couldn’t go there.

“I can look at both of you and realize you’re investigating an ominous, potentially dangerous case.”

He threw out a hand looking for confirmation, but Maggie and I both remained straight-faced.

“Okay, maybe you can’t talk about it. I get it. It’s just that…” Granville got antsy, wiping his face with his hand, then he popped out of his ergonomic chair and took four steps to the two corner windows. I noticed the crystal-clear blue sky in the backdrop behind a couple of nearby city buildings.

“Do you need to share something before we take off? Something you think we should

know?”

He turned around with a hand in his pocket, the other one speaking louder than his voice, which sounded stressed. “Fifty-plus years ago, Dallas became known as the City of Hate. Think about that. All across the country, people looked at Dallas as a pariah. I grew up in rural Ohio and didn’t move here until just after graduating college, but I can still recall hearing people talk about Dallas. Most of it was hyperbole, but I think you get where I’m going?”

Taking another peek at Maggie, I turned back to Granville and said, “There are a lot of people out there with badges and uniforms ensuring that the people of Dallas are kept safe. Many of the civic leaders want to also protect the city’s much different reputation. Maggie and I, as private investigators, are doing our part as well.”

I tapped Maggie on the shoulder and gave her the signal we needed to get going.

My phone buzzed just then and I read Alisa’s text.

Research on potential targets only found 1 of note; prez in town today

A wave of heat shot up my spine, and I could feel my eyeballs burning.

“I wasn’t sure if you were aware that the president is in town. Today,” Granville poked a finger on his desk again. “He’s throwing out the first pitch at the Rangers game this afternoon, then he has some fundraiser at a millionaire’s home in Highland Park.”

“Uh, yes. Alisa just reminded me. I appreciate everything you’ve shared with us today.” I extended a hurried hand, and I could feel Maggie’s strained glare on me.

He paused, trying to read me. Good luck. “Most welcome. By the way, it probably pales in comparison to everything you’re dealing with, but do you have an update on the stolen artifacts from our little museum?”

“Alisa is meeting right now with a computer expert who we hope will find an online trail of the artifacts. Apparently, there is something called the Dark Web and a lot of illegal activity occurs in that space, including the buying and selling of stolen items. If we can find your missing items, then we’re hoping that will lead us back to the perpetrator.”

“Excellent. Thank you.”

“We’ll be in touch.”

The moment Maggie and I shut the door behind us, she gripped both of my arms, her chest surging from deep breaths. “Booker, I hate to do this, but I think we need to contact the authorities. The frickin’ president is in the city. We can’t ignore the fact my father might be planning another assassination in Dallas…to fulfill his so-called legacy.”

With a statue-like rigidity to her anxious posture, Maggie dug her fingers into my arms.

“I’m glad you went there. I realize this is exactly what you wanted to avoid, but I agree with you. I know who to call. He’s FBI. Send me your father’s picture.”

I dialed Special Agent Bobby Guidry and gave him a quick debriefing on Javier, his

background, and our theory that the president might be a possible target.

“I believe Air Force One just touched down at Love Field,” Guidry said. “Thanks for the lead time.”

I glanced at the time on my phone: 9:23 a.m. Putting the phone back to my ear, I heard what sounded like a horse chewing on a cud. I grimaced.

“Send me Javier’s photo and I’ll take it from there. By the way…” Guidry paused, and I thought I heard a belch. “Excuse me. Just a little egg burrito heartburn. Don’t be surprised if I call you on the other side of the president’s visit. I might need to assign an agent to mirror you.”

I chuckled, then asked, “Why exactly?”

“You’re a magnet to all the maggots that are attached to this city. Damn, Booker.” The lilt of his voice gave away a Cajun accent.

“The day you guys assign an FBI agent to mirror me is when I know there’s nothing to

worry about across the rest of the country.”

“Yeah, right.”

I disconnected just as Maggie and I hit the outdoor steps to the former Texas School Book Depository building.

“Do you think we should join the party with the president or head back to The Jewel and work it virtually?”

Clicking the alarm on my silver sedan, I said, “Neither. My brain has been chewing on one angle for quite a while, and I need confirmation one way or the other.”

We headed to the rich part of town, in a hurry.

20

Tall, athletic, and eyes like Brad Pitt.

Alisa found herself staring across the old metal desk in the official office of Booker & Associates, her leg kicking at about the same rate as her increased pulse—a strange phenomenon for the part-time waitress/part-time researching sleuth. Normally, any task attempted before eleven a.m. was done so either out of guilt or with a gun to her head, figuratively speaking. But watching Josh Parry run his fingers through his thick mane of golden hair, contemplating how to approach this technical issue, was enough to make her heart flutter.

“Is their security too tough for you to crack?” She brought a mug of coffee to her lips and missed, spilling more than a few drops. Realizing she still had a bar towel draped over her shoulder, she wiped off her chin and dabbed the dark spots on her jeans—her oldest and least flattering—all while keeping a gaze on Mr. Blue Eyes. Maybe he didn’t notice her klutzy move.

“You still have a little something.” He had noticed and now touched the side of his mouth.

She found herself staring at his lips, full and full of life.

“Uh, right.” She used a quick hand to swipe her face one more time.

Josh scooted up in the chair that Booker normally sat in, creating its typical ear-splitting squeal, but it didn’t seem to faze him. His face was sculpted almost as perfectly as a model’s. But as she looked closer, she noticed a streak of struggle or conflict in his lagoon-blue sapphires…

eyes that seemed enigmatic, as if they held hidden secrets. Or was it a streak of wisdom that she sensed? He was perplexing, yet the more she took in all of his layers, the more she was drawn to him.

Then again, he was a convicted felon. Alisa inhaled a breath and released it slowly, trying to soothe her urges and to remember what was at stake.

Within hours from the time Nancy Fitzwater’s body had been found and the crime scene

worked by the Richardson Police Department, Underground.com had already broken the story online, sharing pertinent inside information. And ever since Maggie Calero had arrived, intervening in what appeared to be her own father’s murder attempt on an old mob hitman, Booker & Associates had become highly interested in what else Underground.com might have procured—mainly, video footage from the library crime scene.

While Alisa had initially sought the services of an expert on the workings of the Dark Web to try to track the whereabouts of the stolen artifacts from the Sixth Floor Museum, the urgency to gain more information about who murdered Nancy Fitzwater had quickly vaulted to the top of the priority list. But she was expecting Josh Parry to look like a middle-aged computer geek, with little hair and less personality. The moment Josh walked into the bar and introduced himself downstairs thirty minutes earlier, she literally wondered if someone was playing a joke on her.

Someone as in Justin.

“It appears the cyber security team at Underground.com has previously had to deal with a breach,” Josh said as Alisa’s eyes moved from his mouth to his eyes, occasionally shifting to his long, capable fingers gliding along his portable keyboard. “No worries. I should be able to use another method to access their internal network.”

“Glad you’re confident.”

“With experience comes confidence.” He paused, lifted his eyes at Alisa, and held his gaze for a moment. For just a second, she felt conspicuous, as if she needed to find something to occupy her hands and her thoughts. Her face felt flush, a circle of perspiration forming at her hairline, and she immediately had the compulsion to put her mop of hair in a bun and fan herself.

Just in time, he returned his focus to the screen, his fingers clicking and typing at the speed of light. She forced her sights to the opposite wall, eyeing the cheesy red Ferrari she’d bought for Booker’s office, which allowed her temperature to drop a few degrees.

The room went quiet for a few seconds, Josh holding a hand to his chin. He was clean-

shaven, outside of extra long sideburns, his skin the texture of a velvet leaf. Suddenly, Alisa’s laptop decided to crank its motor, as if it knew to break the hushed silence.

She swiped a finger across her keyboard mouse, scrolling down her browser, still scouring online sources to try to locate high-profile people that Maggie’s dad might be targeting. Over six million people lived in the DFW Metroplex. Add to that thousands of visitors, taking in everything from the home where the original Dallas TV show was taped out in Parker to a tour of the Death Star—home of the Cowboys—and more shopping and restaurants than existed

almost anywhere in the US. Events of the sporting and artistic varieties, including concerts at umpteen venues, both in the city and the suburbs, made this search to find the one location, the one person that Javier had set his sights on seem unattainable, or at least less likely than a snowstorm in the Texas spring.

Heavy eyelids reminded her that she’d been at this for hours. She and Justin had worked until almost three in the morning. After a few hours of shuteye, she ran back up to The Jewel and put in another hour before Josh arrived and shifted his focus from the Dark Web to hacking into the Underground.com internal network. Was it entirely legal? Not really, but she’d guessed that the reporters at the online publication had not obtained the footage legally either. And she had sent several emails to the site’s editors asking about a possible partnership with no reply. With lives possibly on the line, they didn’t have time to play professional footsy.

A yawn came over her, and she felt her thirty-six-year-old face stretch, the skin around her eyes in particular. She brought a hand to her cheek while ensuring Jack’s gaze remained on his screen. She’d run out of the apartment this morning without going through her normal skin rejuvenation routine, and already her face felt like a dried-up prune. Was it all in her mind?

Possibly, but her eyes didn’t lie, and she’d noticed subtle lines forming—a girl’s worst nightmare. Her birthday was only a month away, just a few days before Mother’s Day. With no kids, it was another reminder of a life she hadn’t planned. Then again, she thought, she couldn’t undo the past. She was wiser because of everything she’d experienced, including that waste of a marriage in her early twenties. And life was all about taking advantage of the opportunities that fell into your lap.

She nearly released a giggle, connecting the opportunity sitting on the other side of the desk and her lap…or in this case, her thoughts of sitting on his lap.

Geez, get a grip, Alisa, he must be ten years younger than you, and he’s a convicted felon.

Did you hear yourself? He’s a convicted felon!

“So, what did you do to get convicted of a felony?” she asked without thinking how it might sound.

“Ha. You get straight to the point, don’t you?” He raised a single eyebrow, but she only saw a sea of blue.

“That’s fine. You don’t have to share it with me. I was just breaking up the silence a bit.”

Josh released a breath, licked his lips, and shifted his baby blues toward Alisa. “I’m not ashamed of why I did it. But I’ve had to learn that I need to accomplish my goals in a different way.”

“I see…I think.” More silence, which made her think. “You’re pretty good at answering a question and not really divulging much.”

He chuckled. “Damn, you’re not going to cut me a break.”

“Just want to make sure who Booker & Associates is going to bed…uh, I mean the character of the people we’re conducting business with.”

She poked a fingernail into the back of her blondish mane and scratched her scalp, twisting her head away, wondering if Josh had caught on to her awkward verbal misstep.

“Are we really doing business together? I mean this is pro bono work, not that I mind really,” Josh said, his eyes and fingers still working in tandem like synchronized gears.

“Hmm,” she said out loud. Maybe this silly infatuation was one-sided.

“I finally made it. I’m inside.”

“Uh, what are you saying?” A confused buzz rattled in her head, as if she’d downed three shots of tequila.

“I found a crack in their security. I’ve made it onto their internal network.”

“Oh, right. Cool.”

“I need keywords to search every file on their network.” Josh waved his fingers, as if he was motioning for Alisa to move closer.

“Keywords, right.” She put a hand to her chin, centering her focus, forcing her smitten, distracted self to a side compartment, then rattled off a series of phrases that had anything to do with library, murder, Nancy Fitzwater, or any other combination she could think of.

After typing the keywords and punching the Enter key, Josh found a random pen on the desk and clicked it in and out, over and over again. Alisa became enthralled by this mindless exercise, and she tried like hell to not make the gigantic leap into the possible symbolism it represented, at least in her own sensual thoughts.

“Coming up empty,” he said.

I doubt that, she thought.

Shutting her eyes from the distraction that was Josh’s mere presence, she forced herself to think about all the information they had learned about Javier, the crime scene, and all of the research she’d uncovered about the JFK assassination, various conspiracy theories, the connections to the mafia, and the connections to…

She smacked her hand on the table. “Cuba Libre. Try that.”

Josh snapped his back straight, then rattled away on the keyboard and poked Enter.

“Dot a-v-i.”

“What?”

“The video file name extension. I think I found the video footage.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

He turned the laptop so they both could watch as he double-clicked the file name. “The clip is only fifty-three seconds, so who knows if this is what you’re looking for. By the way, what are you looking for exactly?”

Ignoring Josh’s question, Alisa leaned closer and noticed the angle of the camera apparently booming down from the ceiling, directed toward a corner of the library. A young couple walking arm in arm appeared, turning right. Each took turns looking over their shoulder, then they disappeared from the view of the camera.

“There.” Alisa touched the screen. The top of a light-colored hat moved slightly, just on the other side of a bookshelf. Alisa guessed the hat person was sitting, reading a book possibly.

The picture popped, as if someone flipped the lights, and Josh looked at Alisa. “That’s a jump cut in the video footage. I think your friends at Underground have done some editing.”

Nodding, Alisa kept her eyes glued to the screen. The same young couple was running in the opposite direction now, dropping out of sight near the top left section of the screen.

“Stairs,” Alisa said.

“Yep.”

Another blip on the screen. “Look, down here. A woman. Is that Nancy?”

Alisa’s finger followed a female, with shorter hair. Alisa could see the top of her suit jacket.

The woman veered right for a couple of seconds.

“I think she’s holding something.”

“A book?” Josh asked.

Suddenly, Nancy turned left and vanished out of the bottom of the screen.

“Movement up top,” Josh said, his finger now tracing the path of the hat.

Alisa could feel her chest thump, and for the first time since Josh arrived, it had nothing to do with his eyes or lips or the scent of his distinct cologne.

The man wearing a white hat turned left, moving down the screen, the same aisle as Nancy.

He kept his head down, his face not visible.

“That’s him. The killer,” Alisa said.

“The what?” Josh flipped his head up, his baritone suddenly pitching higher.

The man disappeared off the screen, and the video ended.

“Back it up about ten seconds,” Alisa said.

The video replayed, and the man turned left. “Stop right there. Look at his gait. It’s kind of how old people walk. His shirt appears to be blue, with some white mixed in. His hat is white, but I think it has a black ribbon around the top right there.”

“You’re all about the details,” Josh said.

“That’s what makes the difference,” Alisa said, her eyes still in study mode. “Wait. Look at his hands. They’re below his waist, but curled into fists.”

“As if he’s holding something thin, one end in each fist, but I can’t see what it is,” Josh added.

“I can’t see it either, but I bet it’s a metal wire. He ripped her neck in two.”

Josh’s eyes met hers, air rushing through his open jaw as his chest rose with each breath.

“Can you send me just the last ten seconds? I want to forward this to Booker and Maggie.”

“Give me two minutes, and you’ll see it in your inbox.”

Alisa was thankful Josh didn’t insist on a deeper discussion. He just did as she asked. Maybe there was hope for a future Alisa/Josh conversation. And that one would be far more personal.

21

“You sure it’s okay to just walk into their backyard?”

Nasal congestion made Maggie’s voice sound a bit like a Latin Rudolph, with his shiny nose muffled by a glob of mud.

Minutes earlier, we’d pulled to a stop on Strait Lane, just two mansions away from turning into the Yates estate, to watch the library video footage Alisa had forwarded. Upon watching the short clip, Maggie simply closed her eyes. But as the images resonated, I could see her lips move. Maybe she was cursing in Spanish, or even saying a prayer for Nancy Fitzwater, the victim.

Then her head starting swaying left and right, her eyes still closed, a murmur of

unrecognizable words coming from her mouth. Slowly, her face contorted, until two blue veins sprouted, one at her temple and one arching above her eyebrow. I put a hand on her shoulder, hoping to calm her, to let her know she wasn’t alone. But I knew it couldn’t change what she’d just realized.

“My fucking father is a goddamn, cold-blooded killer!” she screamed out. “He fucking

murdered an innocent woman, a librarian. For what fucked-up reason, who knows, who cares?

He took a life because he was trying to prove a point, to make his life worthy of something. I don’t care anything about his wacky rationalizations. It’s fucked up!”

Maggie pounded the Saab’s dash with closed fists, as pools of tears fell from her stressed face. Tears of undeniable pain and disgust, having no father for so many years, and then finally having one for a few short months only to see him leaving a legacy of self-justified murder.

When she finally ran out of energy, she turned and buried her face into the crook of my arm, and I just held her. Her sobs rocked the car and me. Seeing a human being, an adult, shaken to the core, was always unsettling. I’d only known Maggie for twenty-four hours, but it felt like we’d shared a year’s worth of experiences.

Slowly, the tears stopped flowing, the shaking subsided, and I could only hear clogged breathing. As she raised up, her entire face and neck were dotted with red splotches, her deep brown eyes almost completely bloodshot.

“I’m sorry,” she said with little effort, her catatonic gaze staring at nothing. “I think everything just hit me all at once. Javier has done bad things in his life. And I guess I knew he’d probably taken a life. But to see it on video, your own flesh and blood. I can’t explain the disgust I feel, how ashamed I am to share the same last name.”

I handed her a tissue, and she dabbed her eyes and nose.

“He’s a sick man, Maggie. You’d told us you could see that he had changed his ways, seen the light, so to speak. You said earlier that it’s possible this tumor has impacted his ability to think rationally. Do you still believe that?”

She inhaled twice, her eyes blinking as if she was thinking through previous conversations.

“The doctor said it was possible. I don’t know, Booker. To go to this much trouble, it took a great deal of thought and planning. Does that sound like someone who’s suffering from some type of mental disease?”

“A lot of factors are involved, I’m sure. To a degree, I think our environments shape our lives, how we’re raised. But a lot plays into how we act, what drives us to take action versus just leaving it as a thought. And with your dad, he’s got cancer attached to his brain. No one is pure.”

Pursing her lips, perhaps to suppress another round of tears, Maggie nodded, then looked into my eyes. “Thank you.” She took my hand and held it tight. “Thank you for helping. Thank you for listening to this crazy lady losing it on you.”

“Put anyone in your shoes, we’d be all feeling the same way. I can tell you’re tough as nails.” I gave her a wink, and she squeezed my hand tighter.

Walking across the Yates’ vast driveway I found the powder blue Bentley Flying Spur

parked under the basketball goal, just as it was the last time I’d visited. Ever since we’d learned about Nancy’s death, in particular the method of how her neck had nearly been severed, I’d wondered how her life and that of a CEO multimillionaire of a supposed “green” energy company intersected, even tangentially.

Our research on the Nancy/Albert connection had turned up nothing. But now that we’d all but confirmed Javier had killed Nancy the librarian, I had to quiz Darla one more time. There had to be something I missed during out initial conversations. Figuring out if and how Javier was connected to Albert Yates not only would help solve my paying gig, but could also bring to light evidence that could help us find Javier’s next target. If, I had to remind myself, there was a next target. Javier could just fade into the global melting pot and fall off the radar, never to be heard from again.

But Maggie didn’t think so. She thought her dad wasn’t done. And I had to go with her instinct on this one.

“Darla Yates hired me, and I’m sure she wouldn’t care where I went to find her husband’s killer. No offense.”

