Dead Duck (Flynt & Steele Mysteries Book 2)

by Micheal Maxwell

  Reeding shrugged. But Flynt offered an answer.

  “Rap music?”

  Steele rolled his eyes. “That’s true. But no. What I hate worse than having a door slammed in my face is having to run through some stranger’s apartment and then having to run down a fire escape like I was some kind of monkey.”

  Reeding chuckled at this. “Yeah, you were pretty slow. Old man.”

  “And you were quite fast. Meth cooker.”

  “Nah, man, that’s not me. I haven’t done that stuff in a long time.”

  “You’re a bad liar. You know that? You want to tell me what you were cooking on your stove? From the smell of it, I bet it wasn’t chicken noodle soup.”

  “Ugh,” Flynt said. He reached into his pocket and took out a vial. Once he’d gotten his wind back, he went back to Reeding’s apartment and took a sample of the foul-smelling brew. “No chicken. No noodles. Just a weird, light pink sludge.”

  “Want to tell us what it is before we waste all of that time down at the lab?”

  Reeding looked at the vial as if the contents might splash him in the face. He then sneered at the detectives. His bottom lip was no longer poked out and his chest was a little less puffed out.

  “Think you tricked us because this is in liquid form?” Steele said. “Might hurt your feelings to know that the police are already on to this new liquid form of meth. Easier to transport and hide, right? Dab some on paper and eat it, right?”

  “Fine,” Reeding said, crumpling sooner than Steele expected. “You caught me. Congratulations.”

  “Hey, and don’t worry,” Flynt said. “I made sure to turn the stove off when I was running out after you.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Flynt smiled and gave Reeding a thumbs up.

  “This is the part where you and I become good friends,” Steele said. He leaned forward as if he was about to share a very big secret. “Make this harder than it has to be and you’ll be in a cell in less than three hours. Help me out and…well, maybe we can work something out. You get me?”

  Reeding gave a sad little shrug again.

  “We weren’t coming to visit you because of your history with meth. We were there because you came up in a conversation while we were investigating something else. For now, let’s forget about the meth, okay?”

  A tiny smile of relief touched the corners Reeding’s lips. As Steele continued, it disappeared faster than it appeared.

  “We’re more interested in this new drug you’re cooking up. D710. From what we understand, its name on the street is Ducky. Sound familiar?”

  Reeding was pouting now. He crossed his arms and looked like a ten-year-old that was told his Xbox privileges were being taken away for a week.

  “Believe it or not, we need your help.”

  Reeding looked up to him, clearly confused now. “With what?”

  “Seems that the genius who sold you the recipe sold you the wrong recipe, of course, you having no idea what it is supposed to be. That, combined with the fact that you meth chefs aren’t exactly known for being exact with your measurements, or being concerned with hygiene, means that we’ve got a deadly drug out on the streets. We know it’s responsible for at least four deaths already and a lot of trauma, violence, and injuries. This is what we know, and where you come in. There are only two known dealers actively selling Ducky in the area. It’s still a new drug, and thank God there are a few people smart enough to just take one dose. There was a guy named Bob McKee, but he’s no longer selling. So that leaves you.”

  “Yeah? And?”

  Steele clenched his fist and counted to ten to stop himself from punching Reeding in his pimple-covered nose. He dialed back his rage, took a deep breath through his nose, let it out slowly, and kept his composure. “We need to know who you’ve sold to. Then you’re going to hand over all you have left. You have no concept of how incredibly dangerous this stuff is. Going forward, anyone who dies after taking it will be considered murder. That, my friend, will be on you.”

  “McKee told me it was just a psychedelic.”

  “Yeah, when it’s manufactured properly and under the direction of scientists that know what they are dealing with. McKee bought an old, untested recipe. Now, this is your ass on the line, so I suggest you tell the truth. Did you follow the recipe exactly?”

  “I may have cut some corners…saved some money, you know.”

