Dead Beat (Flynt and Steele Mystery Book 1)

by Micheal Maxwell

  Steele found a couple of files in the bottom drawer. One housed a tattered copy of International Living. Steele smiled when he read the headline on the cover: Live in a Tropical Paradise on $1,500 a Month. He dropped it in the trashcan next to the desk. A single sheet of paper was in the other drawer. He slowly read the handwritten words. It was a draft of a resignation letter. It soon joined the magazine in the wastebasket. The thin top drawer contained the usual collection of office supplies.

  Steele pulled out the desk shelf and found just the thing he needed. It was a list of departments, phone numbers, and extensions. Running his finger down the list, Steele saw the number he needed.

  Picking up the phone, Noah hit zero. “Hello, this is Lieutenant Steele; my extension is going to be 436.” He received some brief, confused resistance from the voice on the other end of the line. “No, I won’t be using that office. That’s fine, I’ll let him know.”

  Noah hung up and realized that everyone (now excluding Kerrie and her Zen-like focus) was staring at him. Sanchez spoke up first.

  “Wait. You’re seriously not going to take Bill’s office?”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little soon for that?” Steele responded. “I’d like to be respectful.”

  “No way, man. Have you seen that place? It’s got… walls, and a window. More than any of us desk jockeys have. Seriously, go take a look.”

  “Don’t need to. The way I see it, one of you should get it. You’ve been here longer and you all knew Bill. Just because I’m here to try filling his place doesn’t mean I get to fill his office, too.” It would have been a brilliant political play by anyone else, but Noah actually meant every single word. Taking that office would have felt like grave robbing to him. And Lord only knew how Flynt would take it.

  “The man’s right,” White said. “I should have it.”

  “Shut up, White,” Sanchez said with a grin. The words were harsh, but it was clearly just playful banter.

  Steele sat at his desk, pretending to get organized. In reality, he was waiting for one of them to pop the question. It ended up coming from Donaldson, the larger man that was relatively quiet in the engagement so far.

  “So what’s it like working with The Furball?”

  The rest of the officers looked to Steele for his answer. Now it was time for the politics—not really Steele’s area of expertise, but an area he was decent at manipulating.

  “I thought he was the Leprechaun,” he said. “You guys really gotta pick one nickname and stick with it.”

  “How could we?” Sanchez snapped. “The guy is a smorgasbord.” He then pointed at Donaldson and said: “Add that one to the list!”

  Steele thought it was a joke until Donaldson actually pulled a notepad out of his desk and started writing. “Wow. You guys actually have a list.”

  “Sure we do,” White said. “Read ’em off, Don.”

  “Let’s see,” Donaldson said. “We got Baldy, Leprechaun, Commie, Fidel Castro, Pot’O’Gold, Razor Head, Fuzzy Pug, Sugar Licks, Sugar Pug Ferry, Snip Snip, Lucky Charms, and now Smorgasbord.”

  The boys laughed at their own literary genius. Steele smiled along, deciding how he was going to play this one. After Flynt’s abysmal display of police work, he wanted to kick the guy right out of the station and tell him to never come back. He wanted to take his badge and melt it down. He wanted Sergeant Comrade Flynt to lose his job.

  But, this wasn’t the way. Ripping on his partner with the other guys was a great way to vent, but it accomplished absolutely nothing. It would also make these guys feel that he was already one of them—no better, no worse.

  “He’s not that bad,” Steele said. “Did Bill ever tell you about the work that Flynt does in the field?”

  Most of them shook their heads, partially in solemnity for Bill, partially because they were genuinely confused.

  “It’s the craziest thing. He can just walk into someone’s room and profile them in minutes. In five minutes he figured out everything there was to know about our VIC, right down to his favorite color. You guys never heard any of this?”

  They shook their heads.

  “He’s messin’ with us,” Sanchez said, grinning.

  “Not at all.” Steele shrugged. In actuality, he was messing with himself. Saying anything positive about his partner right now was enough to make his guts grind. “He’s got one hell of a brain between those hairy ears.”

  “Huh.” Sanchez stroked his jaw. “I guess we add brain to the nicknames list?”