“I want to find him worse than you, Booker. Believe me.”

We cut through the gate and bounded down the winding path, as birds chirped nearby in trees with new growth.

“You sure someone’s home, though? We rang the doorbell, and no one came to the door.”

That wasn’t the first surprise. Not seeing any police protection anywhere on the property—

as had been previously discussed—had initially caught my attention.

“It was strange, I admit. I thought if nothing else, Helen would come to the door.”

“Helen?”

“Their maid, or nanny, or bartender for Darla, or peacekeeper with the kids. She serves a lot of roles. I don’t envy any of them.”

“Damn. You make this place seem like it’s Downton Abbey. Where’s Mr. Carson when you need him?” Maggie asked with a pretty good Irish lilt.

We both shared a quick chuckle, reducing the tension in the air.

Continuing our trek through the back part of the estate, it seemed different. The white canopy that covered the crime scene wasn’t visible, and the recent rains seemed to have infused a growth spurt in the landscaping. The bright, overhead sun played against the leafy shadows and light breeze. If it didn’t seem like the weight of the world was hanging over our heads, and the city of Dallas, it would have been a beautiful day, a “Chamber of Commerce Day,” as my Momma would say.

From a distance, the enormous pool came into vision, only a few scattered leaves sprinkled across the flowing water. I could hear the motorized hum of what sounded like a pool cleaner, as I arched my neck toward the back porch.

We passed a row of bushes, a large cluster of trees, then could see the entire pool area.

“Wait.” I put a hand out and stopped both of us. “Something is moving just through that landscaping.”

Reaching into my jacket, I gripped my X-5, bent my knees, and began walking, my thoughts replaying the scene at Campisi’s—Javier trying to pick off the mobster from the tower across the street. Then I thought about Nancy’s brutal murder. I had to be ready for anything. Hair stood at attention on my arms, and I could feel an icy patch on the back of my neck as I hunkered down, slowly padding toward the movement between plants and shrubs. Maggie had a hand on my back.

Part of me wanted to call out, to clarify if it was friend or foe, but I had to assume the worst.

Motion caught my eye, and I glanced left, the pool cleaner swirling through the aqua blue water.

The incessant drone of the machine muted any sound from our shoes. Suddenly, the cleaner skimmed across the surface, creating a slurping noise. I shot a look at our target area. No change in the pattern of activity.

Studying closer, I saw white next to shades of orange and blue. I wanted to get Maggie’s opinion, but we didn’t have time to hold a discussion. Suddenly, she grabbed a fistful of my shirt and pulled back. I looked over my shoulder at her. She pointed down, and I saw a pool lounge chair just in front of my right shin.

I mouthed a “thank you” and continued plodding along. Now less than forty feet away, I could see something moving up and down, but no eyes and no obvious weapon. We banked left to get a better angle and moved beyond three more lounge chairs and a green chair float with a cup holder. I was sure Darla had used that on more than one occasion.

My thighs burned, but I wasn’t about to alter my position of readiness. This was why I stayed in shape. Shuffling left, my eyes never left our target. I knew Maggie had my back and was surveying our surroundings to ensure all was clear as far as she could see across the property. But I was almost certain there was no one else, except for who or whatever was on the other side of those bushes. Was it Javier? Were Darla and the kids okay? What about Helen? For whatever reason, my mind quickly spiraled into anxious mode. Inching closer, I still had no idea what we were dealing with.

I tried to swallow, but it felt like I was forcing a jar full of cut glass down my throat. I was as curious as I was on edge. Bringing my left arm back, I touched Maggie’s jacket, ready to pull or push, knowing we’d have to move quickly. Moving away from the pool, I could actually hear my steps. My shoe hit a ridge, and I looked down and noticed I’d stepped on a small branch that had fallen from one of the enormous red oaks surrounding the area. Clenching my jaw, I shifted my weight, hoping the branch wouldn’t snap. My shoe rolled safely off, and I took a breath.

I eyed two trees to my left, believing if we could make it to the farthest, we’d have the target in our sights and could force him or her to come out with hands up.

“Booker,” Maggie whispered.

What was she doing? I held up a hand, giving her the signal to put a lid on it.

“Booker, don’t you—” she attempted in another whisper.

I held up another hand, this one more agitated in her break of protocol. She knew how this was supposed to go down. She had the training and the experience.

A poke at my shoulder blade. Maggie again.

I held up another hand, trying to ignore her just as we passed behind the first of the two trees. The leaves of two bushes now hid our target.

She squeezed my side, digging strong fingers in between two ribs. “Bookerrrrr,” she said in a loud whisper.

“What the hell are you doing?”

I laid a hand on the trunk of the last tree, my eyes fixated on the bushes in front of me. I felt Maggie’s hand drop off my back, then suddenly she walked right around me, casually walking toward the bushes.

“Wait!” I implored. “Dammit.” I shuffled up next to her and was just about ready to extend my handgun while moving Maggie behind me when I saw it. A white ass bopping up and down.

“Oh, gross!” Maggie said, moving her hand to her eyes.

A high-pitched shriek. The white ass was connected to a naked man, who fell off a lounge chair, exposing the full frontal of Darla Yates, an orange and blue beach towel bunched around her. She grabbed a corner and yanked it over her body, her face a strange combination of sheer fright and disheveled ecstasy. I’d never seen her in this condition, the nudity notwithstanding.

“Hold on a second,” Darla grunted out.

Swatting chestnut hair with blue-gray roots away from her face, Darla attempted to sit or stand, but the massive towel was mostly under her weight and she played tug-of-war.

Meanwhile, the man covered his man parts while moving backward, but he tripped over a chair and everything went flying.

“Damn,” Maggie said.

I looked at my Latin partner, whose eyebrows were arched as if she’d seen the eighth

wonder of the world. Maybe that was why Darla looked liked she’d just taken a trip to the moon and back. Although in watching her trying to coordinate the act of standing while keeping herself properly covered, I’m not sure the landing had completely settled on planet Earth.

Finally covered and upright, Darla inched in our direction, the towel locked under her armpits. The man had found a white cloth robe and took small steps to move near Darla, but he stopped about two awkward feet from reaching her.

Feeling the grip of the Sig in my hand, I finally holstered my gun. I had my theories on the name of Darla’s houseguest, but it wasn’t the time to play guessing games.

“Hi, Darla. We just dropped to see if you had some time to talk,” I said.

She laid a flat hand against both sides of her face, as if she was still in la la land—I wasn’t sure if that was booze induced or a more natural state of delirium—and then took in a deep breath.

“Ha. I wish I was twenty years old and could hide behind my youthful naiveté, but that’s simply not possible.” She glanced at her partner and gave him a straight-lipped smile. “I suppose it doesn’t matter much at this point. Greg Harris, please meet my private investigator, Booker, and …”

“I’m Maggie. Nice to meet you.”

Lean, like one of those weekend athletes who biked about a hundred miles every weekend, Greg paused, then took a step forward and shook my hand. I instantly wished I had some hand sanitizer in my pocket.

“I’m sorry if we interrupted—”

“My daughter was right. I am a slut.”

“Darla, please don’t say that about yourself.” Greg touched her shoulder, but she ignored it.

“It’s true. I’ve been having an affair with Greg for what, two, three years?”

He pressed his lips together, lowering his head like a shamed little boy, his hands still pressed against his man parts over his robe.

“I simply couldn’t take Albert’s bullshit any longer.”

That brought more questions, but why did it feel like every time I stepped foot on this property, I felt forced to recall the key points in my college psychology class? I just wanted to get past this immature girlfriend/boyfriend crap and ask our questions and get the hell out of there to find Javier.

“Darla, it’s not my position to judge. Maggie and I have been—”

“Don’t tell me, you’re a couple too?”

“What?” Maggie exclaimed, as I shook my hands. “No. I don’t think so.”

Taking in a deep breath, I think I caught a waft of tequila. “Maggie is my partner on another case that could connect to Albert’s murder. You do want me to find out who killed your husband?”

“I sure as hell do. Albert might have been screwing everything that walked by. What? Don’t look so shocked. It comes with the territory of being the wife of a CEO. The ego as big as Mount Everest and a dick the size of a worm.”

“Whoa,” I said.

“No visuals, please.” Maggie gave me the eye, with a smirk behind it.

“Don’t get me wrong. Part of me still loved that furry ball of lard,” Darla said while looking at Greg.

He held out his arms, acting surprised. Again, this was something straight out of the Dr. Phil show. And Darla had to let it all out. “I just couldn’t get too excited when I knew he was a man whore, screwing college-age girls like he was twenty-one and single. Well, guess what, asshole?

You’re not fucking single, and if you’ve looked in the mirror, you should be able to notice you ain’t fucking twenty-one either.” She poked a bitter finger at the pool, possibly seeing his reflection in the shimmering water. Who knew?

Hearing Darla talk like she lived in a double-wide instead of a ten-thousand-square-foot mansion was disturbing. It seemed liked she was teetering, again, on the edge of falling into one of her moods.

“So how are the kids?” I just blurted it out. Anything to avoid a downhill crash.

Everyone paused and looked around. My question appeared to serve as a neutralizer.

“They’re actually doing okay, all things considered. They’re at school, then spending some time with their aunt and uncle, from their dad’s side. I think they’re going to visit the Sixth Floor Museum, then—”

“Wait. Why the Sixth Floor Museum?”

Darla pulled a hair band from around her wrist and attempted to corral her mess into

something that didn’t make it look like she just rolled off a pile of hay. Not possible at this point.

“They’ve never been there before. I think they want to spend some time with their dad’s family, learn more about their history. Something to connect with. Those poor kids have been to hell and back. And I’m at least partially to blame.”

Maggie took a step forward. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, Mrs. Yates.”

“Darla, please. I’m not sure how long I’m going to hold on to that last name.”

“Your husband was killed, and from what Booker has told me, he was a pretty good father anyway.”

“Thank you. He was.”

I saw an opening that Maggie hadn’t picked up. “Darla, your…I mean Albert’s family

history. Are their aunt and uncle historians? I’m just wondering how the kids will get all of that after school in one afternoon.”

“Oh, the Sixth Floor Museum. It mentions their grandfather.”

My skin tingled like my limbs had fallen asleep. “What part of the museum exactly?”

“At one time, it brought tremendous anxiety over the family, but now they accept it and embrace being part of history.”

“What? Please tell us,” Maggie said, her voice demanding and desperate.

“I figured you knew. Albert’s father, Sam Yates, was in charge of the Secret Service detail in Dallas the day of JFK’s assassination.”

Air rushed from my lungs, and I could see Maggie look down.

“What did I say?”

“Thank you for the information, Darla. Maggie and I need to continue our investigation.

We’ll be in touch.”

We walked briskly back to our car, shut the doors, and stared at each other.

“What does this mean? My father killed Albert Yates too?” Maggie rocked back slightly, her eyes unable to focus.

I put a hand on her leg. “I’m sorry, but I think he did, Maggie. But I need you to work this with me if we’re going to save your father from killing anyone else.”

She nodded, then wiped her face.

“Let’s look at the pattern. He kills the son of the Secret Service agent in charge the day of the assassination. Then, he kills Nancy Fitzwater, whose dad was an aide to LBJ. Although Hank Fitzwater was never mentioned specifically, books had been written about Johnson and his Texas clan possibly being involved in the assassination, one of the noted conspiracies. Then, he tries to take out Dominic Ferrigamo, one of the names floating around in the mob world who could have been involved in the JFK assassination.”

“Whatever drove him, it’s just senseless brutality. I hate him. But I still love him.”

“I get it, Maggie.”

Licking my lips, I let everything settle and then tried to think like Javier.

“I think I have it.”

Recalling something I’d seen earlier, I started the car and pulled out of the driveway.

“Where now?”

“I have a hunch. We’re going to the museum.”

22

A piercing eye encircled by a smoky blue ring locked onto me, even if I leaned three feet one way or the other. Some sort of checkerboard structure protruded from his nose—I’d assumed it was male—while a wooden ring clamped down on red lips. Enormous rectangular earrings half the size of his head were rimmed in a faint burgundy, and he wore a crown in the same color scheme. With a neck that looked like a clay bell hanging outside of a monastery in southern Italy, this piece of ceramic art created by the Mixtec people in 1521, positioned on the fourth floor landing at the Dallas Museum of Art, might haunt me for nights to come.

“It did the same thing to me.” Maggie gave me a soft elbow to my ribs, then put a finger to the information card hanging in front of the glass case exhibit. “Says here this was a gift from Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Marcus.”

She looked up at me as people shuffled around us. “Marcus, as in Neiman Marcus?”

“The one and only. I try to tell people that the center of the shopping universe is Dallas.”

For some reason, an image of her shot in my mind—the conniving murderer formerly known as my pseudo-girlfriend. Ever since she used my own handgun to knock me out, I had yet to mention her name and only occasionally allowed myself to think of it. If she wasn’t known as the blond, pretty version of a black widow, then she’d probably have her mug shot on the Wikipedia page dedicated to shopaholics. She was a pro’s pro.

Someone plowed into me, knocking that thought into its rightful place in my mind. Two kids horsing around. One tripped over the other, then bounced off my shoulder, falling to the carpet.

“Hey now.” I extended a hand, and the kid grabbed it and jumped to his feet. He looked to be around Jared’s age, twelve or thirteen.

“I am sorry,” the kid said with some type of thick accent. Eastern European possibly.

A woman with dark hair parted in the middle ran up to both boys, taking each by an arm and mumbled something I couldn’t understand, then she addressed me, “Kids.” She blew loose strands of hair out of her face. “They think every place is their personal playground. No respect for others. Sheesh.”

She rolled her “r’s” like they were separate words.

“My boyfriend and I just want to see this wonderful exhibit, hear the dedication ceremony. I should have gotten a babysitter.”

She ushered the two kids off as Maggie and I shifted to the four-foot wall that looked down on the DMA Cafe. I held a flyer in my hand, one they’d given to Maggie and me when we marched into the museum minutes earlier and found a sea of humanity. Apparently, the artistry of Russian painter Dmitry Merinov was a big deal to a certain segment of the population. And after listening to the lady and her kids, it appeared a large contingent of Russians were in attendance.

“Do you see anything yet?”

“If you’re asking if I’ve spotted my father…no. But this is probably our best vantage point.”

Hundreds of city and federal law enforcement officers had likely been pulled into protecting every movement of the president. It made sense. Some might think Javier would target the president. I’d let Guidry and the cadre of government employees handle that awesome task. As soon as Darla told us that Albert’s father was the Secret Service agent in charge of the JFK detail the day he visited Dallas in 1963, a lightning bolt popped in my brain.

The Russian conspiracy.

I’d recalled my history professor at UT discussing the cloud of theories and questionable characters that surrounded the assassination. Some had every reason to want the president killed, but who had motive and opportunity? I could remember the professor asking this of the class. It had been proven that Oswald had lived in the Soviet Union for a period of time, even tried to gain citizenship there. Was he a lone gunman, or had the Soviets supplemented Oswald with another sniper, or possibly brainwashed Oswald, as my professor had theorized?

Javier, as Maggie had noted, came to the United States through a government-sponsored plan to evacuate Cuban kids during the height of tension with Castro. While Kennedy had failed with the Bay of Pigs, Javier must have believed that something would have been different if the thirty-fifty president had lived. It’s the only thing that made sense. In some respects, though, it made no sense at all. I hoped we could find Javier, take him into custody, so we could quiz him.

It would stop the senseless murders and give Maggie some peace.

My theory on Javier’s pattern seemed solid, but humans aren’t programmed like computers.

He could do something completely unpredictable, or nothing at all, which is why I’d practically chewed a hole in the side of my cheek as we searched for the man I’d associated with a white fedora. I wondered if he’d wear another one to this event.

I typed in a quick note to Alisa, telling her about Albert’s ties to the Secret Service, as a man approached a mic on top of a lectern four floors below us and popped it twice with his hand.

Maggie grabbed my hand and squeezed, but she kept her gaze on the churning crowd, many people twisting their heads to see the front of the cafe. She knew if her father was in this building, we could have a major problem if we didn’t find him first.

An enormous poster hung behind the speaker, highlighting the event in a montage of

paintings by Merinov. Five or six other dignitaries were also on the lectern.

“Ladies and gentleman of all ages, we have opened our doors this Monday, a day when we’d normally be closed, to welcome you to the dedication ceremonies at the DMA for the featured exhibit of the year, from one of Russia’s greatest avant-garde artists, Dmitry V. Merinov.”

Clapping and a few whistles from all around us. Sounded more like a football game.

With everyone either sitting or standing still, the speaker continued his introduction. But each time I caught what might be suspicious movement, my eyes darted in that direction, hoping, wondering if I’d spot a fedora of some color, or even a Cuban shirt. A little kid sitting on his dad’s shoulder smacked his father’s face. Across the way, a woman jumped out of her seat with a phone pressed to her ear, her heels clapping off the hardwoods in the cafe as she exited the room, obviously with something more going on in her life.

And they say the human race has evolved?

“Please welcome our special guest to cut the ribbon, Russian Ambassador Vladimir

Ivanovich.”

Swinging my sights back to the lectern, a pear-shaped man wearing a dark suit took two steps forward and waved. The reception was vocal, but mixed. Many cheered, but I heard a smattering of boos. Just as the response died back, a woman’s voice echoed from the back.

“Stop the killing in Ukraine! Stop the killing in Ukraine!”

I tapped Maggie on the arm and pointed to the cafe entrance. The shouting came from two women wearing all black, holding either end of a sign, ten feet wide by about four feet deep. The sign read: PUTIN is a KILLER!!!

Gasps sprinkled across the crowd, as every head turned in the direction of the two women.

The ambassador remained stoic, his chin held high, almost like he didn’t understand the English phrases. I knew better.

Four uniformed guards and two guys in suits—probably security detail for the Russian

ambassador—enveloped the two protestors, ripping the sign in two, rolling it up. When the black-clad women continued shouting, a suit picked one up and carried her like a log, turning right toward the front door exit.

“Hey,” I said to Maggie as the crowd buzzed. “I’m heading downstairs. I feel too far away up here to respond quickly. I’ll keep my cell in my hand. Call or text if you think you spot him.”

All business, she gave me a single nod, then continued scanning the open space.

Descending the stairs while maneuvering around throngs of onlookers, I felt conflicted. I wanted to find Javier, catch the murdering psycho who’d stolen a father from his kids, taken the life of an innocent librarian. I thought about the mobster, Ferrigamo, and I didn’t mind him sweating it out on the pavement just a day earlier, wondering if a sniper’s bullet might rob him of his last breath. I’m sure he’d done the same to so many others.

Javier’s rifle. From that distance, his aim had been slightly off, but it was windy, and those bushy trees in the median must have obscured his vision. Still, he had the hardware. As I hit the third floor, I looked upward across the rafters, wondering if Javier would use the same long distance rifle. How would he hide the rifle, though?

My phone buzzed. A text from Alisa.