  “I need those names right now. Who are your guys on the street? If you cooperate, we might not have to tell them you ratted on them. Jerk us around, and well, here’s your chance to help us get that crap off of the streets.”

  “What do I get in return?”

  At this, Steele got to his feet and glared down at Reeding. “Other than being known as a snitch? How about knowing your jail buddies are going to make it where you can’t use your legs?”

  “You threatening me?”

  “Absolutely. You ever been inside? They have a saying, ‘Snitches get stitches’. Now, the names.”

  Reeding went silent as he thought over his options. The only noise in the room was the ruffling of paper and the clicking of Flynt’s pen as he scribbled in his unicorn notebook.

  * * *

  Weidman looked at the list on Flynt’s notebook, made a humph sort of noise, and tossed the notebook back to Flynt. The cover sparkled a bit as it tumbled through the air.

  “Not too long of a list,” Weidman said.

  “That’s right,” Steele said. “And that bodes well for us. Seven people. That’s it. And if we can get to them quickly, maybe we can cut it off there. Maybe those seven haven’t sold it to anyone else.”

  “The scene at the rave indicates that’s a false assumption.”

  “Exactly,” Steele said. “That’s why I’m asking for an assist. If we can get at least three or four other detectives to help round these people up…”

  “So, in other words, you’re telling me that your murder investigation has become some sort of drug bust?”

  “Sort of. That first body, Carson Butler, was not a murder. It’s in the initial report I sent you.”

  “I bet he didn’t read it,” Flynt said.

  Both Steele and Weidman looked at him as if he just passed gas.

  “What! He seems to know nothing about the case right now and—”

  “Detective Flynt,” Weidman interrupted. “I appreciate your unique approach to your work, but if you continue accusing me of negligence, you’ll find yourself suspended without pay. Follow me?”

  “Of course, sir.” The little salute he gave following this might have been seen as sarcastic by some, but both Steele and Weidman knew better.

  “Yes, I know Butler was not a murder. Not an intentional overdose, either. The same goes for the girl at the rave, I suspect. This has the makings of a PR disaster.”

  “Just a few more feet on the ground, sir,” Steele requested. “That’s all I’m asking for.”

  Weidman sat back in his chair; his hands laced in front of him. It made Steele uneasy that Weidman was spending so much time looking at Flynt. Steele was asked to sort of bury the hatchet in Flynt the day he arrived at the precinct. But Steele found ways around it. Not only because it was a wretched thing to do, but because even with all his idiosyncrasies and goofy inappropriate comments at times, Flynt was deep down a good detective. It wasn’t obvious to those that didn’t know him well, but it was there. His dedication was on full display today when he’d managed to catch Chester Reeding and stop him from getting away.

  “Four detectives for six hours,” Weidman said. “That’s all I can do for now. As you might expect, your drug bust will put a strain on the precinct. I just hope it isn’t to the detriment of all active cases we have going.”

  Ignoring the smart-aleck comment, Steele nodded and got to his feet. “Thanks, sir. Whoever you put on it, have them get in touch as soon as possible. I want every minute we have them to be used efficiently.”

  “Am I your secretary now?” Weidman growled. />
  “Of course not, sir. I just meant—”

  Steele’s phone rang, interrupting the conversation. It was a good thing, too. He was losing his patience with Weidman still giving him a hard time. He was only doing his job. A job he was proud of. “Sorry, I need to take this.”

  He plucked his phone from his pocket and glanced at the caller display screen. When he saw the name there, his heart dropped.

  Weidman made some snide comment but Steele barely heard it. Steele was too busy worrying what the name on the caller display screen could mean. He read it a second time to make sure he’d read it correctly.

  Eva. Jacki’s home nurse.

  “Hello?” he answered with a tremor in his voice.