  “Nah, we can do better,” Donaldson said.

  “Boy genius?”

  The spitballing went on for another couple minutes before everyone gave up and went back to work. Steele was relatively pleased with how he navigated the conversation. He managed to stump a group of detectives. That had to be worth something.

  * * *

  While Steele was carving out his territory in the precinct, Flynt was hiding in the bathroom stall. He loathed hanging around the station, though the irony of being a cop and being afraid of a police station was not lost on him.

  He wasn’t sobbing or even sniffling. There wasn’t a single tear in his eyes. But the exterior did not match the interior. Flynt was always picked on by people that were bigger than him all his life. Be it his adopted parents, older kids at school, or the cops around the station, everyone always seemed bigger than him.

  This was the first time Flynt was handed his hat by a kid a third his age. Ryan roasted Flynt. The insults cut deeper not only because they came from a kid, but because they were made in front of Noah Steele.

  Flynt did some sketch work in his unicorn notebook while he passed the time. He wondered how much longer he would be able to hold on to his job. The truth wasn’t difficult to figure out. The Captain told Noah to look for a reason to tank him. If crashing and burning during that interview weren’t enough, Steele would certainly have more material by the end of the day. There was more fieldwork to do, not to mention the dreaded autopsy.

  The restroom door swung open and heavy footsteps entered. Flynt stayed quiet and tried to sort out the case. It seemed like the murder was down to Terry or the Juggalos, but Flynt found his mind wandering back to their visit to Julie. What was it about that visit that was causing an itch in his brain? Something about that visit would not let go.

  Both he and Steele agreed that Julie was incapable of committing the crime, based on her reaction. Making a deduction based on a suspect’s response to bad news wasn’t good practice, but the girl had no motive.

  What is it?

  The toilet next to Flynt flushed and the owner of the heavy footfalls exited the room without washing his hands.

  That’s when it hit him. Hygiene. Appearances. Not Julie, but Julie’s mother. Pattie Vernon.

  The woman was so concerned with her self-image that she yanked both cops in off the street before they could introduce themselves. Her teeth absolutely glistened, and her hair was perfect. Was it possible that she knew about Mark’s crush on her daughter, and didn’t like it?

  If Mrs. Vernon was so proactive with image upkeep, was it possible she might do something to make sure her daughter didn’t start dating the wrong guy? Mrs. Vernon was tightly wound, but enough to commit murder? It was a pretty big stretch.

  How could she have known about Mark’s crush? Not even Julie knew. Unless she did know and just didn’t wanted to admit it.

  In another corner of Flynt’s mind, he realized that Pattie was really pretty. She seemed to like him. Was that an act? What if he did have a chance with her? Certainly, any shot he could have with her would be screwed up if he brought her in as a suspect.

  Flynt decided that now was as good a time as any to track down his partner. They would probably be leaving soon, and now there was something to contribute to the investigation.

  Flynt abandoned his stall, washed his hands, and left. The coast was relatively clear. The detectives that usually poked fun at him must have been out on the streets or at their desks
. Before Flynt rounded the corner and headed toward his own desk, he overheard a conversation. It was about him.

  “Not at all,” Steele’s voice said. “He’s got one hell of a brain between those hairy ears.”

  Flynt smiled, but no one saw it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As they drove across town, Flynt was quiet. Steele knew his partner wasn’t exactly talkative, but he was being quieter than Steele was used to. He was looking out the window with a goofy grin across his face. They were without Mindy’s sultry directions, as Flynt was the navigator for this trip. His ‘turn right, turn at the light,’ instructions were subdued, but efficient. Steele was pretty sure there was something on his partner’s mind. Steele left it at that, though; he didn’t want to pry.

  What does a guy like this think about all day?

  The peace and quiet gave Steele a few minutes to reflect on the day: the new case, the detectives he would be working alongside, and the new home where he found himself. The guys seemed a little rough and tumble for his taste, but they were okay. The Captain was certainly not what he expected. He realized that try as he may, he didn’t like the man. There was an underlying current of anger and vengeful hostility in the Captain that seemed to ooze from his pores. Steele felt a sense of distrust for the man he couldn’t seem to shake.