Amb Ivanovich worked in KGB; mentored by Putin

My chest felt constricted, and I forced out a breath, wondering if the protestors knew of the ambassador’s connections. If any group could have been involved in JFK’s assassination, wouldn’t the Russian KGB be at the top of the list?

I hopped down the last few stairs to the first floor, my senses on high alert. The protestors had reminded me that the world’s issues were no longer contained to one subsection of the planet. Social media had allowed for any message to go viral. Online hate mongers were the worst. Hiding behind a façade of anonymity, they hurled insulting messages just because they could.

But there was a good side to being so connected. It brought to light suffering and attention to causes that people stuck in their little bubble normally wouldn’t know about, providing a forum for desperate people to spread the word, possibly give them hope that someone gave a shit. I had a feeling those two women were desperate.

So was Javier.

Ivanovich gripped the mic with two hands and spoke. “Me and the great people of Russia are proud to call the late Dmitry Merinov a comrade. Many of the pieces we are lending to the Dallas Museum of Art have hung in the lobby at the Russian Embassy in your Washington, DC.”

The master of ceremonies approached Ivanovich and whispered in his ear.

Another buzz on my phone. It was Maggie.

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Her scope could detect wrinkles around the edges of his bushy eyebrows, even the salty white sprinkled through perfectly combed hair.

Maggot.

Perched on top of a stone column fifty yards directly in front of the lectern, Yulia Pavlenko waited for Ivanovich to be free from conversing with the other man. She’d waited two years for this opportunity. She could wait another few seconds.

She swallowed, and her ears crackled as the conversation on the lectern continued,

Ivanovich nodding his smug head. Forcing air through her undersized body, she attempted to relax her shoulders. A former gymnast back in her homeland of Ukraine, the tiny ball of muscles had been stowed away in this position for the last couple of hours. She’d snuck into the museum just before dawn after reaching its rooftop four hours before that.

Two years of intensive training at a compound outside of Kiev had prepared her for this moment, not just her physical development as a well-rounded, skilled field agent, but more importantly, it established her mental foundation, providing a base level of confidence that she could live a fake existence while still holding on to her core values and beliefs. Her position at the Sixth Floor Museum had been the perfect cover. Today, she’d called in sick. If all went as planned in the next hour, she’d return to her job Tuesday, resuming her mundane existence reciting the stories of the life and death of the thirty-fifth American president.

She could still recall her mother and father’s small farm near Ternopil, a small city in western Ukraine. Money was hard to come by, hard work a necessary tool to help families survive the harsh winters. But people had respect for each other.

Yulia could practically taste her mother’s homemade varenyky, dumplings, or her borscht.

They were the best. She even had fond memories of her younger brother, the little pipsqueak that he was. One image stuck in her mind, though. She was five, maybe six years old, and late one night she peeked into the kitchen after bedtime and found her mother pulling needlelike splinters from her father’s hands. Seven days a week, he worked the farm plus another job chopping down trees, but he insisted on not wearing gloves. Each night his hands bled, which made Yulia sad as a little girl.

A day soon thereafter, Yulia was horsing around on the school playground, twirling her body on the rusted horizontal bar, sometimes holding one of her schoolmates while her legs coiled around the bar. A woman approached her and asked if Yulia would be interested in learning the skills of a gymnast. Yulia had heard people speak of Nadia Comaneci from neighboring

Romania, the greatest gymnast of the twentieth century, and she soon envisioned herself working on the balance beam, launching herself on the vault, dancing to Ukrainian music on the floor exercise. Her parents worked even harder to pay for her training, and it quickly provided dividends.

Yulia, all five-foot-one-inch of her, worked at the trade as hard as her father worked both of his jobs, but she truly loved every minute. She won several local competitions, then found her way onto the national team. The Olympics were within her sights, and she longed to represent her homeland, accepting a medal on the grandest stage in the world.

Then, everything changed.

Saying she could serve a far greater purpose for both her family and the people of her country, the Ukraine Secret Service recruited her into the counterintelligence agency and soon plotted her to move to the United States to perform covert operations for the homeland.

Resetting her aim, the crosshairs of her AS50 sniper rifle splitting the cheekbone of Ivanovich, she moved her finger in front of the trigger, her mind focused but calm. She’d have one, maybe two shots before bodyguards would jump to protect the former KGB agent, Putin’s former pet. Oh, how she wished her target was the dictator from Russia. Just the thought of ripping a hole through his brain sent her pulse skyward.

She closed her eyes for a second, recapturing her mental edge. Counting backward from ten, she centered her thoughts on the task.

Seven. Six. Five.

Able to drown out the monotone bullshit from Ivanovich, she heard even breaths escape her nose, and she picked up a scent of something baking in the kitchen, quiche perhaps.

Three. Two.

Motion off to the side. Swinging her rifle left, she spotted a man pushing his way through the standing crowd, faces showing agitation all around him.

Ignore him, she told herself. He’s nothing more than a nuisance. Repositioning her firearm, she found Ivanovich again. The window to kill the Russian ambassador was still open, but likely for just another few seconds. She began her counting pattern again.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

Ivanovich continued his speech, but she picked up grumbling voices. Keeping her rifle intact, she turned her head. That same man creating more of a commotion.

Fuck!

She shifted her scope, capturing the man in her sights. He was bald, wearing a navy blue sweatshirt, but his arms were extended out. He bounced off people around him. Was he drunk?

Americans can’t hold their fucking booze, she growled to herself.

Moving to the front of the standing crowd behind a red rope, the man paused for a moment.

Her body tightened, and she regripped her hands on the rifle.

The man reached behind his back, under his sweatshirt. A gun!

Yulia cursed in her native language. Who was this man? What was his purpose, his cause to want to kill Ivanovich? No time to debate politics. Her plans had just changed. She wouldn’t, couldn’t allow him to steal the spotlight. Moving her finger in front of the trigger, she released a slow breath, then applied just enough pressure, and the rifle fired.

<><><>

My heart lurched into the back of my throat.

Within ten feet of Javier, a crackle came from the rafters. Then Javier dropped, a bullet penetrating his right shoulder blade, exploding through the front of his chest wall.

Screams emanated all around Javier, rippling through the vast space.

Glancing behind me, I saw movement, but I didn’t stop. Cutting on a dime, I raced four steps, spun around a woman holding her face in her hands, then used a vacant chair to vault my body over two rows of chairs and a corded rope. Chaos all around me. I spotted the ambassador on the lectern, his face crinkled with fright. I shoved a confused security guard out of my way, launched my body just as I heard another crackle reverberate off the walls.

My shoulder crunched into the ambassador’s ribs, and I heard his lungs release air. As we fell to the ground, I felt a sharp pain at my side. We were mobbed by security guards, but I managed to touch my torso.

I’d been shot.

<><><>

As quick as a mouse escaping a trap, Yulia scooted up a chute and into the air duct above the cafe before anyone spotted her exact location—at least that’s what she hoped. The former gymnast closed the cage, wrapped the duffel bag strap around her shoulder, and started crawling. Her tiny size combined with tremendous flexibility made this escape path possible. Having memorized the intricate maze, she knew to make three lefts turns, then one right turn. She got there in two minutes, then looked down and found a black hole.

She swung the bag around and paused, hoping the bin at the bottom of this hundred foot drop would be where she’d put it. She’d circle back later this evening to corral her bag of weapons. She touched her ankle to ensure her 9mm was still there, then felt the blade hidden inside her long-sleeve T-shirt with the DMA logo on it. She released the bag and listened to it skimmer against the medal sides, disappearing into nothingness.

Three more hairpin turns then a long straightaway that hit a dead end. But that was part of the plan. She’d reached the farthest corner of the fourth floor, a maintenance closet. A quick peek between the metal slits, then she unlatched the door and dropped fifteen feet as softly as a panther landing on a ridge.

Taking a Texas Rangers ball cap, which she’d stuffed inside the back of her pants, she pulled the red hat over her pecan hair, stuffing frizzy ends into the side as she walked out of the room.

People raced all around, the shooting creating the expected reaction. She heard someone speak over the intercom system.

“Please walk, do not run to the nearest exits. We are evacuating the building until we know it is safe.”

All part of the plan.

For a moment, she wondered if her one shots had paid off. That crazy man had jumped on stage, but she was almost certain the hollow-point bullet had ripped a hole through Ivanovich, just as it had the bald man who tried to steal her thunder.

Who he was, she’d eventually find out. But she was certain he was dead.

A feeling of accomplishment washed over her body as she descended the final flight of stairs and eyed the front door about a hundred feet in front of her. Throngs of men and women rushed their children toward the exit.

Suddenly, a team of SWAT officers appeared through the swarm of folks, automatic rifles clutched in their hands moving right toward her. Catching her breath in her throat, she maintained her same pace, a quick walk. Who would ever think to stop a small, young woman in such plain clothing, hiding in plain sight?

The officers jogged closer, then a pack broke off and raced into the cafe that was still fifty feet in front of her, off to the right. A team of six was headed right for her, two directly in her path, their eyes penetrating hers, their stature growing with every thud of their combat boots. She had the advantage of quickness, and her burst of strength would catch them off guard. She could probably take out one, maybe two, but eventually she’d be overpowered.

Curling a lock of hair over her ears, she heard one call out.

“Has anyone seen a gunman?” It appeared it was the ranking officer who had asked the

question, slowing a bit, shifting his head to see if Yulia or the dozens around her would respond.

Perfect. They believed it was a male. There was even a glass ceiling in the world of

assassins, apparently. She kept her head down, continued her forward trek, the group of SWAT

officers ten feet and closing.

Yulia could feel herself lose control of her pulse, and her body begged her to take action.

Reducing her airflow to a bare minimum to keep her adrenaline rush at bay, she could feel the clops of their boots in between the sporadic beats of a bass drum pounding in her chest.

The mountainous men were there, and then moving past her. She released a breath, but the man bringing up the rear clipped her right arm with his extended elbow. She felt the tip of the blade of her knife slice across her wrist. It must have slid out during her crawl through the ducts.

Instinctively she jerked her left hand over, peeling the blade away from her skin, a circle of crimson the size of a quarter staining her white shirt.

The man swung his head back and grunted out, “Sorry,” and kept moving.

Perspiration coated her entire body, but Yulia finally took in a deep breath. She moved the handle of the knife lower to where it touched the base of her palm. This allowed her to keep the blade off her open wound, but also enabled a quicker response to any threat. And she knew she was far from safe.

The cafe was off to her right, and she turned her head to watch the melee, as many did.

There were two mounds of people, paramedics, police, SWAT, and suits—one near the bald man, the larger group on the lectern. People on phones, swatting their hands this way and that. Chaos.

She had no ill will toward the innocent bystanders. Many likely had Ukrainian roots. Even the drunk, bald man meant nothing to her, other than him interrupting a clean kill. Her mind tugged at a quick thought. Perhaps she could veer into the cafe, acting as a concerned Russian immigrant, manipulating her way in closer proximity to the ambassador. If she saw him still breathing, she could pull out her 9mm and end his life. But it would also end her life.

Just as Yulia turned her head to the glass doors a few feet away, the sun nearly blinding her, a voice bounced off the enormous ceiling.

“Stop that woman!”

Unsure who had spotted her, or where the shout had originated, she burst out of her walk, smacking the first of two sets of metal door handles in two seconds. Through the first, she ran into the back of a man as tall and wide as a brown bear, and just as hairy. She bounced backward, then heard another scream behind her.

“Grab that woman! She shot the ambassador!”

Shoving her way past the bear and his family, Yulia’s Rangers cap became dislodged. She threw it to the ground, banged her way through a second set of doors, and spilled onto the front plaza, blood rushing through her veins. Her eyes locked on the park on the other side of the frontage road. She darted across the plaza, dodging kids, adults, and two more paramedics pushing a gurney. Leaping over a park bench, she heard the doors behind her smack open. Was it the SWAT officers, Russian security?

Just steps away from ground cover and trees, her hair flowing behind her, she pumped her arms like she was making the final run on an Olympic floor exercise. Out of nowhere, a raised stone tripped her. Unable to keep her balance, she tumbled to the unforgiving concrete, popping her skull, as motes of light flickered overhead.

Tasting a trickle of blood, she quickly replayed the scenario and realized a foot had tripped her—on purpose. Opening her eyes, she saw a blond bimbo standing there with her arms crossed.

The bitch who’d tripped her. With clenched teeth, Yulia spotted her knife and reached for it. A man’s shoe stepped on the handle. Accident? Didn’t have time to think it through. She jerked her knee up to her chin, grabbed the 9mm from her ankle strap, and used a lone second to steady her shaking arms.

Yulia fired.

<><><>

“No!” I yelled in midair, my outstretched arms connecting with the grip of the compact handgun.

My body fell to the surface, flattening the miniature sniper. Or so I thought.

Squirming like a pissed-off shark out of water, she swung her elbow into my nose, and blood gushed everywhere. Stunned for a second, I tried to move to my knees, but she launched her knee upward, slamming my sac, which dropped me back to the concrete.

She wiggled out from under me, and I dove for her feet. She tripped to her knees, releasing a squeal. “Bastard. Let go!” Just as she kicked me away, I saw a pink and white tennis shoe flying through the air, then I heard a smack.

The sniper’s jaw. She dropped to the concrete like a dead weight.

Looking into the sky, I saw nothing but an hourglass figure and blond curls.

“I kicked the shit out of her, Booker,” Alisa said with high-pitched excitement.

My partner had saved my ass.

<><><>

The roar of the engine and constant strum of tires on pavement couldn’t muffle the wailing siren.

Perched on her knees next to her father’s stretcher in the ambulance headed to Parkland Hospital, Maggie watched a paramedic change out Javier’s dressing, the second time since leaving the DMA. For a brief second, she caught a glimpse of the hole in his chest, a gaping exit wound.

Undoubtedly, the killer had used a hollow-point bullet.

“Is he going to make it?” she asked, her stomach in her throat. She peered into the

paramedic’s eyes.

He tightened his lips. “We’re doing everything we can.”

She knew what he was trying to say.

Sweeping her eyes across her father for perhaps the last time, she noticed how much older he appeared, his body not as thick or muscular as it was just a year earlier. It was amazing his body had held up this long, given years of neglect and abuse, followed by the brain tumor, the operation, chemotherapy and radiation, and recently the lack of treatment and apparent stress of going on a killing rampage.

The ambulance rocked left as tires squealed around a turn. Maggie noticed an eye twitch, then open. His hand moved.

“Dad, I’m here. It’s Maggie.” She leaned closer, her heart banging her chest.

Javier moved his head, his eyes blinking to life. He lifted a hand and tugged at the oxygen mask.

Maggie glanced at the paramedic and he nodded. She pulled the mask back.

“Dad, I’m here. I’m with you.” She couldn’t tell him he’d live. She was never one to tell a bald-faced lie, even in this situation.

He mumbled something, only a wet gurgle escaping his lips.

Laying a hand on his shoulder, she put an ear toward his face.

“Dad, you don’t have to say anything. Save your energy. Just know that I’m here for you.

And I love you.”

He’d killed at least two people, just in the last few days. But she’d seen the good side of Javier Calero, the man who’d finally come to grips with the person he’d turned into after years of self-loathing. His recent fascination with JFK, the assassination, she couldn’t figure out, not completely.

“Why did you do this, Dad? Why kill innocent people?”

He licked dry lips and swallowed, then winced before pushing out words. “I turned into a monster…all because of Castro. Kennedy was our best hope, our only hope. It changed me…

moving away from…”

His face contorted, and Maggie’s gut twisted into a flurry of knots. “It’s okay, Dad. I understand.”

Grunting, he held up a hand. “No, you don’t understand. No one does. But that’s okay. I tried to right the wrongs of this world. Now I see I caused more hurt. I’m sorry.”

Holding a trembling fist against her lips, tears squeezed from Maggie’s eyes. She ran a finger across his face, his skin already chilled, clammy. His bloodshot eyes blinked, and he turned his head against her hand, like a puppy looking for more love.

Maggie could hear the beeps of the machines picking up speed, the paramedic moving to grab a needle, pump something else into Javier’s IV. But she kept her gaze on her father, and for the first time that she could recall, he returned the connection, and a single tear rolled down his face.

“I love you,” he said.

And then Javier’s eyes closed for the last time.

23

Just beyond the throngs of colorful blankets, conductor Jan Van Sweep slowly raised his baton, then swooped it downward like a painter making dramatic brush strokes across a blank canvas. A harmonic melody pulsated in my core as the Dallas Symphony Orchestra commenced their first tune of the outdoor concert, bringing an energy and life to downtown Dallas that was rarely accomplished.

“It’s Frozen, Daddy. It’s Frozen. Wooooo!"

My little girl, Samantha, had just recognized the theme song to the Disney movie. She skipped and jumped across the green lawn, twirling her ice-blue ribbon stick that had been handed out upon our arrival. I realized she was growing up almost daily, and unlike anyone else, she’d captured my heart from the inside out.

“Let it all go, Samantha,” I called out, unable to keep my prideful laugh at bay.

And she did. With remarkable coordination for a five-year-old, Samantha leaped and

completed a pirouette with hardly any effort, the shimmering blue stream flowing behind her as if she’d choreographed the entire move.

“Damn, she’s just the cutest thing ever,” Alisa said.

“She could melt the polar ice cap.” I looked at Alisa and winked, as she draped an arm over my shoulder, patting it a few times.

The sky was spotless, a crystal blue melting over the horizon, as barely visible stars twinkled across the darker backdrop above our heads. We’d gathered at the architectural marvel, Klyde Warren Park, Dallas’ miniature version of New York City’s Central Park. Constructed on top of Woodall Rodgers Freeway, an east/west thoroughfare that spliced the middle of downtown, the park had small trees, opens areas of grass, walking paths, and a section to hold outdoor concerts.

More importantly, it fused the two sides of concrete and buildings, softening the edges of our evolving city. I would have never guessed that the snooty, urban Dallas crowd could socialize in such a relaxed setting.

“We received our final payment from Darla Yates. On time, I might add,” Alisa said with a smirk.

“Good to hear,” I said, my eyes still glued to Samantha prancing across the lawn, now joined by three other girls about her age. Helicopter parents quickly broke out iThis and iThat to ensure they captured everything on video. I ignored the urge and instead just soaked up the memory. In just the last few weeks, my little Mittens seemed to have sprouted, her confidence soaring, her comments more thought-provoking.

“You’re a lucky guy, Booker.”

“Are you getting envious? They do come in different makes and models.” I gave my partner a wry grin.

Alisa took in the nighttime air. “I’m getting up there in age. A few months ago, though, I would have told you it just wasn’t meant to be. Now—”

“Hey Alisa, I finally found you.” Josh Parry jogged up, wearing a blue and gold jogging suit with his collar turned up. She extended an arm around his waist, and he reciprocated, then planted a soft kiss on her cheek.

The couple separated by a good ten years had made giant leaps in the relationship

department in just the last two weeks.

“Nice shoes,” she said to Josh, pointing the toe of her pink and white tennis shoe, drawing a comparison with Josh’s shiny black and white athletic shoes.

