Booker--Blood Ring (Volume 4) by John W. Mefford

Author:John W. Mefford
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: detective murder, mystery thriller suspense, mystery and detective, mystery private detective, mystery and crime, mystery action suspense thriller, detective mystery series, mystery detective thriller, detective and mystery stories, mystery action thriller
Publisher: John W. Mefford

14

A jet engine screamed overhead as Alisa and I trudged along in my Silver Streak, moving at a brisk pace of about five miles per hour.

“Damn, that seems awfully low. Sure that’s not going to crash before it reaches the airport?” She coiled her neck as she watched the blue and red jet fade into the haze of the low sun, a thin film of orange smog lining the horizon.

“Not so far,” I said, catching a flying earbud in my right hand, slightly annoyed Alisa had forgotten we were essentially chained together.

We’d been sharing a pair of earbuds since we pulled out of Alisa’s apartment complex thirty minutes earlier. The other end was plugged into my phone sitting in the cup holder between us. We were listening to music, a soothing soprano sax that could have put me to sleep if I wasn’t so irritated by being placed on hold for almost ten minutes.

“Did Zahi’s admin forget we’re on the line?”

“She did the exact same thing when I called the other day to try to locate her boss,” Alisa said, scrunching her eyes from the piercing sun. She flipped down the visor, but realized she wasn’t quite tall enough to gain the benefit. She cupped her hand under a flock of hair and turned to face me, still squinting from the unrelenting rays.

A tow truck plowed into our lane, nearly clipping the Saab’s front left panel.

I punched the horn. “Asshole.”

“You sure you’re on mute?” Alisa asked, her hand still shading her eyes.

Raising an eyebrow, I pressed the button on the cord dangling in front of my chest.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Frickin’ Dallas traffic. Can’t get anywhere fast, at least not during drive time.”

Chewing the inside of my cheek, for the first time in a while, I thought about the luxury of being a cop, flipping on the lights and sirens, and watching the cars part like the Red Sea. The smooth jazz music playing in my ear helped calm my nerves.

“How long until our flight takes off?” I asked as we drove by the old site of Texas Stadium, the former home of the Cowboys and now just an empty swath of dirt surrounded by intersecting highways. We were headed west on Highway 114, the Bush Turnpike off in the distance.

“It takes off in ninety minutes. But you know what they say about getting through security.”

Alisa had booked the last flight of the evening, a straight shot from DFW International Airport to Miami, to confront Benjamin Luna. She’d insisted on going, even though we considered splitting up, her taking the lead with Zahi while I dealt with the man who’d been characterized as obsessed with Natalie. How far did he take it with her? We knew he’d called her twenty-seven times since the Miami shoot. I didn’t trust a phone call or Skype or any other method of digital communication with Luna. I didn’t know him, so I didn’t trust him. I had to meet him face-to-face to get a better feel for what he was all about.

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