BOOKER Box Set #2 (A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense): Volumes 4-6 by John W. Mefford

Author:John W. Mefford [Mefford, John W.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Sugar Hill Publishing
Published: 2016-01-22T05:00:00+00:00

14

The scent of fresh St. Augustine grass clippings hung in the thick, nighttime air. I could hear a hooting owl perched in an overgrown tree off to our right while a muted thumping bass reverberated in my gut.

The odd combination of sensations actually seemed to match the pattern of experiences in Santo Domingo. Eclectic might fit. That’s a term Britney, a would-be interior designer before she escaped and became an international fugitive, might use.

Sean put one earbud in his ear and handed me the other as we sat on a park bench, Club de Python just on the other side of a low bank of white-flowered shrubs across the street. The tablet was hidden behind a newspaper.

“When do I get to listen?”

Bolt leaned over the back in between both of us, a fat purple lip still impeding his ability to speak clearly—not that a fat lip would ever slow down his motor mouth.

“You’ll have your chance once Booker heads into the club,” Sean said.

“You do know that I’m really the best person to go into the club, right?”

Sean and I traded stares.

“You don’t have trust in your little buddy? I’m hurt,” he said with no conviction, his hands covering his heart.

“Trust isn’t the issue, Bolt.”

“I don’t know the drinking age in the Dominican, but I doubt it’s fourteen,” Sean said.

I flicked a ladybug off my knee, feeling the linen texture of the gray pants I wore. At the last minute, Sean and I had decided it would be best if one of us could observe the scene from within the two-story club. As if she expected as much, Britney directed us to a closetful of clothes that fit me perfectly. She said they were for Juan, whenever they stayed closer into town. We seemed to be about the same height and weight, so it made sense. But why did my Britney radar go up?

Over my objection, Britney insisted on handpicking my outfit—the gray linen pants and jacket and a white collared shirt, untucked. She called it classy, understated, while telling everyone who saw me that I was a player and belonged in the trendy club. I considered making a statement and selecting any combination of clothes that she didn’t want, but Sean used a hand signal to get me to back off. It was the right thing to do, given the alcohol buzz she was carrying and the related tension in the air.

We watched the video come alive on the tablet, the camera shaking at the same cadence I could imagine Britney striding across the floor—undoubtedly all eyes peeled to every inch of her skin.

“Looks like she’s turning toward the bar,” Sean said.

Her arms leaned forward, then one waved off to the left.

“You give me a fancy suit, and I’m sure I could pass for an eighteen-year-old. No problemo,” Bolt said.

“First, it would take two Bolts to fill up this suit. Second, you still have a baby face. It would take a complete makeover to turn you into a young man.

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