  “Thar she blows!” Flynt announced, breaking the chain of Steele’s thoughts with a really bad pirate impression. The change in demeanor made Steele wonder if his partner was a bona fide schizophrenic. Perhaps it was simpler than that. Maybe the thoughts that were keeping Flynt so quiet pertained exclusively to honing the delivery of his pirate phrase.

  Crazy partner aside, they arrived at their destination. Amazingly, they did so without the help of the porn star GPS. Steele decided to hold that comment back.

  The Burger Island lot was nearly empty. The lunch rush was over and dinner was still a while off. It was better that way. Steele hated fighting the crowd, showing off his badge, and forcing a manager to release an employee during busy hours. Those conversations—the ones where supervisors made dropping fries into oil sound more important than taking a murderer off the street—were nice to skip.

  Inside, the place was a ghost ship. Fortunately, Flynt seemed done with his rowdy sailor routine and said nothing. There was no one in the dining room and no one at the counter. The door chime woke the place up, though, and an employee returned from whatever she was doing in the kitchen.

  A Hispanic girl with thick glasses greeted them. She smiled brightly, but Steele knew she was faking. “Welcome to Burger Island, can I help you?”

  “Can we speak to Tommy Mayhew?” Steele asked.

  The girl looked back to the kitchen area. “I think he’s on break. Check around back. He likes to smoke.”

  Steele glanced at the girl’s nametag. “Thanks, Angie.”

  “Can I get a Diet Coke and small fry?” Flynt asked.

  “Sorry, we don’t do fries.” The girl smiled, just like she was trained to do, then said: “We serve Checkerboard Spuds and Spicy Tater Tots.”

  “Even Better! I’ll have the Tots!” Flynt’s excitement over the switch showed in his voice.

  “Are you serious?” Steele demanded.

  “What?” Flynt asked, confused. “I’m starving. You want something? I’m buying.”

  “No,” Steele said emphatically. “Let’s go.” He started pulling his partner toward the exit, toward their job.

  “But, my spicy tater tots.”

  “They’ll still be spicy later.”

  Before they made it to the door, the girl returned to the counter offering up the food. Flynt broke away from Steele and actually ran to the counter, either eager to eat or worried his partner might chase him. He paid quickly and swept up the food.

  Behind the building, as promised, they spotted a pale kid leaning back against the wall, smoking and looking up at the sky. He was a sloshy, never-leave-my-bedroom kind of fat, not much gristle, the obvious victim of a bad diet. His Burger Island uniform was stained, showing greasy handprints where he wiped them across his belly.

  Flynt, who probably shared a similar diet, was woofing down tater tots like a man rescued from a deserted island. Steele sneered as he watched the potato massacre to his right. Down deep though, he really wished he’d let Flynt buy him a Coke.

  “Fatty Gristle?” Steele asked, approaching the kid.

  “You’re not a fan.” The kid looked at the two approaching men in suits.

  “Nope, but you’re Thomas Mayhew. I’m Detective Noah Steele, this is Sergeant Flynt.”

  “Good comic book names,” Tommy said. “You read comics?”

  “Not lately.” Flynt took a gulp of his soda. “I used to be a huge Batman fan though.”

  “We need to ask you a few questions.” Steele tried to keep Comrade from derailing the interview completely.

  “ ’Bout what?” Mayhew showed no signs of apprehension.

  “Mark Reagan.” Steele watched for a reaction.

  “Who?” It was apparent this guy never heard Mark’s real name.

  Flynt raised his hand and wiggled his greasy orange stained fingers. “Mr. Bloody…”

  “Oh, great. Fingers? What’d he do?” Gristle took a step back like he was in trouble. Steele thought it was funny an extra foot would make the difference in a chase if he decided to run for it. “Look, we’re just in a band together. We don’t hang out or nothin’.”

  “Don’t hang out, huh? So what, you jam over the phone? Skype calls?”

  “Practice isn’t hanging out.”

