When he was finished explaining, he asked, “So what do you want to do?”
“I’m the new guy here,” Steele said. “What was your plan for today?”
“Bill normally…”
Flynt lost his words. Steele seemed to show some patience now that death was dragged into the conversation.
“I want to look at the scene,” Steele said. “We’ll check in with the examiner and forensics after I get a feel for things. Did you get a time for the autopsy?”
“No,” Flynt said, rushing an excuse. “The ME said he was really busy and would let us know today.”
In the parking lot, Steele walked directly to a dark blue, unmarked Crown Victoria. “You want to drive?”
“What about mine?” Flynt asked, pointing to his white 1987 Mazda 323.
Steele stopped and glared at Flynt, who immediately felt like he already offended his new partner.
“Let’s stick with the Vic,” Steele said. “You want to drive?”
“Bill always drove. He liked to drive. Let me ask you something. Is it OK for a man to not like to drive?”
Steele looked stunned. “I asked a yes or no question.” He pointed left. “Drive?” He pointed right. “No drive?”
“Would it be ok if I said no?”
“Yes,” Steele said. “Thank you for your cooperation. Which way are we heading?” He still looked perplexed by the awkward exchange they’d just shared as the pair got into the Crown Vic.
“Right,” Flynt said. The car lurched forward and Flynt spoke up. “No! Sorry I didn’t mean go right. I mean, ‘Oh, right. I should figure that out.’ Just give me a second.” He flipped through the pages of a notebook and started typing an address into his phone. He didn’t dare look up at his new partner.
“There we go,” Flynt said, letting the GPS on his phone speak.
“Turn right, big boy,” a sultry woman’s voice purred, seductive and hyper-sexual.
“What the hell is that?” Steele asked.
“That’s Mindy.”
“Please tell me you didn’t download a porn star into your GPS.”
“Of course not. She’s audio-only. Visuals would be distracting and dangerous. Eyes on the road.”
“Yeah,” Steele said. “Safety first.”
Flynt could not decide if the expression on his face was one of irritation or confusion. Sure, he knew neither would be a good way to start their partnership, but at least they made it out of the parking lot.
CHAPTER FIVE
Steele pulled out onto the street and spent a couple of minutes trying to figure out where to even begin asking questions. Like it or not, this was his partner, and they were going to have to get to know each other.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” Steele asked.
“Sure. I’m an open book,” Flynt said with a smile, which he quickly lost.
“Is Comrade your birth name?”
“Yeah, I always get grief for it. My mom was what you might call a professional protester, a revolutionary Marxist, and a Che Guevara fan. So, I guess she thought that Comrade covered all the bases. Thank God, I could have been Che. Can you imagine that with this head of red hair?”
“Yeah, that would have been rough.”
“Got any kids?” Flynt asked.
“No.”
“Wife? Or husband…either way’s okay with me.”
“Wife,” Steele said. Thirty seconds passed before he asked: “You?”
“Had one, but a few years ago she ran off with the H&R Block guy that did our taxes.”
“Did that make the divorce lawyer a tax write off?” Steele grinned, then grinned even wider when he saw that the joke hit home. Flynt’s laugh closely resembled hyperventilation, but there was a sort of playfulness and charm to it that Steele really needed this morning.
Steele wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or concerned, considering what Flynt seemed to be struggling with. Ineptitude aside, if the guy really was in mourning for his fallen partner, he was doing a great job hiding it. Maybe he and Bill Barrow weren’t that close. That wouldn’t justify being happy over the man’s death, but it might make it easier for Flynt to sideline his feelings during the investigation.
Those were the two options. Either Flynt possessed a strong distaste for Detective Barrow, or somewhere deep down he had guts of iron. Steele cast another glance at his partner and decided that, if anything, the guy was iron deficient.
