Dead Beat (Flynt and Steele Mystery Book 1)

by Micheal Maxwell

  As he scoured the room, he caught sight of something he heard about but hadn’t yet seen: a sloppy detective named Flynt. Good lord, what in the name of law and order is that? Noah wondered.

  Noah Steele wasn’t one to judge by appearances alone, but Flynt was a human blemish. His puggish face was scrunched up like the Notre Dame Leprechaun and…that hair. That haystack of hair. What was he doing? The man’s attention was wholly fixated on the donut that he was holding up to the light. Meticulously, one-by-one, he was picking off the rainbow sprinkles and placing them on a napkin in his lap. Give the guy a magnifying glass and he could be the Baker Street Detective. Though, the icing on his pudgy fingertips would sort of screw it up.

  Noah couldn’t look away. He was both fascinated and concerned that he might be the only one in the room that could see this guy. How was no one else paying any attention to the sprinkle Muppet? Noah’s detail-oriented mind was about to lock in on, ‘what is he going to do with those sprinkles?’ Then the answer presented itself. The cartoonish, fuzzy cop lifted the napkin and poured the sprinkles into his mouth.

  Next, the strange little man went over to the coffee machine and poured himself half a cup of the two hour-old brew. The other half of the cup was promptly filled with six packets of creamer and three packets of raw sugar. Noah was a veteran; the dead bodies of good people and the butchered bad were a nearly daily occurrence, but the sight of this furry creature drinking his muddy mix completely grossed him out.

  Noah looked away. He hated to judge people in such a way but…there were limits.

  “Steele,” the Chief of Police sidled up to him and gave his usual firm handshake. “What do you think of your new home?”

  “I think I haven’t been invited in yet.”

  “You will be,” the Chief said. He inhaled sharply and nodded towards the man in the Captain’s uniform at the head of the room, and spoke under his breath. “Weidman has been holding this precinct together with rookies and rubber bands. Believe me, he’ll be happy to meet you.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  The Chief nodded. “Just the perfect storm: retirements, health issues, and now death. He’s got the right number of bodies, but the wrong amount of experience. The old-timers have been checking out before the young ’ns can get their training wheels off.”

  Before Noah could respond, Captain Weidman took the front of the room and began his briefing.

  * * *

  Flynt loved saving the blue sprinkles for last. Once the others were removed, the donut looked like it was dressed specifically for cops. He once proudly shared this aesthetic masterpiece with Bill. He either got a real kick out of it or did a great job pretending to.

  He briefly glanced around the room and surmised that there were another two minutes to complete his breakfast ritual before the briefing began. Bill wasn’t in yet, but the chief was. That was both strange and curious.

  When the last green sprinkle found its way into his napkin, Flynt took a moment to appreciate his Thin Blue Line donut, tilting it to the light. The final phase of operation sprinkle began. It wasn’t his cleanest work. Without Bill there to protect him from judging eyes and mean comments, Flynt felt too uncomfortable to achieve perfection.

  Speaking of uncomfortable, who was the secret agent staring at him from the back of the room? He was used to being watched by people—what was so perplexing about him, he did not know—but this guy was locked on him like a heat-seeking missile.

  Like any animal of prey near the bottom of the food chain, Flynt’s peripheral vision was good enough to assess the hawk-like man without looking straight at him. He pretended to focus on the donut operation while he took in the mysterious man’s appearance. His jawline was so straight it could be called geometric. There was an old scar cutting through his left eyebrow. The way the guy was dressed made Flynt think that the wound might have been sustained while he was dodging a spray of bullets in Matrix-like combat.

  Worst of all, he would not stop staring. Flynt could feel the guy’s eyes on him like some sort of heat—the muggy kind that always made him sweat first thing on a summer morning. Not until the Chief stepped up and pulled the secret agent’s attention toward some other matter. In this reprieve from scrutiny, Flynt tried to soothe himself by downing his collection of sprinkles, but it just didn’t have the same effect it usually did. Something was just off about today, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.