Almost as large as my oversized feet, Josh’s shoe had stopped Yulia from flinging her four-inch dagger blade at Alisa after my crazy partner had tripped up the would-be assassin in the DMA Plaza. After I’d tackled the Ukrainian sniper to the ground, it was Alisa’s drill team kick that turned out Yulia’s lights, saving her life, mine, and possibly countless others.

“Are you guys planning on touring, showing off your shoes, maybe putting together a little Vaudeville song and dance routine?”

“I might have played a little bit of soccer, but I’m not that coordinated actually. I could just watch Alisa get up there and dance a little.”

I saw Josh’s eyebrows arc skyward. Alisa kneaded his side. “You’re silly and delusional.”

From what Alisa had shared, Josh had been quite the soccer player, joining a UK-sponsored club team at age ten. That led to him attending Stanford on a soccer scholarship—a national powerhouse—although he dropped out after three years, just twenty hours shy of graduating.

How he got mixed up in the world of cybercrime, I’d yet to be told. Considering his pro bono work for the city of Dallas, and us, Josh had apparently seen the light.

It wasn’t until the aftermath of Yulia’s arrest, as the FBI swarmed the DMA grounds, that I realized Josh was the same guy who’d been the referee at Samantha’s soccer game. Apparently, he hadn’t been able to find another paying job, given his arrest record. But in a few weeks, he’d have enough hours to go back to court and have his conviction reduced to a Class A

misdemeanor. That said, I only knew that he’d endangered himself to help stop a trained assassin, even if she was half his size.

“I haven’t seen any news on Yulia. Granville phoned yesterday asking about her,” Alisa said, rubbing up against Josh, seemingly not at all intimidated by the age difference.

“FBI agent Guidry called last night. Said Yulia has opened up, told them about the spy program she was a part of.”

“I’m just glad she wasn’t successful,” Alisa added.

“Amen to that. The Russian ambassador only had a bump on his head, courtesy of me

tackling him.”

My arm brushed against my side, and I could feel the stitches where the bullet had grazed my torso. I was indeed lucky, on many levels.

“Guidry went on to say that Yulia didn’t hide anything. She was very open about her

political views, especially concerning Russia’s aggression against Ukraine.”

“A lot of people think her actions are justified,” Josh added.

“Who’s telling you that?” I asked.

“That’s what I’m reading on various chat rooms, European based mostly, a few based here in the US, Ukrainian nationals.”

I had thought Alisa was a whiz behind the wheel of computer, until I’d heard about Josh’s

“skills” when he’d located the video footage of Javier stalking Nancy Fitzwater. Interestingly, Underground.com never retaliated or went to the police for his cyber grab. I assumed they’d acquired the footage illegally.

“The US Attorney’s office is going to run the prosecution against Yulia, from what Guidry said. I don’t think Yulia is going to see the light of day until she’s over the age of fifty.”

Josh nodded, while Alisa looked into his eyes. I could see her reading him, or was it puppy love? I had to admit it felt a little strange seeing Alisa so smitten.

“By the way, Granville is quite pleased to have back at least some of the stolen artifacts from the museum, even if he lost another employee in the process,” she said, rubbing Josh’s abs a bit longer than necessary.

Josh had scoured the Dark Web and found ten artifacts on a smuggling website accepting bids. He was able to trace the ownership back to Mary, Granville’s bitchy, unhelpful assistant.

“Nice work, Josh.” I shook his hand.

“Thank you, sir.” I almost did a double take. Josh was dating Alisa, a girl five years my senior and someone I’d hooked up with in college. While Josh was a decade younger, he was acting like I was Alisa’s father. Strange. But I couldn’t deny his set of skills.

“It might just be a matter of time before some startup in Deep Ellum grabs you off the market.”

Josh and Alisa both turned my way.

“But in the meantime, as cases come across that could use your expertise, how do you feel about doing some contract work? No promises on the hours. Could be one hour a week. Could be more.”

Relief washed across Josh’s face, and Alisa grinned ear to ear, her crow’s feet a bit more visible at her eyes. “I’d welcome the challenge, Booker. Thanks for your confidence in me. This could be my opportunity. Help me a get a break in the real job market.”

“Let’s see where it takes us.”

“Look, Daddy. It’s Miss Maggie.” Samantha had rushed up, huffing out breaths while

pointing her free hand.

I turned and saw Maggie ambling our way, her hands buried in the pockets of a gold vest, her hair styled around her soft complexion, gold hoop earrings adding just enough bling to make her stand out. She drew closer, and I peered into her eyes. They were reflecting off the lights surrounding the DSO stage. There was some sadness, but also a calm strength.

“Wasn’t sure if you were going to make it out here.”

She’d been in Miami the last two weeks, helping her family deal with her father’s aftermath, holding the funeral. She’d traveled back to Dallas just yesterday to settle the bill at Javier’s apartment complex and gather up his last remaining possessions.

She gave me a quick hug. “It’s a beautiful night. I felt like I needed to be around friends.”

Maggie bent down to her knees, curling hair behind an ear. “What do you have here?”

“It’s my very own ribbon,” Samantha said, her “r” still sounding like a “w.” “I’m pretending to be Elsa.”

The orchestra had moved on to another tune, but Samantha was still in dream mode, and she began twirling the ribbon around and shouting out, “Wooo!”

Lifting back to her feet, Maggie turned her head, twitching her cute nose. “Something smells great. Who’s hungry?”

“I am, I am, I am.” Samantha raced across the grass toward the Fajita Rita’s food truck, the rest of us not far behind.

Justin and Dax were tucked inside cooking up a storm, serving customers.

“Not sure we can serve this motley crew,” Dax said with a hint of sarcasm. Then he noticed Samantha with a finger to her mouth as she tried to read the menu affixed to the metal side. “And what can I get you, Samantha?”

Henry and Cindy showed up, walking hand in hand, each appearing to be biting their lips.

The Dallas assistant district attorney giggled like a little girl, but Cindy spoke first.

“Sorry we’re late. Henry popped a surprise on me.”

My eyes didn’t blink, and Alisa moved toward her new bestie, Cindy. Justin had jumped out of the truck, a white apron still around his neck.

“What’s the big news? Anything we could cater?” he asked with a smile.

Henry’s smile turned downward in a confused way, but again, Cindy jumped in.

“Nothing like that, Justin. Henry is taking me to… are you ready for it? Hawaii!”

Cindy and Alisa giggled liked frenzied eighth-graders, while the other woman in our

presence, Maggie, simply smiled, her response subdued.

“Congrats,” Josh said, shaking Henry’s hand like it was an engagement announcement.

“What island?” I asked.

“Start off on Oahu. Apparently, Cindy’s a big Five-O fan.”

“Ah,” I said.

“Then, we’re off to Maui. It’s a dream vacation.”

Cindy leaned in and squeezed Henry so hard his eyes bulged.

“I’ve decided to not sell The Jewel,” Justin blurted out.

Outside of Samantha engaged in a quiet conversation with Dax and the orchestra playing behind us, our space turned quiet instantly.

“Justin, I’m a big boy. I can find another office.”

“No, it’s not that, or even Alisa’s job, not all of it anyway. It’s hit me in the last few weeks.

The Jewel is part of me. I’m connected to it, the people who visit—”

“The people who spend money,” I said, jabbing his side.

“That helps too,” Justin said with a grin. “I enjoy working this other side of my brain. I’m learning a lot from David, as a chef so to speak.”

“Yummy, my fajita is the best, Uncle J,” Samantha said with a full mouth.

Alisa walked up and gave Justin a hug.

“There is one thing, though. To allow me to juggle things between both businesses, Dax here is going to fill in for me at the bar when I can’t be there.”

Alisa and I traded shocked stares. “Okay…” Alisa said, obviously processing how she’d handle taking orders from Dax.

I said, “It will work out. Glad you came around, Justin. I never wanted to get into the bar business anyway.”

“Oh, were you interested in throwing in some cash, becoming a partner? Maybe you want to partner in our food truck business?” Justin asked, always the salesman.

Maggie raised a hand. “I’ve got a good recipe for a Cubano sandwich.”

I held out my hands, just as Samantha swirled around me, then took off running and giggling with endless energy.

“I think our PI business will keep me more than busy. On top of that, I don’t want to wake up and see Samantha walking out the door on her first date. When she’s twenty-five, of course.”

Everyone laughed, while Maggie sidled up next to me.

“Cherish every minute, Booker.” She patted my back.

I’d already taken Maggie’s advice.

Excerpt from BOOKER – Blood Ring (Volume 4)

1

The putrid stench of raw sewage shot bile into the back of her throat. She hardly noticed.

Her lanky arms chugged harder than they had in years as a warm mist sprayed her freckled face and bare shoulders. Lime green sandals clipped and shuffled along the pavement on Shorecrest Drive, her left shoe flapping against her oversized foot.

She paused for a quick moment, then reached down, ripped the leather strap from her left ankle, and kicked off the other sandal. Flipping her eyes over her shoulder, the two-lane paved road behind her was barren, a buzzing streetlight funneling into a black vacuum.

She still had hope.

Three quick steps, and she was back at full speed. Realizing she still held a broken sandal, she tossed the shoe toward the lake that bordered the road just beyond a patch of dirt and grass.

She’d once partied like her life depended on it on the other side of Bachman Lake, up and down Northwest Highway.

Now she ran like her life depended on it. It did.

Squinting into the thin sheen of rain, her green eyes only saw a haze of motionless lights in the distance—her glasses had been crushed days ago, and a blanket of fog had engulfed Dallas in the middle of a still night.

What night is it?

With her legs and arms motoring as fast as she could pump them, she felt like the only person on the planet. Panting breaths poured from her lungs, the pattering of her bare feet against wet pavement offsetting the rapid-fire thud of her overworked heart. Not a single other noise.

Had the world ended while she’d been held captive?

A jagged shadow cut across her path, firing a jolt of electricity into the stem of her skull.

Jerking her body away from the absence of light to escape the unknown assailant, she threw up a defensive arm. Her unblinking eyes cast a frightened gaze and found a barbed wire fence with metal poles mounted at least twenty feet off the ground, red lights blinking against the sky—

nothing more than a gray moat.

Slowly, her pulse retreated to a level her body could actually sustain without exploding.

Now just in a jog as she glared at the razor-sharp spikes at the top of the fence, her neurotransmitters punched through the mental haze. Then it hit her—she was staring at the northern border of Love Field Airport. That’s why it seemed too eerily quiet. The fog had grounded the planes.

Pissed at herself for wasting so much energy on an inanimate object, her knees propelled her body forward. Within seconds, her lungs couldn’t take in enough oxygen and her head became woozy. It felt like she’d run a 10K, but she knew she’d covered no more than a few hundred yards.

The exercise to escape the hellhole only seemed to saturate her bloodstream with more heroin. She’d tried her best to not inject each lethal dose she’d been forced to give herself the last few days, but the puncture wounds on her arm didn’t get there by magic—at least a small amount of the toxic drug had infiltrated her system.

Wafts of feces still lingered in the air, but not as strong as before. She picked up another foul odor, possibly dead fish hitting the shore of the polluted lake. Her stomach did flips, a result of too much poison pumping through her veins and not enough food over the course of at least a week. But with no access to windows or fresh air of any kind, days and nights had merged together, her swirling, drug-induced mind trying to make sense of what had happened since she’d been plucked off the street.

Amidst her panicked attempts to feed her depraved muscles more fuel, images flashed into her frontal lobe. In her current state, she couldn’t determine if they were hallucinations, agonizing nightmares. While her resolve had always been strong—almost to the point of pissing off everyone she’d become close to—she questioned whether she should have been able to fight off all the advances back in the basement. Without surrendering her thoughts to a detailed replay, as spotty as it might be, she knew she’d been violated. She’d prepared herself for that…the moment she looked in his eyes. Eyes of degeneracy. Eyes of domination.

But she thought she recalled even worse actions. Or were they just threats? Dammit!

Something told her to look at her nails. She did, and they still looked the same, chewed up with chipped silver paint. Wait. Was that the moment she figured out how to escape? While they tended to another hostage, she’d shoved a finger down her throat, puked all over the floor, the chair, and herself, which delayed their promise to yank her nails off her hand and allowed her to skip the last dose of heroin for the night. The vomit must be part of the odor she continued to smell. Later, after the house went quiet and her restraints were already loosened from her regurgitation exercise, she found an open window on the first floor, slipping through until her thin frame landed on dirt. She didn’t look back.

There was no way in hell she’d allow herself to return to that house of torture, or anywhere near that demented psychopath. She’d rather slit her wrists than let that heathen… Wait. Another image. His tongue, a disgusting serpent-like appendage, bright pink, coated with a gel-like film.

It had a mind all its own, slinking against her skin.

Releasing a grunt, she blinked away the image before it went to the point of no return. She’d deal with the post-traumatic stress crap later. Now it was all about finding someone to call the police, finding safety, then maybe back to her parents’ home, the only place she’d truly felt safe.

A bridge appeared out of the soupy fog just as the road seemed to bend right. She noticed a fast-food restaurant glowing on the other side, orange and white. Must be open twenty-four hours, she thought.

Audible breaths escaped through her thin lips, and she surged even faster, the bridge less than a hundred feet away—not soon enough. Instantly, her legs felt like hundred-pound steel tire boots had just been strapped to her feet. Her calves had locked up.

Fuck!

Glancing down, she willed her legs forward.

“Move, dammit!”

But the more she pressed, the tighter her muscles got, her shins feeling like they were dragging two cinder blocks, her toes unable to push off.

She cried out and sputtered along a few more steps. Then she paused and rubbed her calves with both hands, tying to knead the muscles, hoping they’d somehow revert to their normal, pliable existence. No response from the muscles, none. The pain was unbearable, as if the muscle was curling into a tiny snail while a hammer—the pavement—pounded on it with each step. She adjusted and tried to run stiff-legged. Frankenstein came to mind. Releasing a loud gasp, her breathing went south, and the entire fluid motion of running broke down. Surging her body forward, she hobbled and lunged, hobbled and lunged. Two, three feet at a time, her pace whittled down to a fraction of what she was running before.

She clenched her jaw, refocused her effort, swinging her arms with every ounce of strength she had, anything to propel her tree-trunk legs ahead. Forward.

She heard a faint sound. A car?

Jerking her head back, the road behind her was still dark. Nothing there, unless a car had yet to emerge from the pit of fog. Back to the mission of running to find someone to help.

Suddenly, lights appeared on the bridge. It was a car, headlights low to the ground, moving toward this side of the lake. It turned in her direction. Her lungs emptied, a feeling of relief starting to engulf her body. She planted her hands on her knees, her chest heaving. The car crept closer. It looked like an older model Corvette.

Hobbling to the center of the road, she waved her hands. Fifty feet and closing, the car didn’t appear to be slowing. She waved again. “Hey, hey! I need help! Stop the car!” she yelled as loud as her husky voice could go.

The engine growled at an even rate, but it didn’t slow down.

Is the driver blind?

Squinting, she spotted a middle-aged man with a cheesy perm, wrist over the steering wheel.

A twenty-something female with straight, black hair sat in the other seat. They both looked right at her standing in the road, wearing only boxer shorts and a borrowed T-shirt with some type of blue logo from a bodybuilding center on it.

Less than twenty feet and closing. They must be ignoring her. She had no modesty at this point. Hell, she lost that a long time ago when she had to turn a couple of tricks just to feed herself.

She raised her T-shirt and flashed the Corvette couple, hoping to elicit some response.

At the last second, the man with the fake fro punched the horn, and the girl somehow forced her legs to lunge out of the way, falling to the wet road. She threw up two middle fingers, praying the asshole would get pissed and turn around.

But nothing.

“Asshole.” As the word fell off her lips, she heard a crack in her voice. Hope was

disappearing into the murky fog.

She pried herself off the ground and balanced on two useless fence posts. Raising her head, she set her sights on the bridge, knowing the fast-food joint was on the other side. She felt a single tear roll down her face. She smacked the tear away, ashamed she’d allowed even the slightest pinhole to poke through her dam of resolve.

With her legs still unresponsive, she realized she was dehydrated, which likely had caused her muscles to cramp up. She held out her tongue, but the slight mist didn’t provide any relief.

She trudged ahead, shuffling and lunging, grunting out breaths on every third step.

Just as she reached the stone side to the two-lane bridge, she paused a brief second. The bridge had a hump, but it was only a couple hundred feet across. Then, she guessed it was another quarter mile to the fast-food joint. Turning her head to catch her breath, she noticed a soft yellow glow around the bend of the road. A small, wood frame home. The first she’d seen since she escaped. Which destination was closer…the restaurant or the house? Which had less risk?

She picked up a scent of burgers and fries, and her stomach felt empty. Hobbling twenty feet to the opposite side of the road, resting her hand on the stone wall nearest the house, she leaned her head even closer. A single Bradford pear tree sat in the home’s front yard, surrounded by short grass so green it appeared spray-painted. The home’s exterior was made of cobalt blue siding, older, pre-2000. The entire property was as flat as her back, situated at an odd angle off the street, as if the home predated the road. A white sedan sat in the driveway that ran along the right side of the house. Someone must be home.

She wasn’t sure her legs could go any farther. Even with the brief rest, her heart was hammering her chest. She might have to crawl. But she would never stop. Later, after the cops showed up, she would ask them to take her through the drive-through and order a double cheeseburger and onion rings. That would be her simple reward.

Taking in a breath, her body quivered. It was mid-May, the temperature probably in the sixties. Her body felt like it might just break down completely. Refusing to give in to what could happen, she rubbed her arms and made a beeline for the home surrounded by green turf.

But her beeline was nothing faster than a worm inching ahead in slow motion. Still, she gave it everything she had. Shuffling, lunging, prodding her legs to take one more step, then cajoling them to pull her body another three feet. Each step took laser-like focus, her arms trying to pull unresponsive legs. She could no longer feel the bottoms of her feet. She looked down and wondered if somehow her blood had been cut off. Maybe the heroin had impacted her blood flow. Who knows what kind of shit was in the batch she’d been given?

Finally, she reached the grass, and her toes felt a tingle against the moist lawn. Glancing around, she saw no one, heard nothing, her glare centrally focused on the front porch and the four steps to reach it.

A few feet from the porch, her pulse again started to sprint, as emotion invaded her throat.

Part of her just wanted to cry out, hoping anyone alive would hear, come to her rescue, call the cops. Soon, it would be over. Soon, she could relax and try to recapture what it was like to be young again. Maybe not so innocent, even before she’d been plucked off the street.

Falling to her knees, she pulled an elbow onto the first wooden step, then dragged her legs behind her, grunting with each surge of energy. Up to the second step and the third. Just as she willed her body up to the warped porch, a diesel engine roared to life behind her. Looking over her shoulder, the grill and wide tires of a pickup split the fog, hauling ass, moving right toward her, the engine’s growl feeling like a half-ton demolition ball slamming into her chest. She jerked her elbow forward, and a two-inch splinter gouged her forearm. Blood poured from the wound, but she didn’t care.