* * *
One of Flynt’s greatest assets was his ability to make crying look like laughing, and vice versa. He was never sure why his adoptive parents used to hate on him when he showed signs of sorrow. Maybe they thought he hadn’t earned the right to mourn a loss that was his fault, or maybe it was a reminder to him how terribly harsh their ‘parenting style’ was.
Flynt didn’t need to know the reason. All he knew was showing emotional weakness around his broken family usually opened him up for attack, verbal or worse.
He’d relied on that asset following Steele’s joke about the tax write-off. In all honesty, Flynt tried to find humor in the situation numerous times. For a while, he claimed the year his wife left him for the H&R Block guy, he’d been screwed over by the government twice that year. But the joke brought more pity from others than anything else, so he eventually just dropped it.
The rest of the ride to the crime scene was a quiet one, save the provocative driving instructions coming from the Mindy app. Flynt would have kept the conversation going, but there was a lot of thinking to do. Constantly batting away images of Bill, he struggled to figure out what information he needed to offer Noah Steele once they arrived on the scene.
Presumably, they were heading there so Flynt could give a walkthrough. As of now, all there was to offer was pointing out the sights of his town.
He would have to wing it. Without the pressure of the other cops around, Flynt had a decent eye for detail and a brain for deductive reasoning. It was usually just buried under the weight of what people thought of him, and what they expected of him. Which, to be honest, wasn’t much.
Hopefully, the energy from the sprinkles and coffee would help him stay one step ahead.
Mindy guided them to a sexy stop at U-Store Secure Storage. It looked familiar, but in the way, Flynt would sometimes catch glimpses of a dream during the day. To think this was the last place he saw Bill alive was surreal. They got out of the car and Flynt waited for Steele to lead them to the scene.
“Well?” Steele asked.
“Oh,” Flynt said, realizing he has a measure of authority on the scene now. “This way.”
They stepped into the front office and rang the bell at the front desk. A woman that clearly hated her job emerged, and her eyes brightened at the promise of excitement when Flynt and Steele flashed their badges. Flynt glanced at her name tag.
“Hey, Mary. This is my new partner, Detective Steele. I was wondering if you managed to pull up the information I was asking about earlier this morning.”
“What information?”
“The stuff we talked about, names, numbers, and addresses of everyone leasing units near the scene of the crime. Remember?” He looked at her with pleading eyes. She didn’t seem to take his meaning.
“My shift just started,” she explained.
“Oh, must have been the person before you.”
“You mean John?” she asked. Then as if it needed to be added, said: “He’s a man.”
“I guess I was tired. Would you mind gathering that info while we go check out the scene?”
“Sure,” Mary said in a huff.
Flynt thanked her and got out of the office before she could incriminate him any further. They walked to the unit and found it taped off with an officer standing watch. Flynt meekly nodded hello to the officer as he and Steele ducked under the tape. As they then entered the unit Flynt was feeling rather proud to be taking the lead.
“Body was over there.” Flynt pointed to the back of the space. “And, uh, as you can see, th
e place is in pretty good shape. So the victim and the killer probably didn’t fight or anything.”
“Border Bigots?” Steele asked, eyeing the words on the drum kit. “What kind of band name is that?”
“An angry one, I guess? They’re a punk band.”
“Remember when ‘punk’ was an insult?” Steele asked.
“I thought it still was.” Flynt scratched his head.
“Who found the body?”
“We don’t know yet. Maybe just the killer.”
“So, no 9-1-1?”
“No, just the alarm. Then the good ol’ cavalry came in.”
“Alright,” Steele studied the place. “Has forensics gotten anything good off of those security cameras?”
“What security—” Flynt coughed. “Yeah, I mean. Yeah, they’re looking through it. Hoping to find some really good stuff.”
Steele pulled out his phone and opened his notebook app. “Let me just take down everything you have now. Our VIC had his wallet and I.D. on him, I assume?”