  “Good morning,” Captain Weidman said. Flynt tuned out the rest, opting to savor his sweet coffee concoction instead. The Captain said something about dark days and invited the Chief to speak. Everyone stood out of respect, and Flynt followed suit out of reflex. When everyone sat, Flynt followed that motion as well. He didn’t tune in to the speech until his partner’s name was mentioned.

  By then, the Chief was saying, “…He was with his wife at the time, who was rushing him to the hospital.” The Chief made deliberate eye contact with every officer in the room. “Just over an hour ago, despite the doctors doing their very best, Detective Lieutenant William Barrows left us. He will be greatly missed.”

  It felt like the anxious moment when a joke is told but no one has yet figured out the punchline. Flynt was always last to laugh, and when he did he was usually just playing along. This time, no one seemed to get the joke, though. This was it…his chance to finally be the first one to get the joke.

  “Hah!” he called out. But no one joined him.

  A different one of those moments occurred, the opposite of what he intended. The entire squad room turned and silently stared him down. He’d never seen a stare of such hatred and rage. He could feel it coming off of them the same he felt the stare of the special agent a few moments ago. This stare was brutal. It was even worse than the time he sneezed his donut sprinkles onto the officer in front of him and got a tongue lashing.

  They were looking at him like he was a monster. Those looks told him all he needed to know. He cleared his voice before asking: “Not a joke?”

  At the Chief’s side, Captain Weidman shook his head. For once it wasn’t a look of disappointment, but a solemn, earnest answer, condolence. As the wave of truth washed over him, Flynt wasn’t sure if he should stand and leave the room or sink lower into his seat. Flustered and confused, he repeatedly alternated between starting both options but eventually settled into his seat. He gave a backhanded wave, silently pleading for the other cops to turn back around, and for the Chief to continue speaking. For once, they respected his wishes.

  Flynt sat with his mouth open, struggling for his next breath. The room seemed to swirl around him, the hushed voices of the department reacting with shock as they talked among themselves.

  “This is a fresh wound for the department,” the Chief said. “We don’t have a time or date for a memorial service. Mrs. Barrow has expressed potential interest in a private, quiet ceremony. I will keep you updated. Now we’ll take a moment of silence.”

  The room obliged, and the quiet was only broken by a meek sniffle from Flynt. The Chief brought the moment to a close-by calling the Watch Commander to the front, who took the reins of the briefing.

  “Alright,” he said. “We all want to process what happened, but now is not the time. We’re here to protect and serve, not mourn and reflect. Remember that today. The best way to honor Barrow is to get out there, nab the bad guys, help the helpless, and go home to our wives and families in one piece.” He gave the men a reaffirming nod as he took a while to regain his own composure. “God bless Bill Barrow.”

  His words were met with a murmur of many amens, and the meeting broke.

  Flynt sat silently. As the room cleared, Comrade realized his life as he knew it was over. He simply wasn’t a detective without Bill at his side. Without Bill, he was dead weight. Now his many inadequacies would be under a spotlight instead of behind a curtain.

  He felt totally alone, and immediately started to struggle to understand the loss of the man that was more of a father than a partner. He thought
of Bill’s wife and the one time he’d been invited over for dinner under the couple’s roof. What would that house be like now? If Flynt felt incomplete at the loss of his partner, what was that poor woman going through?

  Maybe if he’d pushed for Bill to quit smoking, to start going for runs… maybe if Flynt was a better partner, the most experienced detective in the precinct would still be alive. He sat there for a long time, clueless as to where he should go. That direction usually came from Bill.

  So he sat, head in his hands, and waited for someone to tell him what to do. He ran quickly over his experience and skill set. What kind of job could a forty-eight-year-old overweight cop find? A security guard at the mall, Wal-Mart greeter, process server? The more he thought, the deeper into despair he sank. Soon he sat alone in the squad room without even his sprinkles to keep him company.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Chief and Noah Steele waited in the Captain’s office for a formal introduction. Hopefully, after the handshake, the Chief would leave Steele and Captain Weidman to their own business. That was Steele’s hope, anyway. The last thing he needed was to feel as if he were being babysat by the Chief. This was, more or less, a job interview for a job Steele was fairly sure was already his. There was no need for additional oversight from the Chief.