Lunging toward the door, she knocked with spastic fists until her knuckles bled. She glanced back. The truck had just crossed the road, spilling into the perfectly manicured lawn, fishtailing slightly, spitting up dirt, the engine so loud she couldn’t hear herself gasp.

The doorbell. Leaning up, she jabbed the doorbell repeatedly.

The truck skidded just next to the Bradford pear, the driver’s side door opening before the vehicle had stopped rocking. Her hands against the front door of the house, she felt a vibration.

Someone was unlocking the padlock.

“Open the door please. Please, quickly!”

The man emerging from the truck had thick-soled boots, an enormous brass belt buckle.

Fucking hick.

A swell of emotion engulfed her senses and she cried out, “Please. Hurry!”

A chest the size of Montana with the gut of Nebraska pooching out, the pug-nosed beast took five strides toward her. His boot finally clipped the first step.

The front door opened. A silver-haired woman wearing a flowered robe, her shoulders

leaning inward, raised prune-like fingers.

“What’s all the commotion about?”

She wore glasses, but the old woman’s eyes had yet to spot her, crumpled on the wooden floor of the front porch.

“Down here. Help me, please!”

The two females locked eyes just as the beast picked her up by the scruff of her neck, as if she were nothing more than a lost alley cat.

“Nothing to worry about, ma’am,” he said with a thick Southern accent.

“Why is she yelling that she needs help?” The woman crossed her arms, took a single step forward.

“Call the police. I’ve been held hostage. Please!” she yelled. The man chuckled, holding her neck. “The youth today have no respect for the law.”

He flashed a piece of crumpled paper toward the old woman. “It’s called failure to appear.

She skipped her hearing for the third time—drug possession charge. I’m licensed with the state of Texas, and I’ve been asked to bring her in.”

Catching a clump of auburn hair in his grasp, his fingers clamped down on the back of her neck like the Jaws of Life…with the opposite effect. She cried out, her entire spine feeling like it was being invaded by a million fire ants. Suddenly, his thumb popped in further—he’d torn through her skin with his vice-like grip. Whatever air was left in her lungs was sucked out.

Flailing her arms, choking, gagging, it felt like the bastard’s fingers were tearing through what little flesh she had, to reach bone. His fingernails must have been filed like a box cutter.

She couldn’t even raise her head to look at the old woman, but the lady must have seen the brutality. Right?

“At this stage, they’re no different than a wild animal. Fuckin’ shame,” he said.

The woman shuffled loose house shoes onto the porch. “I’m not a fan of that language, young man.”

She raised her eyes for a moment and saw the old woman crossing her arms, her lips

drawing a straight line.

“I apologize, ma’am. You spend enough time around untamed animals, it gets to you, is all I can say.”

“Let me go!”

“Ooh, she’s a wild one. Heroin. It’s at an epidemic level with this age group.”

He shuffled backward another couple of steps, her head attached to his bear claw. The agonizing pain was unlike anything she’d felt or even imagined any human could sustain. A dagger or a point-blank shotgun blast couldn’t have felt any more painful. She saw drops of blood staining the grass around her, followed closely by an open faucet of tears.

“This one here is desperate, going through withdrawal. But we’ve got to be strong and not give in to the temptation. I don’t have any heroin to give to her. Do you?” he asked the old woman.

“Huh?” The old lady acted surprised. “Of course not.”

“Please. You must help—” she sputtered.

“Are you hungry?” The beast stuffed a candy bar down the girl’s throat, jamming her

airwaves and her voice.

“Don’t mean to bother you so late at night, ma’am,” he said, nodding to the woman.

He backed toward the truck. Just as he tossed her inside, she caught a quick glance of the woman still standing on her porch, void of emotion. She must be blind or too old to know better.

She finally was able to spit out the chocolate and caramel and began to kick and scream and throw her arms every which way. The man leaned over, grabbed the seatbelt buckle, and locked her in. Growling and bawling, the girl slammed her elbows and fists into his head. He didn’t even flinch, as if he was made of stone. Like a caged animal, her rage grew even more furious, as knuckles cracked against glass, her shoulders and head smashing against hard plastic, hoping to launch the airbag, anything to create a diversion, to give her another opportunity for escape.

Anything to avoid a return to the basement, the drug-induced delirium, and the invasive, slithering tongue.

Oh God, the tongue.

Suddenly, the force of a twenty-pound bat slammed into her torso. The man had swung his sledgehammer fist. She heard a crack just below her left breast. Touching her side, she felt a sharp bump—a broken rib. Spears of pain pierced her chest, evaporating every ounce of fight left in her, as if a giant helium balloon had just been shot out of the sky. Helpless screams clogged her ears, nothing more than the shredded, rubbery flesh of the balloon falling hopelessly to the pitiful earth.

Her last gasps for air only served to fog up the windows. Within seconds, the old woman’s silver hair and yellow, flowered robe blended into nothingness—just like the girl’s hope.

The young girl had finally been defeated.

2

Hunched over, squinting a single eye through her front blinds, the eighty-nine-year-old great-grandmother watched the silver dually back out of her yard. Through the cover of darkness and fogged-up windows, the images from the truck were nothing more than a hazy blur, reds and whites thrashing all over the cab.

Damn, that girl was putting up a pretty good fight.

The woman’s eyesight wasn’t as bad as some people thought, especially her eldest daughter, who insisted that she move into a senior home down in Florida.

Those places smelled. The only way she’d end up in an old folks’ home was if they strapped her to a gurney and put her in one of those CareFlite helicopters. But they had better bring an army of medics and a valium. Helicopter or plane, it mattered very little. She hadn’t been fond of heights since 1973, when she’d been stuck on the ledge of a lighthouse down at the coast just as the leading edge of a hurricane battered the seaside town of Port Isabel.

The pickup’s diesel engine growled, and she watched red lights disappear into the murky fog.

Stepping away from the window, the old woman reset her spectacles, then dropped her

hands in the front pockets of Martha—her housecoat that had been part of her life for the last twenty-six years. She padded over to Duffy, her overstuffed, brown suede chair. Everything that had meaning in her life had a name.

Using her arms as anchors on either side, she slowly dropped into the chair, her hundred-pound frame barely putting a dent in old Duffy. She took the remote control in her hand but hesitated before unmuting the Weather Channel.

The way that man held the girl didn’t seem right. Her eyes were bugging out. Her arms and legs were dancing around like they’d been plugged into an electrical socket.

Then again, drugs would do that to you, especially heroin.

Over the years she’d seen everything from the front porch of her simple home. Tapping a finger to her cheek, she counted the time since she’d lived on Shorecrest Drive. It was either forty-one or forty-two years since she’d moved in. She acquired the place for practically nothing because everyone complained about the airport noise. Didn’t matter much to her. It helped her sleep at night usually.

Maybe that’s why she’d tossed and turned in her bed this evening. Damn fog had grounded the airplanes. She’d never thought much about how reliant her sleep patterns had become on the streaking jets’ white noise.

She chuckled out loud, recalling all the kids who’d ended up at her house late at night. There was that one girl who simply passed out on the front lawn. The old woman’s three-legged pooch, Gunsmoke, had gone outside for her late-night pee and started barking. Sitting on Duffy in her living room, she heard the commotion and ran outside. She was hit with a rancid smell of booze twenty feet before she got to the girl. The old woman turned on a hose, and the girl came to life and stumbled away.

Thinking about her recently departed puppy, her eyes became glassy. He’d been her sidekick for the last fourteen years. Always there to protect her.

A quick memory came to mind—those two boys, or should she call them young studs?

About ten years back, after a flurry of doorbell rings, she hurried to the front and swung open the door. Two college hunks stood there bare-ass naked trying to cover their junk. For one fella, it was a failed effort. His hands just weren’t big enough.

God bless him…and his junk, she’d thought to herself. With her eyes burning a hole in his midsection, he said, “Is this the Bachman Lake Whorehouse?”

If she had been twenty years younger, she could have said or done any number of things.

Instead, she just replied with, “Fraternity prank, huh?”

They nodded, and she shut the door. She’d never forget the images. One in particular.

Sound came from the flat screen—she’d accidentally clicked the volume button—and a rain slicker squeezed the chubby cheeks of a meteorologist stuck in the middle of a hurricane on the Indian coast. He was actually leaning at a forty-five-degree angle to offset the high winds. Hope that wouldn’t hit Dallas any time in the next couple of days. Wait, he was actually on the other side of the planet. Nothing to worry about for at least a week, she figured.

The sounds of crashing waves behind the weatherman allowed her mind to drift, and she couldn’t stop thinking about the desperate pleas from that girl. The hysterical tone of her voice, tears draining down her freckled face. Drugs or not, she seemed distraught, afraid for her life even. But who wouldn’t be afraid to go back to jail, especially if she was on the verge of being cut off from her drug supply?

It was a damn shame that it took a bear-sized man to endanger himself and wrangle these young kids into understanding right from wrong. Rules weren’t made to be broken, her mother would say when she used to cut in line at the ice cream parlor.

A quick image of the girl’s white-knuckled hand clutching the old woman’s robe flashed across her frontal lobe. Her fingers seemed different. Had she used an ink pen to draw something? Maybe it was the phone number to her drug dealer. Could have been a smiley face to help her survive the daily struggle of living with a drug addiction. Who knew? Her eyes were almost as sharp as her mind, but she wasn’t Wonder Woman. Sheesh!

With the girth of a California redwood, the man looked like he had the strength of the Man of Steel. But his yes ma’ams and no ma’ams didn’t fool her. He gave off a vibe of someone who’d been in a few scraps. With his extra wide pickup, ropers, and massive brass belt buckle, he was pure Texan. That buckle was almost as big as Captain America’s shield. Made her think about an old program she used to watch, Walker, Texas Ranger. Chuck Norris…now that was a man who could do some damage to the bad guys.

Come to think of it, she never actually saw the man’s badge. He could have been a cop wearing street clothes, or even a Texas Ranger like her hero, Chuck Norris. Nothing to worry about, though. He had the piece of paper that clearly stated the distraught girl had purposely skipped her court appearance for breaking the law.

Rules weren’t made to be broken.

She clicked the remote four times, then found an old rerun. A smile parted her lips as she watched Chuck Norris kick the asses of fourteen would-be assailants in about thirty seconds.

An American hero.

3

“Eat more chicken!” Samantha threw a fist in the air, punctuating an exuberant ending to the

“Happy Birthday” song for my assistant-partner at Booker & Associates.

“Hey, Alisa, are you in some type of catatonic state from the mesmerizing torches of age?”

Justin, my best friend since the beginning of time, laughed so hard his slim shoulders popped up and down. He was so out of control his wrinkled forehead turned shades of red.

“Very funny, One Nut. It just so happens that I was carded buying wine at the grocery the other day.”

My shapely business partner who also happened to be the best damn researcher any private investigator could ask for, planted a hand on the hip of her Lucky Brand jeans while standing at the head of the table, daring Justin to attempt a comeback of his own.

Justin opened his mouth, looked into the corner of the restaurant, then pointed a finger toward Alisa at the end of the trapezoid table. “That’s kind of interesting, Alisa. But I heard they felt sorry for you.”

She twisted her head, her amber eyes not leaving Justin. She, like the rest of us, was obviously weary of where the ponytailed bar owner was taking this.

“Yeah, they found you staring through glass doors at the frozen cans of orange juice for two straight hours.” Covering his mouth, a snorting chortle escaped his lips. “On the can, it read

‘Concentrate.’”

“Is that supposed to be some type of blond joke, One Nut?” She arched an eyebrow as I heard a couple of “oohs” behind me.

“Nope. Just an Alisa joke…who happens to be blond.”

We all busted out laughing until David, the owner of the five-star restaurant we were holding the party in, popped the cork on a bottle of champagne. A high-pitched shriek came from behind me. Not a fan of screaming women, even if it was in response to the sudden pop, I turned slowly and found Cindy burying her face in the neck of her boyfriend Henry, a Dallas County assistant district attorney and one of my old college buddies. Since the pair been an official couple for a good two months, I was trying to categorize Cindy as a friend as well. But we had a history, the kind where I used to look over my shoulder every time I neared my East Dallas condominium.

Let’s just say my acceptance of her in any normal fashion was a work in progress. But I kept my thoughts to myself. A small hand tugged on my Hugo Boss shirt.

“Daddy, Daddy.”

I looked down at my five-year-old daughter, Samantha, her thick locks pulled back by a purple headband that her mother—my ex-fiancée—had given her. Even when she wasn’t

smiling, which wasn’t very often, tiny dimples highlighted her cute cheeks.

“Yes, Mittens.” I’d given her this nickname when she was a mound of baby fat, her fingers undetectable.

“I counted thirty-nine candles, but everyone keeps saying happy thirty-sevenvph.”

Samantha butchered the last word, but I knew what she meant.

“Samantha, darlin’.” Alisa leaned down and ran a gentle hand through Samantha’s thick mane, her double shot of tequila already making her sound like a Southern belle. “With that many candles, it’s easy to get lost in counting.”

“Okay, Auntie Lisa.”

Samantha nuzzled her head against my side.

“Do you know how to subtract numbers?” Alisa asked.

My little girl shook her head, then brought a finger to her jack-o’-lantern mouth. “Wait, is that when you do minus?”

We chuckled, and Alisa replied, “Yes, darlin’. Just between us girls, here’s a trick you need to remember. Whenever you’re counting candles on my cake in the future, always do minus five.

So, if you take thirty-seven minus five, what do you get?”

Tapping extended fingers on the opposite hand, I could see her full lips moving—a trait she inherited from her curvaceous mother. Thankfully, I’d yet to see my little girl exhibit her mother’s Latin temper. Damn, Eva was a passionate woman. That’s kind of how we got into this…arrangement.

“Thirty-two?” Samantha raised her shoulders, her saucer-plate eyes appearing as if she’d just used the Pythagorean theorem to come up with the answer.

Alisa clapped. “Good girl, Samantha. You’re going to grow up to be a financial wiz.”

Henry, Cindy, and Justin had shuffled closer, while David and his boyfriend Dax were

walking back into the side room of their restaurant—Asian fusion with an ambiance that matched the Spider Man lair, literally. I glanced over at David, who looked more like an investment banker dressed in blue Armani, realizing the only reason we’d been able to hold a party at the swankiest restaurant in Dallas was because he’d used his financial genius to swindle Justin’s sister out of twenty-five thousand dollars. We’d traveled a long path to get where we were, including Justin, who’d recently partnered with the Double Ds to develop a mobile food business. Thus far, Fajita Rita’s was raking it in.

“Maybe Samantha can learn a few financial tips from David,” Justin offered.

I felt the skin between my eyes coil up like a snail, “Justin, are you—”

“Certifiably nuts?” Alisa finished the rhetorical question. Her eyes shifted to David to ensure he couldn’t overhear our conversation. “Perhaps, I should have used the singular. One nut.”

Cindy belted out another shriek. I gave her the eye before I remembered I’d made a promise to try to be friends with Henry’s new squeeze…who had a face like a horse.

“Daddy, Daddy.”

Samantha to the rescue, tugging on my shirt again.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Why does everyone call Uncle J ‘One Nut’?”

Cindy’s torso lurched forward, failing to cover an obnoxious snort. I scratched my facial scruff, biding me a precious few seconds to figure out how to dodge this question until about fifteen years in the future.

Resting my hand under her adorable chin, I said, “You know how people get nicknames and sometimes it doesn’t make sense, but people just give them that name because they care about them?”

She scrunched her eyes.

“You know, like your nickname, Mittens.”

Samantha waved me closer so I could hear her whisper in my ear. “Daddy, don’t you

remember, I don’t really like to be called Mittens around other people. That’s just between us.

Got it?”

Some snickering around us since Samantha’s soft voice was louder than she knew. “Got it. I think I see a piece of cake over there just for you.”

Glancing to our right, Dax was cutting off a slice of red velvet cake. “Extra icing?” he asked Samantha with a smile.

She took two steps, then turned back around. “Daddy, what does the Double Ds mean?”

Alisa and I locked eyes. I could almost picture an enormous timepiece, its big hand shifting one notch, emitting the sound of cathedral bells across the land. My mind had recognized a new milestone in my not-so-little Samantha’s life—she’d reached the age when her perceptiveness had outgrown her age, which led to a flurry of unending questions. I wasn’t sure this was reversible, so we just had to roll with it.

I leaned over and tickled her rib cage. “Double means twice as good, right? So, two Ds are better than one.”

Alisa brought a hand to her stressed face, realizing my line of bullshit made no sense.

“But Daddy, why you do always say that when you talk about Mr. Dax and Mr. David?”

Usually quick-witted, I wasn’t prepared for Samantha at age sixteen, so I acted like I didn’t understand the question. “How about a double tickle attack?” I goosed her with both hands, and her youthful chuckle filled the room.

“But Dad—”

“Can I have your piece of cake, Samantha?” Not exactly my idea of a great role model, Cindy, of all people, had chimed in.

“What?” Samantha instantly became focused on the sugar high that sat ten feet away.

“Did I tell you how cool your fingernails are? I just love that purple.” Cindy draped an arm over Samantha’s shoulder and walked toward the cake plates at the far end of the table.

I think Henry saw wonderment in my eyes. “Can you believe Cindy’s that good with kids?”

I knew my Asian buddy was blind and oblivious when it came to any topic regarding Cindy, but I had to admit he had a point.

“She’s a keeper.” I popped his shoulder, then saw someone enter the room.

“Josh?” Alisa’s voice turned higher as she maneuvered around gifts and chairs to reach her new boy toy. And I do mean boy. At ten…no, make that eleven years younger, Josh had

completely captured Alisa’s attention like no one I’d seen.

Almost half a foot taller than Alisa, Josh had the look of a California surfer. I could picture him posing next to a surfboard stuck in the sand while he was being interviewed by Surfer magazine, wiggling his thumb and pinkie while saying, “I’m stoked! I was just shooting the curl and the waves were spitting hard.”

Instead, he held up a courteous hand and said, “Sorry I’m late, everyone.”

Alisa reached her arms around Josh’s neck and planted a smooch on him, her leg kicking back as if it was attached to a pulley in her heart. Or something like that.

“Did you just see her leg pop up? I guess that’s the female version of getting a boner for a guy.” Justin’s version of my thoughts. I smirked and motioned for him to keep his volume down.

We weren’t sixteen, although we’d been known to act like it. Still, it was Alisa’s birthday and my five-year-old daughter was in the room. I glanced over at the table and saw her propped on her knees, her Scooby Doo tongue trying to scoop pink frosting off her lips. Now wasn’t the time to yank Alisa’s chain.

I noticed Dax give Josh the snooty onceover, likely because of his attire—sweats, black-and-white-striped shirt, and cleats.

“So, what’s the scoop on Josh?” Henry asked me. He wore a Tommy Bahama silk shirt with a palm tree print and balanced a clear glass of soda with a plate of cake.