Flynt squinted, searching for the right answer or, rather, the right guess. “Yes…”
“Good. Let me get his name and address off of you, plus anything interesting on his criminal record. I’ll take the time of death and when the alarm was triggered while you’re at it.”
Steele stood there, ready to type.
“I’ve got all of that right here.” Flynt held up his unicorn notebook. He started backing away. “But, unfortunately…”
Think of an excuse to leave. Come on, come on. Think Comrade.
“I have a bathroom emergency,” he said.
“A what?”
“Bathroom emergency. Irritable bowel syndrome. Just hang out and search for clues. I’ll be back in a minute.”
As Steele watched his new partner dash for the bathroom he brushed against a stand with a cymbal on it, nearly knocking it down. He let out a yelp as he made his exit.
The officer on watch peered inside and said, “He does that a lot.”
Flynt sprinted toward the front office as fast as his short legs could carry him. In a state of not quite panic, he pushed on the pull door, then pulled, then flew inside, panting.
“Mary, two questions. Do you have security footage from the last night, and where’s your bathroom?”
She pointed, to the door labeled “restroom” four feet to Comrade’s left.
“I’m sure I can pull up the footage if you—”
“Thank you, Mary, that would be wonderful.”
He pulled the restroom’s push door, reversed the action, and quickly piled into one of the stalls, trying to figure out which department he should call first. He felt foolish, but he felt there was an opportunity here with Steele. He could finally redirect the course of his career, and not be the butt of jokes anymore. He just needed to get this right.
It was hard to take himself seriously, however, when he was sitting on a toilet whispering into his phone as dispatch picked up the other line. “Dispatch,” a familiar female voice said.
“This is Detective Flynt. Could you transfer me to forensics please?”
* * *
Any kind of delay during a homicide investigation made Steele’s gears grind. From the moment blood is shed, a stopwatch starts ticking. The first forty-eight hours of the hunt were crucial. After that, their chances of finding the perpetrator plummeted.
He wished his hairy partner would have just handed over his weird little horse notebook before scampering off to the bathroom. What was with that book, anyway? He tried not to think about it, and instead spent some time taking in the scene.
There wasn’t much to it. No signs of struggle other than the gear that Flynt nearly knocked over. Based on what he heard about the victim’s position, it was all but certain that he knew his killer. At the very least, he wasn’t threatened by him. Otherwise, there would have been signs of a struggle.
Steele took notice of the ancient security system on the door. The bolts that held the sensor in place were rusted. It was a miracle the thing was triggered at all.
As he studied the bolts, Steele remembered he was given the Medical Examiner’s number. It couldn’t hurt to call ahead, introduce himself, and get the information that was supposedly written in Flynt’s notebook.
He pulled up the number and placed the call. It was answered in two rings by a man with a very baritone voice.
“Doctor Sankaran speaking.”
“This is Lieutenant Noah Steele; I’m new to the precinct and have been put on this storage unit case with the drummer. You got a minute?”
“Of course. You’re The Leprechaun’s new partner, correct?”
“The what?”
“Leprechaun. It’s a name we use for Comrade Flynt.”
Poor guy, Steele thought. “Yeah, that would be me,” he said.
“I suppose you’re somewhat of a victim as well, then.”
Steele groaned, already fed up with the way Flynt was repeatedly bashed by just about everyone. Still, he decided to take the path of loyalty. “Flynt’s been alright so far. I just wanted to make sure you have my number. I also wanted to get a time of death off of you while we’re at it.”
“Aren’t you with Detective Flynt?”
“Yeah, why?”
“He called about a minute ago asking for that same information.”
Noah’s partner-loyal talk almost broke right there, but he held true. “Great minds think alike, I guess. Did something go wrong last night? Any reason you couldn’t give him the T.O.D. then?”
“Certainly. I couldn’t tell him because he wasn’t there. He left the scene early.”
“Did he give you a good reason for this?”
Sankaran sighed. “He only said that Detective Barrow gave the order. If I can be bold, I don’t think that’s true.”