  He listened intently to Eva. Before she was done, Steele was already dashing through the precinct’s front doors.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Steele pulled into his driveway at the exact same moment three paramedics came out of his front door. Eva stood next to the gurney holding Jacki’s hand. Steele parked behind an ambulance, its lights whirring and flashing. The paramedics were lifting a gurney off the porch and onto his sidewalk. The small shape of his wife on that gurney was hard to look at. Being a quadriplegic, Jacki always looked so helpless and frail even on her good days. But seeing her being wheeled out of their house on a gurney shone a light on her delicate condition. The sight of her strapped to the thin mattress made her look even more vulnerable.

  As he rushed to the paramedics, he saw Jacki’s head and shoulders for the first time. Her good hand was covering her mouth as she sobbed. They have been through so much, but never did she seem so upset before. She was his rock, always consoling him. Her sobs sounded muffled and congested. Her small frame seemed to quake beneath the thin blanket.

  “What is it?” Steele asked. His words weren’t directed at Eva or the paramedics. He just wanted answers.

  “She couldn’t breathe,” Eva said. “Sounded like she was choking. She started turning blue. Oh my God, Noah. I’m so sorry…”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. You did the right thing not waiting to call for help.”

  “That’s right,” one of the paramedics said. “She did everything she could.”

  They were halfway to the ambulance now. One of the medics was leaning down very close to Jacki, listening to her breathing.

  “Is she going to be okay?” Steele asked.

  “We’re doing everything we can to make her comfortable,” the lead paramedic answered. “We need to get her to the hospital as quickly as we can though.”

  Steele was smart enough to know this flimsy answer meant things weren’t looking good. People died on the way to the hospital. ‘Doing the best we can’ is short for ‘don’t blame me later’.

  “You the husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d offer you a ride in the back with us, but we will need the space. You mind following in your car?”

  “That’s fine. But can someone tell me what’s going on?”

  “We don’t know just yet. She’s badly congested and having a real hard time breathing. It’s taxing her already weak system. She’s working overtime just to get enough oxygen.”

  “I’ll head out.” He bent down and kissed Jacki on the forehead. “We got this. These guys know what they’re doing. They’ll get you to the hospital. See you there, I love you.”

  “Noah, I’m scared.” Jacki looked into Steele’s eyes. He saw the emptiness of surrender. “I don’t think I…” She covered her face with her thin hand.

  “Go!” Steele urged the paramedics.

  He got into his car and slammed the dashboard with his fist in frustration. He spun the car around and prayed all the way to the hospital.

  * * *

  An hour and ten minutes later, a doctor came into the waiting room. It was a moment Steele dreaded daily since the accident that took the mobility from Jacki’s arms and legs. He always knew he’d end up in a waiting room, waiting on a doctor to come and tell him that his wife passed away. But this doctor wore a slight smile on his face as he came over to where Steele was sitting.

  “Mr. Steele?”

  Steele stood up, nodding. He hoped he was reading the doctor’s smile correctly.

  “Jacki is stable now, and I think she’d really like to see you.”

  “So, she’s okay?”

  “I wouldn’t say she’s OK. She has a way to go, but she is responding and I expect a full recovery. She has a bronchial virus. It’s the sort of thing you and I might get and a have cough, sore throat maybe, and some mild congestion. That sort of thing. For Jacki, it’s something that can be devastating. Due to her paralysis, she’s not able to cough up the mucous in the same way you and I could. But you know that. So, this seems to have built up over time until it became life threatening. Full disclosure here, just so you know: it was touch and go for a while. She nearly suffocated on two occasions. But we cleared almost all of it out and she’s breathing with some assistance right now.”

  “Thank you, doctor.”

  Steele felt compelled to hug the man but managed to ignore the urge. He followed the doctor out of the waiting room and down the second-floor hallway. Standing behind the man in the white coat, tears cascaded down Steele’s cheeks. It was a moment where he found himself truly confused by the scope of human emotion. He knew the tears were the result of relief, but those same tears could have come if the news was bad. He was never an emotional man. He assumed that’s why he found himself so confounded during moments like these.