While Josh had the boyish looks of a young actor, I couldn’t categorize him as innocent.

He’d been convicted of computer hacking. I’d never heard the story behind the story, but he was a felon, at least until he completed his community service, at which time the courts were expected to reduce his conviction to a misdemeanor. His record made him a pariah in the real job world. He’d helped us with a murder case a month or so ago, and I paid him for a few hours of consulting on another case. But mostly, our caseload hadn’t required his skillset, which made Alisa quite sad.

“He’s still refereeing soccer games mostly. That and delivering pizza on the side.”

Henry popped my chest. “Booker, I know he’s struggling to make it right now. But I wasn’t talking about that. He and Alisa. She’s a cougar, eh?”

“He’s smitten, I will say that. Sometimes it is a bit strange, almost like a kid who has a crush on his school teacher,” I said, all too transparently.

Henry giggled, squirming left and right. Suddenly, Horse Face appeared around Henry’s arm. While the pairing of Alisa and Josh elicited memories of Dustin Hoffman and Mrs.

Robinson in The Graduate, Henry and Cindy reminded me of Kermit and Miss Piggy. Although with Cindy’s aggressive personality, she definitely held the reins in this relationship.

“You having any cake, baby?”

Did I just hear a cutesy name? Oh, brother.

“Not a chance,” Cindy said. “I’ve got to bring it when I’m strutting down the beach in Maui.”

Henry’s thin eyes lit up, a piece of cake stuck halfway in his mouth.

There was no mistaking Cindy had a body that most women would pay to have. But it takes the whole package. I’d learned that, not just from interacting with Cindy, but also from a psychopath, murdering ex-girlfriend.

“When do you guys take off?” I asked.

“Taking the red eye. Flight leaves at eleven thirty tonight.”

“I’ve never been to Hawaii before. I just can’t wait.” Cindy squeezed her arms together, creating a breast tidal wave; then she clapped her hands a dozen times in three seconds.

A spoon dinged the side of a champagne glass. “I’d like to make a toast,” Justin said.

“Everyone, let Dax fill up your glasses.”

The JCPenney cover boy poured the champagne.

“Here’s some sparkling cider, Samantha,” Dax said.

She looked over at me and smiled, feeling so grown up. I wondered if I could tie a brick on top of her head. But that wouldn’t impede her inquisitive mind. This Samantha growing up thing…I just wasn’t ready yet.

Justin cleared his throat. “Henry, Cindy, this is also for you guys as you prepare for your little voyage to Hawaii. ‘There are good ships, there are wood ships, the ships that sail to sea, but the best ships are friendships, and forever may they be.’”

“Cheers,” we all said in unison as I made the effort to reach over and clink glasses with Cindy.

Out of the corner of my eye, Alisa had a cell phone pressed against her ear, her face hard with stress. She grabbed a fistful of golden locks, and I ambled toward her.

“What do you mean you haven’t seen her in almost a week?” Her tone cut through the jovial atmosphere.

I glanced at Josh, who had a hand on her shoulder. He seemed as bewildered as I was.

A moment later, Alisa ended the call, brought a jittery hand to her head.

“My little sister is missing.”

4

A repetitive beeping sound had been echoing across the intersection at Lemmon and Oak Lawn for a good ten minutes, delaying our trip downtown to the sister’s apartment to speak with her roommates. The unrelenting noise itself was enough to cause a headache. But watching a road construction crew fill potholes in a fashion that resembled the Keystone Cops, I’d begun to wonder if this was some type of clandestine TV production we weren’t aware of. No team of people could be this clueless…annoyingly so, given the air of anxiety that filled my Saab.

“What the hell are they doing filling potholes at this hour of the night?” Alisa ran fingers through her endless bed of curls.

I turned to the passenger seat. “I’m as pissed as you, but if they were doing this at three in the afternoon, there would be so many pissed-off drivers the city would have to call out a platoon of cops to protect the road crew.”

The birthday girl set her jaw, as if she were about to explode from the car and take matters into her own hands.

I couldn’t let that happen. Rolling down my window, I waved at a man with baggy jeans, an iridescent orange vest, and a hard hat. He held a two-sided sign. The one pointing in our southbound direction read STOP. We were at the front of the traffic, ahead of about five or six cars. The man nodded, then held up a single finger. “Uno mas.”

“One more pothole,” I said, turning back to Alisa.

“I heard the man. Do you think I’m deaf?”

The edge to Alisa’s voice had sucked the Southern belle away and replaced it with a healthy dose of bitchiness. But I understood, at least at a surface level.

“What’s your sister’s name?” I asked, watching two men pound steel flatteners into moist, cooling pavement.

“Natalie. She’s only nineteen years old.”

I allowed her reply to resonate for a moment, my mind stuck on the math. “I’m not trying to poke you like Justin about your age, but if you turned thirty-seven today, you’re eighteen years old than your sister?”

“It’s my dad’s second marriage. My mom died in a car accident when I was teenager. I think my dad got lonely after a couple of years, and he found Lola, fifteen years his junior. So technically, Natalie is my half-sister.”

Maybe I now understood Alisa’s openness to dating a guy more than a decade younger. It was more about happiness, finding the special someone, not necessarily following the social norm…even if people were calling her a cougar behind her back. I better not let Samantha hear that term. Given her recent track record, she’d ask questions at just the wrong time.

“You guys close?”

“She’s the only sister I have. Even though we’ve had our moments, especially in the last couple of years, I’m her big sis. I feel at least partially responsible for her life. Or what’s she’s made of it.”

A tear bubbled in the corner of her eye, and Alisa brushed a quick finger along her face.

Josh had asked to ride along to support his girlfriend. I advised that he hang back since the nature of our visit, at least for me, would have to be business-focused. Alisa was too scattered to notice one way or the other. Fortunately, Justin offered to drop Samantha at her mom’s place.

I put my hand on top of hers, looked her in the eye. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll talk to Natalie’s roommates, do what we do, and we’ll find her. I know it.”

She pressed her lips against her teeth. I think she was trying like hell to not uncork her tear box.

Just then, the man in the orange hat flapped his arms, and I popped the clutch, launching the Silver Streak across Oak Lawn. The g-force thrust Alisa against the headrest. We got lucky, catching a green light at Turtle Creek Boulevard, then I downshifted into second gear and hung a right onto Carlisle.

My window partially down, wind whipped my face, creating some good white noise in the car. I could see Alisa’s eyes drift from light to light, perhaps a million thoughts pinging her mind.

I needed to understand a few of those thoughts.

“Are you going to tell me the scoop on Natalie before we start asking questions of her roommates?”

Alisa ran her fingers through her hair, again, then massaged the top of her own neck.

“Something just hasn’t been right the last few months.” She huffed out a breath, trying to calm her nerves, it appeared.

“With Natalie?”

She turned her head, her pursed lips telling me that wasn’t a bright question. “Yes, with Natalie.”

I realized I had to probe to get some real answers. “In the last two years, you and Natalie may not have seen eye to eye?”

“You could say that.” I could see the reflection of her eyes staring out the window as we passed Greenwood Cemetery on the left before turning due south on McKinney, colorful bars and restaurants on either side.

Her monotone responses were almost comical. “Alisa, I can tell this is difficult for you. I want to help.”

“I know,” she said softly.

“Can you—”

“Almost two years ago, Natalie frickin’ quit high school. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers.

“Why?”

“Made no sense. Still doesn’t to this day. She’d just started her senior year, had good grades, seemed to like school okay, from what I could tell. She visited colleges. We had high hopes she’d graduate, go to UT or SMU, get a degree. She was sharp…is sharp, I should say.”

“What did she do at age seventeen with no high school diploma? Live off daddy’s dime?”

“I wish. Then she’d probably still be safe. No, she wanted to move to the big city, thinking it could open up new opportunities for her. It’s like she wanted to skip ten years of her life.”

I kept the references to Natalie in the present tense, maintaining hope that she was still with us. “I think you just told me why she dropped out of high school. The glitz and glamour of the big city.”

“True.” She looked my way. “Natalie didn’t just drop out of school. She left home. My dad and stepmom were upset when Natalie blew off high school, but they didn’t kick her out of the house. Natalie did that all on her own.”

I’d heard way too many similar stories—kids who just couldn’t wait to grow up, experience a life they’d envisioned through TV or the movies, propagated by umpteen blogs and vlogs. The lifestyle seduced kids who didn’t understand that maturity had nothing to do with the hair on their chest or the size of their boobs.

“Where was home?”

“Nacogdoches,” she said again in a flat tone. “East Texas is a whole different world than the rest of Texas. Being a hick is an honor.”

Alisa released a slight grin, then thumbed through images on her phone. She held it up for me.

“This is Natalie about six months ago.”

She looked like a young Hollywood actress, golden locks not as wild and curly as Alisa’s, but longer, framing an All-American face that could be on the cover of Glamour magazine.

“Are you saying she didn’t fit in with the East Texas ropers?”

“Hell no. Many years before her, I didn’t exactly fit in either, but Natalie’s aversion to all things Nacogdoches took it to another level.”

Traffic slowed as cars turned into the bowels of the Crescent Hotel.

“She moved to Dallas?” I asked.

“Houston was too close, New Orleans too dirty. Yes, Dallas. She actually moved in with me.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“It lasted for all of two months.” Alisa swallowed hard. “She had such an independent streak; she never wanted to listen to my advice, about anything or anyone.”

“Boys?” I asked.

“Boys…or in her case, men. And her jobs.”

“She was so young. Still is.”

“I know. She should have been dating guys her own age, college age at least. But no, they weren’t good enough for Natalie Lopes.”

It was easy to recognize the resentment in Alisa’s voice, but I couldn’t resolve years of regrets and bitterness, on either side.

I turned the 9-3 sedan left on North St. Paul, crossing Woodall Rodgers Freeway. “Her jobs.

Anything noteworthy?”

“She started off working at a coffee shop. Pretty harmless. It was going to help her learn a better work ethic. Natalie has a…rather vivacious personality. No surprise that she met someone who told her she was the most beautiful girl she’d ever seen. The lady ran a talent and modeling agency.”

I nodded.

“I guess Natalie took the bait?”

“She’s never been one to dip a toe in the pool. She closes her eyes and makes a swan dive.

There’s probably something cool about that, if we weren’t talking about my little sister and the decisions she’s made.”

We cut through the heart of downtown, passing the Dallas Museum of Art, the ancient

Majestic Theatre, and then the Main Street Garden Park.

“Did it pan out?” The brakes squeaked as I pulled the car to a stop in the visitor parking at Lone Star Lofts.

Alisa seemed to be mulling that question over as we shut the car doors and approached the entryway.

“Hard to say. I haven’t talked to her a great deal. When we do talk, the conversations are quick. Otherwise, we seem to end up arguing. I just can’t keep my mouth shut about the decisions she makes.”

“I hear ya.”

An ambulance screamed by going about sixty in a thirty, sirens blazing an audible trail. Alisa and I looked at each other, but neither of us addressed the irony.

“Natalie did have some success, I suppose. I saw her in a D Magazine realtor ad. I also saw her in a locally produced commercial about the Texas lottery. It was kind of cool, but neither paid much. From what I could glean from Natalie, big opportunities weren’t knocking on her door just yet. And that didn’t fit her supersonic master plan.”

Alisa used air quotes and I nodded as she continued. “I really believe she thought she’d go straight from Dallas to the runways of Paris, or even Hollywood or New York, with everyone begging for a piece of Natalie. She was damn naïve. Clueless.”

Alisa’s perspective seemed harsh, but when I thought about my Samantha going down the same path, it would be difficult to watch without trying to steer her in a different direction.

I glanced up and noticed a gray and black plaque affixed above fifteen-foot glass and wrought-iron double doors, flanked on either side by black wrought iron lanterns dangling off the side of the granite building. The small sign read Established in 1932. I’d seen this structure at various stages in the last few years, from abandoned and rundown to cranes and debris littering the area during an extended refurbishment project, and now serving as a contemporary high-rise residence in the art deco building that once housed the offices of Lone Star Cattle.

I held the door for Alisa, and we both gazed across the lobby full of black and white marble.

“What floor?” I asked as the elevator doors shut behind us.

Alisa dug in her purse and found a piece of paper. “Four. Apartment four twelve.”

“You’ve never been here?”

She shook her head, her eyes glancing at the floor. “I think it’s been a month, maybe two since I last spoke to her. A quick phone conversation. Sounded like she was drunk, at some party.”

The elevator dinged, and we stepped onto the fourth floor landing and veered left.

“She’s only nineteen. Anything besides alcohol?”

Alisa’s hands found her hair, but this time she just flipped the mess back over her shoulder.

“Like a lot of young people, I think she experimented, but I’m only certain about pot. I caught her smoking a joint one night at my place. She was in the bathroom, but my cat Chloe was in there with her. The cat actually got high and couldn’t stay upright long enough to make it into her litter box.”

Lifting her eyes toward me, we both held back a chortle. I gave her a wink as I knocked on the door.

“Yeah, what you want?” The door flew open. A young man dressed in a 1990s mesh T-shirt and running shorts held an arm behind his head. His skin tone made me look like an albino.

“We do have the right place?” I looked at Alisa.

“You must be Dominique?” Alisa asked.

He shook his head. “Girlfriend, you didn’t just call me Dominique?”

I saw Alisa’s eyes shift to mine, a signal that she didn’t have the patience to deal with this crap.

“I guess you didn’t talk to Dominique earlier?” I asked Alisa.

A quick shake of her head. “Natalie’s other roommate, Sarah.”

“You two got something going on?” He wiggled a finger covered in white paste at both of us.

“Nothing for you to worry about, Dominique,” I said. “We’re here to—”

“My name is Monique. I dropped the Dom. Don’t forget that.” Now he pointed a finger

while he arched an eyebrow so high I thought it might merge with his hairline. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t make the connection. Someone from my hood back in the day?

“Dominique, that’s Natalie’s sister. Let them in, asshole.”

The raspy demand came from inside the apartment. A third of Monique’s upper lip lifted like it was attached to a pulley. “Why didn’t you say somethin’?”

“Seriously?” Alisa stuck out a hip, then pushed by Monique.

I followed my partner-assistant down a short hallway, passing a small utility room on the left. Framed black-and-white photographs lined both sides, each set off with dramatic lighting.

Turning left, I spotted the door to one bedroom as we spilled into a giant room that included an upgraded kitchen with granite countertops and black appliances. White framed windows outlined the two walls of the living room and what I assumed would normally be a dining room, but I only saw sheets covered with a rainbow of paint colors, a sculpting wheel, and more crap scattered on the floor than I thought possible.

Monique padded by in bare feet just as Sarah made an appearance from the far bedroom. I think my eyes bugged out. Besides her pajamas with a puffy cloud print, she could have doubled as a mime.

“Sorry, you caught me in the middle of my face-cleansing routine. Gotta wear the mask for another hour.”

Monique lifted a finger toward Sarah’s face, as if he were going to edit her face painting effort. She swatted his hand away.

“Whatever, girl. You go ahead and do it your way. Don’t make no difference to me if you turn out looking like the Beast from the East.”

“Funny, Dominique.” Her eyes rolled so far I only saw solid white across her face.

Monique disappeared behind us.

“I’m from Tyler, which is why he felt it necessary to give me that unflattering label. I’ve heard it many times before. Too many.”

Alisa’s eyes wandered across the large room, taking in Natalie’s world. The whole place had a very Bohemian, artsy vibe. I also caught a waft of Italian spices. Looking over my shoulder, I noticed a bevy of unwashed plates on the counter, scattered remnants of spaghetti and meatballs.

“We might ask to take a look around later, if that’s okay, but for right now, can you tell us the last time you saw or spoke with Natalie?”

Sarah pushed a breath through her nose, then carefully sat down on an ottoman, placing ashen hands on her knees.

“Natalie blew through here early Monday morning last week. I even think she was wearing some type of mink shawl. It was all very strange. I was getting ready for work…my day job, so to speak,” Sarah said, her hands moving as she told the story.

“What do you mean blew through?” I asked.

Sarah gazed at Alisa. “I’m assuming you’ve seen this before.”

Alisa nodded. “Natalie has her moments.”

“What moments?” I didn’t know her, so I didn’t understand their code.

“Where Natalie is in la-la land, a tornado of motion,” Sarah said. Her arms mimicked

ribbons blowing in the wind. “If you don’t know her, you think it’s all this positive energy, and you want to be around her. But after about fifteen minutes, you realize she’s so wrapped up in her own world, her own fabrications, that she’s not aware of what’s really going on in the real world.”

Resting her arms on a beige, low-back leather sofa with more than a few cigarette burns, Alisa nodded. “That sums her up, yep. But do you know where she’d been, where she was headed?”

“God knows where she’d been. Probably partying all night—”

“Even on Sunday night?” I interrupted.

“Every night’s a party night for Miss Natalie Lopes.” Sarah craned her neck, as if she’d heard that repeated a few times. “I can give you a pretty good description of what she was wearing if you want it. Besides the mink, she had on a gold sequin dress; it hugged her body like most of her clothes. Barely covered her ass. More makeup than you’d see at a circus, enormous gold hoop earrings. She looked like a million bucks…or five, depending on what you’re shooting for.”

Sarah paused and almost touched her chin, then quickly realized her face was still coated with goo. “She was wearing a dangling bracelet. Looked like diamonds.”

Alisa glanced at me, then back at Sarah. “Who would have given her that type of gift?”

“Natalie actually is a pretty smart girl. She used to be able to pull together an outfit on less than a hundred bucks. She could find the coolest costume jewelry. They looked handmade. But a few months ago, she started dating this high roller who zipped her across the country, even out of the country a couple of times.”

“Natalie Jane Lopes traveled outside of the country? I didn’t even know she had her

passport.” Alisa poked a finger into the old leather couch, her brow nearly as crinkled as the sofa.

I moved next to my partner, put an arm on her back.

“You never said where she was going. Last Monday morning?”

“Headed out of town again. I think she said DC, but she indicated she’d be back in two or three days. Then as she ran out the door holding her Gucci bag, I thought she said she’d see us in four or five days. I used to get worried about her, but it never did any good. She’d usually show up. I’m almost thirty years old, and I don’t have kids. Last thing I want is to babysit a nineteen-year-old.”

Alisa tightened her jaw, and I could sense her emotion building up inside again. She didn’t need to take it out on Sarah, not when she was our best link for information on Natalie.

“Dumb question, but why don’t we just call her? For the girl who has everything, I’m

assuming she has a cell phone.” I held out my hands, knowing I’d made an obvious comment.

“I tried already,” Sarah said just before Alisa jumped in. “She leaves her cell phone on the dresser half the time. It’s in there right now. I tell you, it’s like raising a teenager.”

“She is a teenager.” I was Obvious Man right now.

“True, but she wants us to be believe she’s a worldly lady, full of experiences and wisdom that should make us in awe of her presence.”

Sassy response, but Alisa didn’t fight it, so I assumed there was at least a degree of realism to her comment.