“No. Neither do I. So what’s the magic number?”
“Between 10:30 and 11:30,” Sankaran said.
“How about a positive ID?”
“Fingerprints confirmed. The victim was one Mark Thomas Reagan.”
“Thank you, Doctor. And… I know this isn’t your department, but I’m not sure I’m going to get anything better from my partner. You don’t have the criminal record or address, do you?”
“Sorry. You’ll have to talk to records and evidence on that one.”
“Thought so. And when will the autopsy be conducted? I’d like to attend.”
“Four o’clock, or whatever o’clock you prefer.”
Steele checked his watch. “Four is great. We’ll be there.”
“We?” Sankaran asked in amazement.
“Yeah, Sergeant Flynt and I.”
The medical examiner laughed joyfully. “You are new. Flynt won’t set foot in the morgue!”
As Steele listened, he noticed his partner peeking into the storage unit, not fully returning, but leaning around the corner like a child that knows they’re about to be scolded.
“We will be at the autopsy at four,” Steele pronounced sternly, more to his partner than the Doctor.
“I think you and I will work well together, Detective. Thank you. I look forward to meeting you.” With that, Sankaran rang off.
Before the line even went dead, Flynt launched his argument.
“Bill always went to the autopsy, he’s better at those, but then I take notes after. I never…” Flynt stammered.
Steele noticed the young patrolman outside rolling his eyes and crossing his arms.
“I don’t think you need to be reminded of this,” Steele said, “but here it is. Bill is no longer your partner. I am. That means you have to attend the autopsy. It’s part of your job as a homicide detective.”
Flynt clutched his unicorn notebook close to his chest. He cleared his throat and cordially said: “Great, so… four o’clock then?”
“Yes.”
“Super.” Flynt quickly launched into sharing all of the information he just dug up. Hopefully, the info would help to appease his partner’s g
rowing rage. He offered up the victim’s name and address, and the exact time that the alarm was triggered.
“Well, that confirms it,” Steele said. “Whoever broke in didn’t kill him.” He was starting to calm down a little now. When Flynt wasn’t a clumsy stammering mess, he could be useful. “Unless they killed him and returned to the scene for no reason. What about the security footage?”
“Right. The cameras pointed at the individual units are all fakes for a deterrent, but we have some good shots of the kids that triggered the alarm from when they hopped the wall over there.” He pulled out his phone and pulled out zoomed-in photos of the little thieves. “Forensics just sent this over. No I.D. yet.”
Steele scrutinized the picture. It was quite clear that the pictures were taken directly from a screen or monitor of some kind. Steele figured Flynt just snapped it in the front office. This irritated him because he was essentially being lied to but that was not the hot topic right now. He’d let it slide. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. In the end, Flynt got what they needed.
“ID on a couple of kids is a tall order.” Steele let out a sigh. “We should get moving, start at the VIC’s house and go from there.”
Steele watched Flynt’s reaction to this. If the guy was skittish about going into morgues, he was likely not a fan of notifying the next of kin of a loved one’s death, either. Flynt’s face remained mostly expressionless. Steele almost felt sorry for the guy.
As they walked to the car, thoughts of the coming conversation sank in. Before he could latch on too much, Flynt broke his train of thought.
“Hey, Steele?”
“Yeah?”
“Since we have a positive ID, maybe we could start calling him Mark, or maybe Reagan. Instead of VIC, I mean.”
“Thoughtful,” Steele muttered. He mulled it over and nodded. “Alright, Mark it is.”
Mindy made the ride to Reagan’s house extremely uncomfortable by addressing Detective Steele as “hot stuff,” “stud,” and “love muffin.” Every time she gave Steele a direction, Flynt glanced over to look for a reaction. Steele never let him have one, though his knuckles were turning a little white as they clutched the steering wheel.
Dead Beat (Flynt and Steele Mystery Book 1) Page 3