  Steele knew that he wouldn’t be able to prove himself as any more than a political hire, not in this meeting. Any cop that was shoe-horned into a precinct by the Chief of Police would be treated like a teacher’s pet, a spy, or a rookie despite his rank. No, earning the trust and respect of the Captain would be a piecemeal process, likely over the course of several cases being closed.

  The door opened and Captain Weidman entered, only briefly glancing at Steele. Weidman thanked the Chief for speaking with the men, glanced at Noah a second time and then asked: “Who’s your friend?”

  “Actually, Ben, he’s going to be your friend now,” the Chief said. “This is Noah Steele, and I’m transferring him to your precinct.”

  “Really?” The Captain asked. He actually seemed pleased. “Then I’m glad to meet you, Detective. Very glad.”

  As they shook hands, Steele cast a surprised look at the Chief, who smiled back. The smile seemed to say: Told you so.

  “This has been in the works for a long time,” the Chief said. “The loss of Bill just moved things along. I personally picked Detective Steele to join your ranks. I think you will find he has plenty of experience and grit…the stuff you need to begin to rebuild your precinct. I’ve put his personnel file on your desk for review. I think you’ll find that you two are a lot alike. I think he will be a tremendous asset to this community, and the department as a whole.”

  Weidman nodded, glaring at Steele as if he wasn’t too sure about anything the Chief was saying.

  The Chief then turned to Steele, a relieved look on his face. “This day has been a long time coming. It’s your chance to really shine, Steele. I know you won’t let me down.”

  “No, sir,” Steele said. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

  “Well,” the Chief smiled, “I’ll let you two get better acquainted.” He left the office, forming a brief vacuum which Weidman filled quickly.

  He took a seat behind his desk and let out a sigh so heavy it could have probably knocked down a smaller man. “Well, I must say that was a surprise.”

  “It was for me, too,” Steele admitted. “I got a call at about six-thirty telling me to meet the Chief here at eight.”

  “And has the Chief filled you in a bit on the state of this precinct?”

  “He has, but actually, sir, I would prefer to hear your version.”

  Weidman smiled, showing that he appreciated the gesture. “Then here it is. The precinct is old and tired. I have been stuck with people I wouldn’t have hired, or that were transferred here by union rules. We have an opportunity to do something exciting here, Steele. I have the highest respect and trust in the Chief. If he recommends you so highly, you must be the real deal.”

  “The Chief and my father grew up together,” Steele said. “They were friends their whole lives until my Pop died. Chief kind of took me under his wing and set me on the path to becoming a cop.”

  The Captain raised a suspicious eyebrow at what sounded like nepotism.

  “I know what you’re thinking, sir. But, I was on patrol for ten years. The Chief kept me studying and testing until I made detective. He made sure I earned everything I have. I owe him a lot.” Steele cleared his throat and injected some sincerity into his voice. “Trust me. If I quit pulling my weight and the Chief found out about it, he’d stop sending paychecks. I don’t plan on disappointing anyone.”

  “Then we’ll get along just fine.” The Captain leaned forward, put his elbows on his desk, and crossed his arms at the wrist. “Look. There is no way to say this nicely. You are going to get stuck with someone I feel is just about the worst excuse for a cop I’ve ever seen. I can’t fire him because of union BS. I don’t think he knows that, so don’t tell him. But what I need from you is a bit of an attitude. I want you to make him so miserable he quits.”

  Steele frowned. “A hatchet man?”

  “Well, no. You could let him screw up big enough that the union lets us can him.”

  “I’m not sure I like that sir, if I may be frank.”

  The good nature in Weidman’s gaze disappeared, replaced by something that looked like angry granite. “A little early to be swimming upstream, isn’t it son?”