“We need to figure out who she went with on this trip. We do that, and we’ll probably find Natalie,” I said, thinking out loud.

Sarah looked antsy. She got up and walked to the kitchen. “Can I get you guys a drink? This is all too much. I need something to calm my nerves.”

“No thanks,” I said as Alisa simply shook her head while she bit her lip. I think she was deep in thought.

Sarah popped a cork on a bottle of white wine, then clinked it against her glass, but stopped the pour at the halfway mark of her oversized wine glass. “You sure?”

“We’re good.”

She filled the glass to the rim, then licked the edges like a puppy, ever so careful not to spill a drop on her freaky mask. She reentered our space, the glass already a third empty. “Listen, I need to be honest about Natalie, everything in her life.”

Alisa leaned forward.

Exhaling through puffy cheeks, Sarah used one hand to frame her words. “I…I think Natalie has gotten into drugs the last couple of months.”

“What makes you think that?” Alisa asked.

Another exhale, her voice subdued. “I know.”

“How?” I jumped in.

“I’m a pretty even-keeled person. I got a day job as an admin for a law firm, enough to pay the bills around this place. But a few weeks ago, I had one of those days from hell. A lawyer who makes a thousand bucks an hour made me feel like an idiot in front of the whole staff. I didn’t know how to deal with it.” Her voice trailed off.

“And?”

“Later than night, Natalie saw I was kind of down. She tried to comfort me for a change. So she went into her bedroom and came back out, and we both shared two lines of coke.”

Alisa’s head rocked back, then she closed her eyes for a brief moment, her cheeks on fire.

“What the fuck?”

“I’m sorry. It was a moment of weakness. I did a little when I was younger. I just needed a little pick-me-up.”

Alisa glared holes right through Sara, her chin quivering.

“Wait. Aren’t you a former cop? Am I going to get in trouble for doing this?” Sarah set her glass down, her voice suddenly despondent. Apparently, Natalie knew a bit of Alisa’s life.

“Cop?”

I turned around, locked eyes with Monique, who was holding a paper sack. He hesitated, then darted down the front hallway. I heard a door open and slam shut. I looked at Alisa, then Sarah, wondering what I was witnessing. Both shrugged their shoulders. We could ask questions later.

I took off, reaching the front door after about ten quick steps. Outside the apartment, I jerked my head in both directions, but no sign of Monique. Still for a brief second, I heard a bell. The elevator. Reaching a dead sprint in under a second, I rounded the corner just as the doors shut.

Monique, the arrogant asshole, waved and smiled as the crack closed.

“Dammit!”

My eyes searched the area. An exit sign. Slamming against the metal door, I spilled onto a landing then grabbed the railing and launched myself halfway down the first flight of stairs. I kept taking giants leaps, five, seven stairs at a time.

I had no idea if Mr. Mouth, Monique, had anything to do with Natalie’s disappearance, but the former cop in me knew that running automatically made him a prime suspect—not that he wouldn’t have been considered anyway.

My feet landed on concrete at ground level. I cut right, popping out of the stairwell door, wondering where I was in proximity to the front and back doors. A white T-shirt just on the other side of the glass back door. I hauled ass in that direction, passed a meaty security guard with his head buried in a book. He didn’t bother looking up. Must be a good book.

A middle-aged couple, apparently just back from an evening jog, came through the door wearing matching gold and black running outfits, headbands and all.

“Look out!” I yelled as I lunged between them.

“What the hell?” I heard the man exclaim.

Outside, a lot of concrete, but well lit. A few people walked the streets. Squinting, I spotted the white T-shirt racing up South St. Paul. I continued the chase and caught a glimpse of him in a full-on sprint, his arms pumping as his feet bounced off the ground. This guy was frickin’ fast.

A guy laid on his horn just as I jumped into the street. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw a white European sedan, but I maintained visual contact with the suspect, Monique.

Just then, he cut right, at about a forty-five degree angle, at Commerce. Nearly five seconds behind him, I reached the same point and noticed the park. I’d forgotten about Main Street Park, the only piece of nature in downtown, outside of Klyde Warren Park.

I spotted Monique just across the street, dodging a man and his dog. The Doberman lunged toward Monique, releasing a juicy growl, his canines chomping up and down. Even though the pooch was on a leash, Monique tripped over his own feet, then hit a two-foot stone border around the park and wiped out like he’d just attempted the downhill ski jump on Wide World of Sports.

Before he got back to his knees, I jumped over the wall and jammed my knee into the small of his back.

“Ahh!” He ate grass as I heard something crinkle under his body.

“Why the hell did you run, Monique?”

I pulled the sack out from under him.

“That’s mine. You can’t have it.” He tried snatching it out of my hand, even with his chest on the ground. I transferred more weight into my knee that crunched his back.

“Shit, bitch! Police brutality.” Grass filled his mouth, so the words weren’t very clear.

“Yeah, whatever. I’m not the Dallas Police Department, so shut your pie hole. I want to know what’s so damn important. Does this have anything to do with Natalie?”

I opened the bag and found a plastic baggie filled with weed.

“I was just holding it for her, I swear. Hand on a Bible. My momma’s Bible.”

“If it’s on your momma’s Bible then that makes all the difference in the world.” If he could have seen me roll my eyes, I’m sure he would have offered another lie.

Taking hold of his upper arm, I pulled Monique to his feet. “Stuff this in your drawers. I’m not getting caught with it. And if authorities think you’re dealing, you’re up shit creek, and I don’t have a spare paddle.”

“You not taking me in?” he asked while stuffing the bag inside his shorts like he was a professional at concealing illicit drugs.

“I know a lot of folks who work for the DPD, even the DA’s office, but I’m not an officer or detective. I have my own PI business. That’s why I chased your ass down. That, and my good friend’s sister who hasn’t been heard from in a week.”

We walked across the street, back down St. Paul. Approaching the single tower of the

apartment building with its detailed stone work casting ominous shadows, it felt like we’d time-traveled to another dimension—where Gotham City existed. I looked up at the top for gargoyles, realizing David, former investment swindler and now a full-time entrepreneur-chef, could probably create a theme and cuisine with this setting, maybe adding a restaurant in the lobby of the Lone Star Lofts. He’d call it Creped Crusaders.

I snickered at my marketing attempt, following Monique up to the apartment.

Exiting the elevator on the fourth floor, sweat cooled against my forehead and chest. “By the way, did you happen to run track?”

“South Oak Cliff High School 4x100-meter team. Won state. Broke the record my senior

year. Just four years ago, but it seems a lot longer.” His voice sounded almost normal. “I’m not really into that athletic stuff anymore.”

Back in the apartment, Sarah spared him no mercy.

“Monique, where the hell do you think you were running off to? You look like a drug-

dealing hoodlum when you do stupid shit like that. They’re not going to bust you for a little weed.”

“Oh, Sarah, shut yo pie hole. It’s all good.” Monique gave me a nod, but his attitude had returned.

Again, I thought his swagger reminded me of someone. Still couldn’t make the connection.

Alisa approached me, holding a cell phone and a T-shirt.

“Sarah gave me Natalie’s cell phone. It’s password protected, one of those fingerprint deals.

But you never know…maybe Josh could figure something out.”

There was hope in her voice, which brought me a sense of relief. Finding Natalie wouldn’t be easy—not based on what we’d heard tonight—but if Alisa had given up hope, her negative attitude would only drag the investigation, which would lessen the chance of finding Natalie…

alive. It was difficult to say in my mind. I certainly didn’t want to address that alternative with Alisa.

“Cool. Good idea with Josh. What’s up with the T-shirt?”

Alisa held it up so I could see the front. A screen of a picture of two girls, arm in arm, hanging upside down, and what could only be described as a bushel of hair the color of hay falling below them.

“Is that you?” My mouth didn’t shut.

“Me and Natalie.” Alisa released a smile, a momentary relief of stress evident at the corners of her eyes.

“You guys went bungee jumping together?”

“It’s been a few years. Natalie was thirteen or fourteen, just before she hit her ultra-rebellious phase. I joined her, my dad, and my stepmom for a summer vacation down at South Padre Island.”

“Are you allowed back?” I gave her a wink.

“Funny. We had a blast. Ran around on the beach like little kids without a care in the world.”

Slowly, Alisa’s smile evaporated, and her lips twitched. She glanced at the T-shirt, then at the phone.

I squeezed Alisa’s shoulder, hoping she could feel my support, my positive energy. “We’re going to find her—”

“Alive?” Her voice cracked.

“Yes, alive. And when that happens, I’m going to take a picture of you and your sister holding this T-shirt in front of you. It will be a great contrasting picture.”

“You’re fooling yourself if you don’t think you’ve aged some, so be prepared.” Sarah’s interjection was particularly ill timed and rude.

Alisa spun her head around, took a step across the room, jabbing a finger. “Whatever. I am who I am. You’re the one who snorted coke with Natalie. She’s just a fucking kid, and you do nothing more than roll out the red carpet with a line of coke on it. You’re disgusting!”

I shuffled a few steps to ensure that blows weren’t thrown.

“Alisa, we can’t undo the past. We all need to work together to take what we know, work the case like we would any other, and find Natalie.”

I glanced over at Sarah, giving her the eye.

“Hey, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to push your button.”

Alisa’s shoulders relaxed, and her chest took in a deep pocket of air. “Whatever. Fine.”

Sarah went to the kitchen, poured each of us a glass of water, and we chilled for a moment.

Monique walked back into the large open space, tinkered with his sculpting wheel.

“So you make art?”

Still adjusting something on the sculpting wheel, Monique’s eyes shifted my direction.

“What’d you think, fool? By the way, I don’t make art. I create it.”

Knowing Monique was more bark than bite, I just rolled with it. “Do you make a living at it?”

“Haven’t hit it big enough to own my own studio, but I sell almost everything I make—

sculptures, water colors, sketches even. It pays the bills for now. The Maserati will come in due time.”

A snort from behind me. Sarah, or should I call her Doubting Thomas?

“You got somethin’ to say, mask lady? At least my passion pays my bills. What about you?

Oh yeah, I forgot, you’re all washed up at age thirty.”

He forced out an obnoxious giggle, grabbed a handful of paintbrushes, and went to the sink to wash them out.

Hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. “You said you were an admin at a law firm.”

“I did. And I am.” Her eyes never left mine while she sipped more wine. “Like Natalie, I’m also a model.”

I nodded, thinking about modeling careers and her advanced age, at least by that industry.

“I know what you’re thinking…just what Monique said. But that’s why I go to all this

trouble to wear a mask every night. I’m a body parts model.”

I’d heard a rumor of someone standing in for Julia Roberts during the filming of Pretty Woman when they had any boob shots.

“Is it rude to ask which parts?”

Alisa smiled as Sarah released another snort.

“It’s perfectly fine. In fact, they say word of mouth is the best marketing tool. I model parts of my face—in particular, my nose, around my eyes, cheeks, and chin, even my upper neck. Oh, I’ve also done a few ads using my hands.”

“What she’s trying to say is she’s in those ads where they compare before and after of a woman’s skin condition. All you have to do is use our magical skin lotion with minerals from the Fountain of Youth.” Monique coddled the container of hand soap near the sink. Damn, he was quite the ham.

She shrugged her shoulders. “He’s right. I’d do about anything to stay connected to the industry. I know I’m old compared to a lot of girls modeling and doing commercials, even TV

and movies, but I still have hope that I’ll be discovered, even at my advanced age.”

I held out a finger. “Are you with the same agency as Natalie?”

“Not a chance. They usually cater to girls under twenty-five. I’m with the AARP of

modeling agencies. They’re called TAM, for Talent and Modeling. Real catchy, huh?”

I couldn’t say much. Booker & Associates wasn’t exactly an eye-catching business name.

“Thanks for the water.” Alisa took a final gulp and set her glass over on the kitchen counter.

“Do you know the name of Natalie’s agency?” I asked Alisa.

“Damn, I don’t think I have it. Sarah?”

“Picture Perfect Images. PPI for short, based in Uptown. Go figure.”

“Thanks,” I said. “We’re out of here. If you hear anything from Natalie, a friend, a coworker, or think of anything at all, please call Alisa or me.” I handed Sarah the card and glanced over at Monique.

“I’m an open book. Don’t worry about me,” he said, traipsing across our path toward his living room as we headed toward the door. “Well, I’m about to be a closed book for a few hours.

Sarah, I’m so wound up by all this drama, I think it’s going to be another Harry Potter marathon night.”

“He sometimes only sleeps when Harry Potter movies are playing in the background. Quite strange, I know,” Sarah said to us, reaching a hand to her face but not quite touching the mask.

I nodded and kept walking. Alisa walked into the hallway as we heard Monique saying

something like “Avada Kedavra.”

I must have given Sarah a confused look.

“One of Harry’s magical spells. I think that one causes instant death. Although it’s painless if that makes any difference.” Sarah reached over and touched Alisa’s arm, then took a step and hugged her from the side. “I can tell you need a hug, girl.”

Leaning her head against Sarah, Alisa’s eyes shut for a brief moment, perhaps finding a bit of solace.

“We’ll find her, and then we’re both going to kick her perfect little ass,” Sarah said.

Alisa sniffled and laughed at the same time.

Sarah waved and shut the door. I pulled out my phone and noted the time. Just after

midnight. “It’s Tuesday,” I said for no reason in particular.

“Couldn’t be any worse than Monday.” Her eyes heavy, Alisa paused in front of me, curled a lock of hair around her ear. I could feel part of her wanting to lay her head against my chest. I felt the need to comfort her, but I kept her at arm’s distance. We had a history…a one-nighter over ten years ago. But we’d both agreed to never go there again and to not bring it up. Up until now, the arrangement had worked fine. She had developed a relationship with Josh and seemed happy. After my dalliance with the most beautiful, sensual woman I’d ever known—who turned out to be a warped killer—I’d grown accustomed to being a free agent. And I intended on maintaining that status, even during an emotional, trying time for one of my best friends, who just happened to be attractive in her own right.

Suddenly, the door to the apartment swung open, a white face popped out.

“Alisa, Booker, glad you haven’t taken off. Something just hit me.”

My phone buzzed. It was Justin. “Can you talk to her?” I asked Alisa, who padded back to the apartment door.

A call after midnight was never good news. “Hey Justin, what’s up?”

“Dude, there’s a guy here at the bar asking to speak with Alisa.”

“What’s his name?”

“What did you say your last name was?” I heard Justin ask with the phone away from his mouth.

I waited for a second, but didn’t hear anything. “Justin?”

“Yeah, Booker, hold on a second.”

Justin continued his conversation with the unknown man who wanted to talk to Alisa. “Sir, sir. Can you hear me? What is your last name?”

Suddenly, something popped in my ear. I think Justin dropped the phone. I only heard

muffled voices, some type of groaning, then another pop.

“Justin, everything okay?”

No response.

“Justin!”

“Jesus.” Justin was still away from the phone, but I heard stress in his voice.

Turning to the apartment door, I watched Alisa and Sarah exchange another hug. Alisa

headed back toward me as I backpedaled toward the elevators, waving her on.

“Justin!” I called out again.

“What’s going on?” Alisa asked, jogging up next to me.

I shook my head, listening for any sign of that everything was okay. “Justin called and said

—”

More rustling through the phone, then Justin’s voice. “Booker, I think this guy’s having a fucking heart attack.”

“I’ll call nine-one-one. Is he conscious?”

“Uh, kind of.”

I motioned to Alisa to haul ass.

“Make sure he’s comfortable. If he’s lucid, give him two aspirins if you have them.”

“I might have some in our first aid kit. Shit, why did I answer the frickin’ door?”

I ignored his lack of sympathy.

“We’ll be there in five minutes.”

5

“I told you I’m not going to any hospital. Can you read lips or do I need to break out the sign language?” A fifty-something man with white hair sloped across a forehead that appeared abnormally red sat up on the gurney in the middle of Justin’s bar.

“But sir, you might have damage to your heart. It’s important for a doctor to run some tests at least. Then, if everything is fine, you can go home.” The young paramedic with chiseled hair had been pleading with Bucky Rivers for the last five minutes.

“Can I get some water?” Bare-chested with electrodes stuck to his salt-and-pepper hairy chest, Bucky looked toward Justin, who jumped out of his position and came back with a full glass in less than ten seconds.

All of us watched Bucky dig into the pocket of his pants, toss two pills in his mouth, and down the full glass of water. He wiped his mouth with his shirt and hairy arm.

“I got a mitral valve issue, that’s all. Just needed to take my meds. You’ll see my vitals calm down here in a moment. I’ll even sit still until they do, as long as you let me skip the trip to the emergency room.”

The paramedic gave an exasperated look to his partner, then to Justin and me standing by the bar. “No promises, but we’ll keep a close watch on your vitals for a few minutes before we leave, with or without you.”

The man seemed to ignore the response as he attempted to twist his torso, stretching wires and tubes.

“Sir, you can’t move or you’ll yank out your IV and everything else. It won’t feel good.”

“Where’s that Alisa?”

Almost on cue, we heard flats clip the last few stairs on the opposite wall. The office to Booker & Associates sat just above The Jewel. I paid rent to my old running buddy through bartering—I worked security in the bar whenever Justin hosted one of his breakthrough marketing events. Last year, we almost had the fire marshal shut us down when Vanilla Ice almost brought the house down.

“Sorry, I had to check a couple of things on my laptop.” Alisa said, looking at Justin and me.

“Alisa?”

She moved closer to the man, but kept her hands in the pockets of her jeans, her eyes starting to resemble that of a raccoon. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you. Justin said your name is Bucky?”

“Bucky Rivers. My daughter…Jade…” Bringing a wrist to his forehead, his face exploded with emotion, his head rocking up and down as tears flooded his face and the oxygen tube in his nostrils.

“Sir, Mr. Rivers. Please try not to get upset. Your condition will only worsen, and we’ll have no choice but to take you to Parkland.” The paramedic with the helmet hair checked his machines then tried to reinsert the oxygen tubes. His partner added more tape to Bucky’s arm to keep the IV attached, then he gave the man a towel to wipe his face.

The rest of us just watched a broken man, unsure what was creating his emotional reaction.

It was beyond distressing.

“Let’s have you sit back in the gurney. I’ll raise this at an angle for you.”

“Okay,” the man said meekly, his eyes shutting for a moment as his back touched the gurney cushion.

Flipping a chair around, Alisa sat next to the man.

“I’ll talk to you if you do as the paramedics said. Deal?”

He held out a hand and she grabbed it. “Thank you.”

Taking in a breath, he eyed the paramedic, then glanced at Alisa. “Jade, my daughter, was friends with your sister Natalie.”

He said was. Alisa inched forward in her chair and gripped his hand. His hands looked like they’d been scraped by a cheese grater. I moved a step closer as well.

“When was the last time you or your daughter spoke to Natalie?” she asked with an extra burst of energy.

My breath caught in my throat, realizing Alisa hadn’t picked up on Bucky’s past-tense reference with the word “was.”

“We got some bad news last…last night.”