  The doctor took him to the second to last room down the hall and gestured him inside. “She’s doing a lot better now, though even I’ll admit, that it can seem disheartening to see a loved one hooked up to a breathing machine. I doubt she’ll need it within another hour or so. It’s just for caution right now. Little extra boost for her lungs.”

  Steele nodded and went inside. He moved slowly. He’d been in multiple hospital rooms in the past. He recalled visiting his father after a heart attack five years ago. That was the worst visit he could have imagined. He’d gone to see fellow detectives and policemen injured in the line of duty. But none of that prepared him for the sight of his paralyzed wife hooked up to a breathing machine.

  Despite her condition and the tube going into her mouth, Jacki nodded slightly, then closed her eyes.

  He stumbled to the bed, collapsed by her side, and wept. He buried his face into the sheets and let it all go. He’d been strong for her ever since the accident but now the facade was slipping away, and it all came out at once. He reached up for her hand and when she gave it a light squeeze, he cried even harder.

  He wasn’t sure how long he remained like that, kneeling by her bedside and weeping. Sometime while at her side, a nurse removed the breathing tube. When he got to his feet and sat on the edge of the bed, she looked to him and shook her head.

  “Nothing…you…could…do.”

  He could tell it hurt her to speak.

  “I know. But I could have been at home. I thought you were… I thought…”

  She smiled at him. “You can’t be at home. You’d go crazy.”

  “True,” he said. He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Stop talking. Save your breath.”

  She rolled her eyes at him but gave a nod. “It hurts.” She looked to the side of the room where a blue Naugahyde visitor’s chair was situated. She nodded towards it, a cute little nonverbal form of communication.

  He did as she asked and took the seat. As he settled, she pointed to him with her index finger, then to her mouth. This was followed by a fluttering of her fingers and a get on with it sort of gesture. It was one she used many times in the days following the accident when she was just too tired to speak. It meant, quite simply: talk.

  “About what? What the doctor said?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Work?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, there’s this new drug on the streets called Ducky that makes people thin
k they are seeing duck-like beings. Want to hear about that?”

  She cocked an eyebrow up at him for a moment but when she realized he was being serious, she nodded enthusiastically. Steele began to tell her about the case, starting back at finding Carson Butler in a tree—which, to Steele, now seemed as if it happened ages ago.

  Jacki listened and he gauged her response by her facial expressions, most noticeably the rising and furrowing on her eyebrows. As he told the story of finding Chester Reeding today, it occurred to him that he didn’t talk about Flynt around her. He wondered if the two of them would get along. She was always drawn to stray dogs.

  When he finished, she eyed him curiously. She pointed to him, then tilted her head and pretended to be asleep. She shrugged her shoulders in an exaggerated motion.

  “How much sleep have you gotten?” She sounded hoarse.

  “Not too much.”

  She smiled in a way that, in a different circumstance, may have looked almost seductive. She made that sleeping gesture again, pointed to herself, and then to Steele.

  “A nap? Together? I don’t think there’s enough room over there.”

  She chuckled and pointed at him. “Stay.”

  He smiled back at her and nodded. “Night, night, my love.”

  “’Night,” she replied.

  Steele felt emotion well up, he closed his eyes. Emotionally and physically drained he fell into a restless sleep.

  * * *

  The soft knocking at the door caused Steele to jerk awake. For one dizzying moment, he forgot where he was. Then he saw Jacki’s shape in the hospital bed and tasted the foulness of the late afternoon nap in his mouth and it all came back. During his nap, he was aware that a doctor and a couple of nurses came in, but none of them knocked.

  Curious, he looked towards the door. “Come in,” he said quietly, not wanting to wake Jacki.

  When the door opened and Flynt’s face appeared, Steele was certain he was still asleep and having a surreal dream. He closed his eyes for several seconds and opened them. But Flynt was still there, staring awkwardly into the room.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you,” Flynt said.