  “Just being honest, sir.”

  Weidman nodded in either approval or understanding. Noah couldn’t tell which.

  “Look,” Weidman said. “If he drives you half as crazy as everybody else, you’ll likely volunteer to shoot him.” Weidman laughed at his own comment, a shrewd sort of coughing noise. “Don’t do anything you’re uncomfortable with. Do your job, do it well, and the rest will sort itself out.”

  “Alright, you’re the boss.” Steele shrugged, a perfect gesture for how he felt about the task.

  “That’s what they tell me.” Weidman picked up the phone and pressed two buttons. After a pause, he spoke to someone on the other end. “Please have someone find Flynt and send him in.”

  * * *

  “Flynt, Captain wants you in his office, pronto.”

  Flynt looked up to see who was speaking but the uniformed officer didn’t bother to wait for a response.

  Comrade Flynt stood, wiped at the front of his pants, and exited his little cubicle. He made his way towards the front office, wondering what the Captain might want with him. Maybe to fill him in on details of his partner’s untimely death. Still, he was a little frightened. It felt like he was going uphill. Dumbbells made of pure dread were tied to his ankles.

  He softly knocked on the Captain’s door when he reached it. His two dull taps on the open door were met with, “Come in.”

  Flynt entered the office and nodded to the Captain. The guy in the suit stood across the room, his arms folded. He was neither welcoming nor dismissive. He made Flynt think of the Men in Black. He was a little taller than average, and medium build, a little on the thin side. There was a strong and inquisitive look in his eyes that Flynt found unsettling. All he could think when looking at him (as with doing most things) was, what did I screw up now? And how bad?

  Was this guy from Internal Affairs?

  “Sit down,” Weidman ordered. “This is Lieutenant Noah Steele,” the Captain said. “But, starting today he’s your new partner.”

  The Captain kept talking—something about difficult times—while Flynt’s thoughts pulled him into his own skull. He pictured this young, fit, scar-faced man screaming at him for one of his million inadequacies. He imagined his new partner losing control and punching him in the gut out of sheer disappointment. He looked strong enough to cause serious damage with just one jab. A ruptured spleen, maybe. It wasn’t impossible to think this man might be capable of breaking through a breastplate to clutch someone’s heart and tear it out.

  �
�Flynt?” The Captain asked, speech concluded, apparently.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You can either take a few days off to get your thoughts sorted out, or stay here and focus on the job. You can’t do both. We have a homicide that needs solving. Is there going to be a problem getting the job done?”

  “No—no problem sir. I’m just still in a bit of shock.” He wondered how many of the other cops would be encouraged, if not required to take time off after losing their partners. He figured this was one of many ways the Captain chose to try to break him.

  “Are you two going to shake hands or what?” The Captain sneered.

  They did, but not a single word was spoken. Flynt employed a trick similar to Bill’s corpse trick, looking towards Steele, but not into the man’s eyes. The man’s grip was like trying to grab the side of a mountain.

  “Good work, that’s step one,” Weidman said. “Step two is to figure out who killed that drummer. So get to it, yeah?”

  Flynt nodded, awkwardly stepping around Steele to get to the door. Opening it, he took a few steps and waited for Steele. He came out directly behind Flynt, his step as steady and as sure as the blank expression on his face.

  “Good to meet you,” Flynt said, trying to break the ice.

  “Likewise, surely,” Steele said. “So, what do we know about this homicide? What can you tell me?”

  “Can I fill you in on the way to the car?”

  “You want to get started right now?” Steele asked. He seemed surprised.

  “Might as well. It’s what the Captain is expecting, right?”

  Steele nodded, and the new partners made their way to the front of the building and the parking lot beyond.

  Flynt took Steele through the details on the way to the parking lot. There weren’t many to share unless he wanted to describe his unremarkable bus ride from the previous night. Though he enjoyed the slight look of shock on Steele’s face when he described the way the drumsticks were sticking out of the victim’s throat.