  “News to me.” Steele remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be treating the kid like a hostile, and grinned uncomfortably. He shifted stance. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Band practice. The Sunday one. I had to work last night so I missed practice.”

  “You closed up?” Steele followed up.

  “Yeah, didn’t get out until about two-thirty. The place was filthy and I’m the one that has to clean it up. Sometimes I swear it would be easier to just burn the whole place down and re-build rather than clean it.” Fatty Gristle caught himself and added: “Not that I’m going to set it on fire. If this place ever burns I got nothing to do with it. I just get tired, you know? And get this…” The kid was on a roll of useless information. “And then. And then they schedule me to come in at nine this morning. Nice, huh?” Mayhew took a long drag on his cigarette. “Anyway, Fingers in trouble?”

  Steele skipped the answer. “You guys get along?”

  “Oh, hell no. I hate that guy. He’s not Punk, he’s not Metal. I don’t know what he is. He sucks.” Mayhew made a face like he just stepped in something nasty.

  Steele’s face apparently gave something away, something that said this was not the time to be trashing Mark Reagan’s name. However, thanks to the look he gave, Mayhew responded with a complete change in tune.

  “I mean, he was an OK guy, I guess. Kind of quiet. I got no beef with him other than he’s totally wrong for the band.”

  “And the others?” Steele pressed. He looked over at Flynt, who was licking spicy orange sauce from his fingers. “How does he get along with them? Someone in the band must have liked the guy.” He chided himself for using the past tense, but Mayhew didn’t seem to pick up on it.

  “He has the hots for Passion. I can tell you that much. She doesn’t see it at all. He’s back there drooling all over his snare and she’s all about Mr. Rock Star.”

  “Terry? I mean Thorny?” Steele replied.

  “The one and only.” Tommy Mayhew shook his head and gave a slight chuckle as he took another deep drag on his cigarette. “Zeroes for him. What a douche. What’s this about anyway?”

  “He’s dead.” Flynt blurted out.

  What little color there was left in Mayhew’s flabby face drained away. He seemed to think about something for a moment and then he spun around. He then proceeded to vomit behind an old bread rack.

  “What’s with these
kids?” Steele asked, backing away.

  “Hey, they could be Puke Rockers! Get it?” Flynt laughed. “Whoa, watch your shoes!”

  “Flynt,” Steele said, gravely. “Show some respect.”

  “I’m sorry,” Flynt said. “I’m just not super comfortable around barf and I make jokes when I’m—”

  Noah held up a stopping hand. “Ok. I got it. One more thing my partner is uncomfortable with. I’ll add it to the list.”

  Mayhew turned back towards them, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked to them both as if he did not trust them.

  “You OK?” Steele asked.

  His eyes were red and there were tears streaming down his face. “Something I ate.” He cleared his throat. “Who killed him?”

  “Who said he was killed?” Steele asked.

  “Young guys don’t usually drop dead, do they?”

  “Could have OD’d,” Flynt said with a shrug, more answering the question than making a point.

  “Not him.” Mayhew shook his head. “Straight arrow. No smoke, no drink, no pills.”

  “What else can you tell us about him?” Steele asked.

  “Like I said, lousy drummer, always dropping his sticks. Doesn’t matter. I’m leaving Border Bigots. I got a new gig. Blood Clowns. They’re more current, Juggalo Rap. Punk’s dead.”

  “Get outta town,” Flynt said in amazement. “Punk is finally dead?”

  “As a rock.”

  “I remember when the Sex Pistols first came around,” Flynt said warmly. “God save the Queen, she’s not a human bean,” Flynt sang in a growling cockney accent. “Awful.”

  Steele once again wondered what crooked fluke of life managed to land Comrade Flynt in a job with the police.

  “I haven’t told Thorny I’m leaving yet,” Mayhew said. “I’m sick of him, too. Thinks he’s God’s gift to music. He sucks, too. I hate that guy and his girly-girl. They make me puke.” Tommy wiped his eyes and spit.

  “I can see that.” Steele tried to back away from the smell now wafting up from the pavement. “Look, Tommy, we’re going to need you to meet us at the practice space. There was a break-in. We need you to tell us what’s missing.”