His breath came in short bursts, as if his lungs were being squeezed. Again, tears welled, then he swiped his free forearm across his brow, apparently seeking courage to continue. I felt my gut tighten.

“Yes, tell us what happened,” Alisa said in a soft voice. Sitting at a perfect ninety-degree angle, she shook his hand once. I think she had no idea what she was doing, her mind transfixed on any mention of Natalie. I walked over and rested a hand on her shoulder.

Glassy-eyed, Bucky gazed at Alisa, his hot-plate face etched with crevices so deep they formed irrigation ditches for his tears. The edges of his mouth twitched, and his eyes shifted to the end of the gurney. He didn’t seem all there. Was he having another heart episode?

A second away from asking the paramedics to step in, I saw him clutch his pants. “Our one and only daughter, Jade, was found dead last night.”

Alisa’s mouth hung open, her eyes scanning Bucky, possibly hoping he’d provide a further explanation, something that made sense.

“I’m sorry,” I said, interrupting the uncomfortable silence. “What happened to her?”

He snorted back more tears. “It’s…the work of the devil.”

Alisa narrowed her eyes, a mixture of confusion and anxiety painted on her tired face.

“What do you mean?”

“They found her in the Trinity River bottoms, stuck in the mud. Garbage all around her.

Even if I didn’t know her, it was the most sickening thing I’d ever seen or smelled.”

Alisa brought a hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

I had nothing but questions. “How did—”

“We put in a missing persons report on her five days ago. She’d recently moved back home after…well, it doesn’t matter now. But we got to know this one officer pretty well. I could see that he didn’t think we were just another piece of paperwork to him. When they found her, I was in my truck finishing a late call. I do HVAC work, and I was crossing that new bridge with all the fancy architecture on it. Paco called, and I got to the scene in less than five minutes. If he hadn’t been there, I’m not sure how I would have gotten through it.”

“Paco. Paco Arechiga?”

“I think that’s his last name.”

“He’s my former partner. I’m a former DPD officer.” I leaned in and shook Bucky’s hand. It was unsteady and warm.

“I’d heard about you through Jade. Well, I knew that Natalie had a sister named Alisa who worked for a PI out of this bar. That’s how I found you.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Alisa’s entire body move as she took in a breath. I turned my head, and she thumped her chest, appearing on the verge of hyperventilating.

“Are you okay?”

She paused, pushing out another pocket of air. “I’ll…I’ll be fine.”

Swallowing, she tried to corral her mascara. It was a losing battle. “Bucky.” Her voice quivered. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

He looked into her eyes and took hold of her hand again. “Thank you, Alisa. Your sister had good things to say about you. That’s why I’m here, I guess.”

I knew Alisa had questions, as did I. But we couldn’t trample right through Bucky’s misery, especially seeing him so frail, his body tethered to tubes and wires.

I’d almost forgotten about the paramedics. Neither had moved in minutes. Helmet Hair

shifted his eyes between the heart monitor display and the scene before him, but his mouth appeared wired shut.

“Can you tell me the last time you saw Natalie?” Alisa used her most pleasant voice.

“Maybe a month or so. Hard to recall exactly,” Bucky said, tapping a finger against his chin, a thin layer of white stubble on the end. “We’d all been through a difficult time the last year or so. It was just good to see Jade, see her happy. But…”

His left eye twitched, perhaps memories tugging on his tired heart.

I gave him a good ten seconds. “Something else you wanted to share?”

A huff. “I don’t mean to bring you any pain,” he said.

“Tell us.” Alisa’s tone was demanding.

I gave her a signal to lower the intensity.

“Please,” she added, much nicer.

“One of the reasons I came here was that I couldn’t invite you to the house. I think Carol, my wife, would come unglued.”

“Why?” I asked.

“She…now don’t take this the wrong way.” He looked at both of us. “We’ve been to hell and back in the last twenty-four hours. She’s stuck on the second stage of the grieving process—

anger. She’s blaming everyone for Jade’s death, including Natalie.”

Alisa pursed her lips. I wondered if she could handle hearing this feedback when she was so vulnerable. I just hoped we’d hear something that gave us a clue as to where Natalie was. “I’m listening,” Alisa said.

“I’m not sure if you know this, but Natalie and Jade have been friends since they both worked at the coffee shop. What, it’s been over a year, almost two, I think.”

Alisa nodded.

“Well, I should correct that a bit. Natalie kind of zooms in, then zooms out, so their friendship was off and on. I think Jade thought Natalie really had it together. Had a plan on how to make it in life. Make it real big.”

“That’s my sister,” Alisa said quietly.

“Carol…well, I saw it too. Not as much recently, but a while ago, we saw Jade and we could just tell she was strung out on drugs. We’re almost certain Natalie introduced her to that shit. On top of that, Jade always had a bit of a rebellious streak in her, but she started partying more, having all these thoughts of making it in Hollywood. Natalie is the only person who could have influenced her.”

I could see Alisa literally bite her lip. “All I can say is that I’m sorry, Bucky. Natalie isn’t very mature. Then again, she’s only nineteen. Even if she tries to act like she’s figured it all out, it’s obvious she hasn’t.”

“At least she has time on her side, like every other young person out there. Jade doesn’t get any more opportunities. They’re all buried in the muck at the bottom of the Trinity River,” Bucky said, his eyes drifting away.

“Are you here to simply speak with Alisa, since she’s Natalie’s sister?” I asked, needing to understand the origin of his visit.

“I want to hire you.”

I held up a hand. “Okay. I think you should know that Natalie is missing. We’re trying like hell to find her. We’ll need as much information as possible from you.”

“If you’ll help find out who killed Jade, I’ll do anything for you. Anything.”

We’d yet to hear how Jade had died. I could feel my stomach make an extra twist of the already existing knot, knowing Alisa might have a tough time hearing all this, given Jade’s friendship with Natalie. What else did they have in common?

“Can you share with us anything you know about Jade’s death? Anything the detectives

shared with you?”

“It was hellish, I tell you.” He swallowed, then coughed so loud it hurt my ears. “I’d never seen anything like it. Ripped her nails off. And you wouldn’t believe what they did to her eyes.

Fucking heathens!”

He looked upward, as Alisa lurched. I thought she might be gagging.

“You going to be okay, Alisa?” Unusually silent for the last several minutes, Justin had one hand anchored to the bar.

She held up a hand and nodded. “Dear God, who could have done this?” She looked directly at me, seeming to have forgotten for a moment that I knew nothing more than she did and that it was our job to help find the killer and bring that person to justice.

“Bucky, are you aware if Jade received any recent threats?”

The man, who looked like he’d aged another ten years since we’d arrived, pressed his lips together.

“An old boyfriend or anyone new she’d been partying with lately? Even someone from her past that could have come back into her life?”

“I haven’t heard about any threats. Overall, she didn’t really share much about her social life, other than Natalie dropping by on occasion. No specific names come to mind. I’ll need to run this by Carol. Sometimes she and Jade would have those mother-daughter talks. Not many in the last couple of years though.”

Rubbing the back of my neck, I knew many of the clues of this case would involve forensic data. Was there any DNA of the perp on Jade? The fact that someone removed her fingernails was either a sign of torture or a killer who knew his or her DNA could be buried beneath Jade’s nails.

But I didn’t have access to that data. I’d once had a contact in the CSI team. Felix Upton, known as FU since our days at the academy, was more of a paranoid loner who never seemed to find his way in life. He’d provided me the key piece of evidence that helped us find the Dallas bomber. Persuaded into helping out a dirty copy in a drug-dealing operation, Felix eventually found himself tethered to the wrong set of people. And it got him killed. I watched the whole thing go down.

I did know Paco well. Since I joined the private ranks, I’d yet to ask much of my former partner. We were still close, but not blue-blood close. Wearing that uniform each and every day created a life-or-death bond that couldn’t exist without the same level of commitment. I realized I might have to call in a favor, or three. He wasn’t part of the CSI team, so acquiring information on the evidence from this case would be extra complicated, if it was possible at all.

“I don’t mean to blow off your request for our services, but I need to understand your motivation,” I said.

“Paco is a good man. I’m sure the DPD has a lot of good officers and detectives. But there’s a lot to cover in a city this big.”

“They won’t ignore a murder investigation, especially when something like this hits the press. The public will want answers, just like you and your wife.”

“I hope like hell they do find who did this. But will they find all the answers? Let’s say they find someone based on DNA evidence, but we never get the full story of what happened to our little girl.” Emotions filled Bucky’s voice, as he punched a finger into his knee. “We want whoever did this to burn alive. I’ll even light the match. But we’ve got to know why. It will be hard to keep living otherwise.”

Peering into Bucky’s eyes, I hoped his emotions had pulled those thoughts from his drained body. Homicide never undid any vile act. But I understood his feeling of helplessness.

“And you want us to find out why?”

“Yes. Who, why, how. Everything you can. That’s the only way we’ll be able to deal with this shit and try to piece our lives back together.”

I checked the time on the phone, saw that it was after two in the morning, and made a couple of mental notes.

“Are you worried about us paying you? I’m a saver. We got extra money stashed away.

Don’t be worrying about that.”

“That’s fine. No concerns. Alisa or I will send a contract to you tomorrow. Real quickly, just so I can start thinking about the timeline, when did you say Jade went missing?”

“I didn’t. The last time we saw her was a week ago yesterday.”

My eyes locked with Alisa’s, both of us staring blankly, making the obvious connection to when Natalie had last been seen by her roommate, Sarah.

“Was she alone?”

“Didn’t tell us who she was meeting up with. Frankly, we really don’t know any of her friends other than Natalie. Don’t even know if she’d been dating. If she was, he’s not come to our house,” he said. “Last week she just went out on the town like she’s done a million times. Never came home. Didn’t alarm us too much at first. She’s done that a whole bunch. That’s one of the reasons she moved out a while back. So this time we tried to be more open-minded and not jump to conclusions. Sad irony. I wonder if we’d acted faster, if there would have been any way to stop her from being…you know.”

“I can’t imagine how difficult a time this is for you and your wife. Blaming yourself, though, won’t help. Someone took Jade’s life. They are to blame. They will be punished.”

Bucky nodded, closed his eyes for a second, and released a breath. “Thank you.” He looked to his left. “Can I go now?”

Helmet Hair opened his arms and mouth, glancing at me then back to Bucky. “Your vitals are looking better. Technically, I can’t stop you from not going to the hospital. But I think you should.”

“It’s late. Let’s call it a day and all go get some sleep,” Bucky said, swinging his legs over the side of the gurney.

The paramedics removed the IV and unhooked every other tube and wire connected to

Bucky.

“Would you mind if we dropped by tomorrow?” I asked. “We’d like to look through Jade’s room, try to find something that will give us an idea of what she did in her spare time, who she hung out with.”

Bucky glanced over his shoulder at Alisa. “It might be too soon for Carol.”

Alisa raised a conciliatory arm. “I’ve got plenty to do with my day job. No worries. Booker can handle it.”

I whispered to her, “Thanks.”

Bucky buttoned his shirt while the paramedics packed up their equipment.

I heard a couple of mugs clink together behind me. “Finally closing up shop,” Justin said.

“Got a long day ahead tomorrow. I’ll be up bright and early prepping the food truck for a midday event they’re holding up at Reverchon Park. So, Alisa, Dax will be working the bar tomorrow.”

“Great,” she said, with nothing behind it.

I watched Alisa approach Bucky, whisper something to him, then give him a hug.

Everyone walked toward the front door, and I sidled up to Bucky. “I’ll have more questions tomorrow. But one more quick thing. Did Jade hold down a day job? She still working at the same coffee shop?”

“Hell no. Quit that a while ago. She got the same itch Natalie had. No offense,” he said, glancing at my partner. “Jade has…had this vivacious look about her. Someone finally saw in her what her mother and I have seen since the day she was born. In the last few months, she’d been working for a modeling agency. Nothing too big time yet, but she did get a part in a Dairy Queen commercial.”

“Which agency?” Alisa asked, stopping in her tracks.

“Uh…begins with a P. Picture something or other.”

“Picture Perfect Images?” I asked.

“That’s the one. You’ve heard of it?”

It felt like a cold, wet rag had touched the back of my neck. “Yes.”

I locked eyes with Alisa. “We’re making a visit to the PPI offices tomorrow.”

“Damn straight we are.”

6

She brought a trembling hand to her mouth, felt warm air leaving her lungs. She was still alive.

For now.

Touching the chilled, metal edging of the foldout cot under her back, a gagging odor

infiltrated her senses. She scrunched her face. It smelled like she was lounging in a litter box used by nine cats, and it hadn’t been scooped in a month.

Nothing like urine being shoved up her nose.

Wait. A sudden, jolting memory of feeling watched, someone standing over her. No

movement, just a presence. She had started rocking back and forth, her head feeling like it would explode into a million pieces, sweat pouring out of every pore in her body. Images floated across her cot—ghostly, transparent figures with mutant features, like she was trapped in some type of Jack Kilborn horror novel.

Her mind had known it was all a hoax, but she couldn’t help but swipe at the imaginary figures. Self-control was as elusive as a grease-covered pig as she swatted and lunged at flies as big as basketballs and a pink serpent that coiled into a snail.

Was any of that real?

She’d felt something bump her lips and nose. And then that high-octane pee scent. Could it have been ammonia? She’d smelled this crap before during her stay in Hotel Hell. Each time, she’d awakened, her heart motoring so fast she thought it might lift her off the floor.

“Fuck,” she said out loud, trying to raise her body. Restraints kept her tied to the cot.

No one responded, so she assumed she was all alone in her pitch-dark room.

She twisted her neck and tried to catch a glimpse over her shoulder. Couldn’t see a damn thing. Her mind cleared a bit, and she heard a familiar hum. It wasn’t an air conditioner or a fan.

She searched for a match, her brain sharpening its focus. She let the noise saturate her senses, feeling what it was like to truly be blind. She snapped her fingers. It was power lines. Not sure she could do much with the information, since she was cut off from the free world. But she felt a dose of satisfaction, a smidge of hope that her brain had figured something out.

Just as quickly, she felt a crack in her shot of confidence, realizing her crazy mind had been able to fool her so many times before. She’d always figured out a way to get out of so many predicaments, lived to fight another day. But not this last one. Her manipulative charm had failed her. Big time.

Licking her lips, her throat felt razor sharp. She couldn’t recall her last drink of water. With the sweat now cold, her face felt like a cracked sidewalk. She was only nineteen, but her inner core had been sapped, worn well beyond its years.

She hadn’t seen a mirror since she was getting ready for her last jet-setting trip. Clumps of matted hair draped across her chest, reaching the tips of her fingers. The strands felt like day- old spaghetti. She was certain her signature golden locks with hints of brown sugar weren’t suitable for anything more than a haggard, old mop. As her old pals from Nacogdoches might say, “Girl, you look tore up.”

She took in a shaky breath, thought about how she got here, her pulse peppering the side of her sticky neck. She couldn’t undo the whole journey, but fuck it, why didn’t she listen to that voice in the back of her mind before she took off in the Learjet 35 headed to the East Coast?

With nothing left of her vanity and no self-inflicted distractions to avoid facing reality, she knew why—because she was being flown up in a Learjet 35 to see a powerful man. She’d always had a weak spot for luxury, even if a round, ugly man with a foamy mouth had paid for it.

Which meant there had been expectations. She knew it, but at the time, she refused to listen to that meek existence of the true Natalie…again.

She took in a breath, hearing herself sniffle. Tears had been shed since she started this journey when she dropped out of high school, but usually they were contrived or in response to smearing her nail polish, running out of eye makeup, not having just the right dress for a certain event. As she thought about it now, they were only life’s minor inconveniences. Even when asked to do things she didn’t want to do, her mind created a nice little sock drawer to cram those thoughts and memories into. She’d turned into a professional in so many ways, although she still couldn’t use the real term. Her self-esteem might only be about two inches high, but it was still existent.

When she was young, maybe five or six years old, her daddy had once played her a song, something about “happiness is Lubbock, Texas, in the rearview mirror.” He’d chuckle, recall when he was younger, spending countless days working in the searing heat, building oil rig platforms on the flat, dried-up creek bed known as west Texas. He’d moved east, attended Stephen F. Austin State University, and fell in love with the Piney Woods and rolling hills of East Texas.

But that was Natalie’s dad.

All she’d known since she could remember was the feeling of suffocation, from the sky-high trees to what she saw as closed minds, no one willing or capable of thinking big, of making more of themselves and their hick-ass existence. Even at age six, hearing that song her daddy played might have been when the seed was planted, the idea of leaving that dreary, slow-minded, backwoods existence of Nacogdoches in her own rearview mirror.

She’d always been enamored with sparkling lights. The mere thought gave her goose bumps, infused her with…hope. She’d never felt comfortable in darkness—her current situation a perfect example. Almost every hour of the last several days had been spent in total darkness. She’d experienced things she couldn’t bear to replay in her mind. In darkness.

But in some respects, this darkness had served as a cloak. What she couldn’t see couldn’t hurt her, right? Not always, apparently.

Glitz and glamour had driven every one of her thoughts and goals, the lights of the big city permeating her core while caking on layer upon layer of her fake, self-serving way of life.

If…no, dammit, when she got out of this hell hole, she would develop her inner self, show compassion and interest in other people, what they were feeling. She would reach out to old friends and make sure she didn’t put others down just to give herself a false sense of self-worth.

She would read more—poetry, romance, women’s fiction, even a cozy mystery. She’d always had an inkling to write. Maybe she would finally have the courage to follow through to put words on paper.

She swallowed back a ripple of emotion, accepting that she missed her mom and dad, even that flawed hometown of hers. She’d once described it to her uppity Dallas friends as

“Naconowhere filled with Naconobodies.” What she wouldn’t give right now to hang out at the drive-in theatre, all the young people sitting in lawn chairs in the back of pickup trucks. Many folks tipping back bottles of cheap beer, even a few under age. It was a simple life, one that she’d never appreciated.

But that would change. All she wanted was a second chance at living the life she was meant to live.

A sound, like someone smacking sticky, gooey lips. Her neck grew stiff, her ears on high alert. Wasn’t she alone? What kind of animal would release that type of noise?

An image shot through her fuzzy mind, and she felt her pulse take off, but this sprint wasn’t drug induced.

“Oh God,” she said as water filled her eyes. Breathing became sporadic as still pictures fused together like metal being soldered, burning a hole through her cloudy mind, coming into full focus.

Her body had been violated again and again, in ways she would have never fathomed. Rape doesn’t even begin to describe the torture. They’d tried to suck every ounce of self-worth from her body, where she would completely succumb to their every order and desire.

But she knew they could do so much more. Threats of not surrendering her mind and body would lead to further torture. Or, they said she could have another life in a foreign land—of their choosing—as nothing more than a slave.

Gripping both fists while she gritted her teeth, she knew she had to stay strong. She couldn’t give up. She couldn’t give in.

Then she heard a slithering hiss, and her chest exploded.

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John W. Mefford Bibliography

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Excerpt from BOOKER – Blood Ring (Volume 4)

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