Detective Flint Box Set: A Detective Story Box Set Books 1-3 Read online

  “The file?” Flint said, holding out his hand.

  She stood above him, smiling, a glint in her eye. “What about it?”

  He made a swift lunge and snatched it out of her hand. It was his turn to grin then. He nodded toward the door. “Go on.”

  “What about food?” she said, a hand on her hip.

  “Later,” Flint said. “Now get to work. You can use my desk, but don't mess it up!”

  Tori threw her hands to her chest and dropped into a silly, cheesy, romance dialogue. “Oh, my love, the use of your desk! You love me, you really love me!”

  “If you don't get on with it I'm going to shoot off your toes one by one,” Flint said.

  Her tone dropped right back to normal. “Oh, you’re all about romance, you are.” Then she placed her hand on her forehead and twirled to the office door like a star in an old glitzy black and white movie. “Farewell, my love.”

  Chief Cunningham smiled as she left. “She's a bit of a nut, huh?”

  “A bag of mixed nuts,” Flint agreed.

  “She can handle you, though,” Cunningham said, sounding impressed.

  “I'm going to the studio for a bit and then head over to see Doctor Miles,” Flint said, changing the subject. “He's an honest man. Even if he's pressured to lie about an autopsy, he won't. I think I'll get some straight answers from him.”

  “Assuming an autopsy is being performed,” Chief Cunningham said, his brow creasing with worry.

  “State Law. CBI is very strict. I doubt the mayor or the studio wants to catch the attention of CBI at this point,” Flint said.

  “Good point. Flint, I think you’re on the right track, but be careful. We don't need the mayor storming in here,” he said. He felt his temper rise. Playing political patty-cake made him sick enough to vomit.

  “I can't walk on glass, Chief,” Flint said, standing up, “but I get your message.”

  Chief Cunningham reached into his top desk drawer and pulled out his stress ball. “The scene was pretty crummy, huh?” he asked, beginning to squeeze it for all he was worth.

  “My guess is that City Hall and Canyon View Studio wanted Lila Crastdale's body out of the way as quickly as possible. Once the body was out of the way, they let us paint a measly scene that resembled some form of police work.”

  “What about the mansion?”

  “Clean, as far as I could tell. Found some disturbance out near the pool. Few river rocks out of place and some in the water, that's about it. Whoever killed Lila Crastdale knew her.”

  Chief Cunningham began to squeeze the stress ball harder and faster. “What else you got?”

  Flint explained about the limo he had tracked to the studio. “Roger said a limo was at the mansion and left after the groundskeeper left.”

  “And that's why you think the witness was paid off?”

  “I'm going to check into him, and maybe pay him a visit, but I doubt I'll get anything useful,” Flint said. “I'll check into Lila Crastdale's niece, too. But first, I want to get out to the studio and then talk to Dr. Miles.”

  “Hey Flint, this man Patrick Wilson, he wasn't a poor sap. The man had money, lots of money. It might be that the studio hired him on for his money instead of his wife asking for him to be hired on.”

  “Yeah?” Flint asked, intrigued. “Thanks, Chief, that really helps.”

  “And another thing,” Chief Cunningham pointed out, “Lila Crastdale was very active in politics, too. So was the owner of Dry Canyon Studios at the time. Now his son runs the studio, who just so happens to be a very big supporter of our current mayor.”

  “You work fast,” Flint said, impressed.

  “In New York, the streets can become cold and cruel. You have to work fast, digging behind every garbage can you can find, in order to solve a case. The City Hall in New York is ripe with corruption. If a cop wanted to do his job the right way, he did it his way. I might be sitting behind a desk, but I'm not out to pasture, Flint. I'm still a cop.”

  “You bet you are,” Flint said. Walking to the office door he paused. “Say, Chief, can you find out for me how much Lila Crastdale is worth?”

  “I'm already trying.”

  “And one more thing, if it's not too much trouble. Can you get me the names of the political figures Lila Crastdale was involved in before she left Los Angeles? My gut tells me Lila Crastdale was set up for her husband's murder. If City Hall was against her, then she must have had some powerful people helping her get away from the noose.”

  “I'll do what I can,” Chief Cunningham assured Flint, “but for now, low key, okay? And make sure Ms. Arnold stays on track. How did she do today anyway?”

  “She fell in a pool.” Flint grinned and walked out of the office.

  As he crossed the sidewalk to his car, he caught sight of the same limo parked up across the street. This time, though, it did not speed away. Instead, the back door to the limo opened. “Detective Flint,” a voice called out, though no figure appeared. “Please, we need to speak.”

  Flint touched his gun at the back of his waist, then thrust his chin up and strode to the limo’s open door. His heart rate quickened but he made sure to show no sign of fear. Gripping the top of the limo and leaning down, he saw an old man with dark, thick, gray hair, sitting in the back seat. He wore a designer suit that probably cost more than Flint’s yearly salary.

  “What do you want?” Flint asked in a hard voice.

  “Please, join me,” the old man said, motioning toward a mini bar. “We need to talk.”

  “Who are you?” Flint asked.

  “My name is Richard Wilson. I own Dry Canyon Studios. And you are investigating the death of Lila Crastdale, are you not?”

  “I've been assigned to the case, but there doesn't seem to be much to it,” Flint answered in a bored tone, hoping the old man bought it. “I'll get around to asking a few questions here and there. I'm sure the autopsy report will help me.”

  “I'm sure it will,” Richard said in a very displeased voice. “Detective Flint, your reputation precedes you. I am surprised that you have been assigned to such a simple case. Surely Lila Crastdale’s death was merely accidental?”

  “Who knows?' Flint answered, keeping up his bored tone. “I'll ask a few questions, look at the autopsy report, see what comes up. Speaking of questions, I was just heading out to your studio to ask a few questions.”

  Richard motioned to the back seat. “Take a ride, Detective, and I'll answer your questions if I can.”

  “Sure, why not?” Flint said. He swung down into the back seat and acted as nonchalant as possible. “Say, can you have your driver stop at my favorite Chinese restaurant? I'm starved. I hate to work on an empty stomach.”

  “Of course,” Richard said in a cold voice, staring at Flint as if the detective was the most dangerous man on the planet. “We all like Chinese food, don't we?”

  “You bet.” Flint smiled and leaned back in his seat. Things were about to get really interesting.

  *****

  Flint shook his head. “I don't want anything to drink.”

  Richard slowly folded his arms together. Upset that the mayor had requested a skilled detective to handle the murder of Lila Crastdale, he felt impatient, ready to lash out with furious anger. Instead, he locked the anger boiling in his chest in a flimsy emotional box. “You saw the crime scene, I suppose?”

  “I did,” Flint answered, studying the design of the limousine. Fancy but too flashy for his taste. “The scene was flimsy. I expected as much. A kid could have run muddy shoes through the mansion and no one would have noticed.”

  “Your reputation precedes you,” Richard said again, “but this case seems very open and shut. Not a case to challenge the mind of a skilled detective like yourself.”

  Flint felt like vomiting the fake compliments Richard tossed into his lap back into the man's face. “We'll see. You can never tell where a case leads. Speaking of leads, I need the viewpoint of the groundskeeper.”

  Fl
int glanced at Richard. The man's face grew stone cold. Turning his head away from Flint, Richard focused his cold eyes on the window next to him. “If you must, I suppose. I assumed the Mayor spoke with you, though?”

  “Not a word,” Flint said, acting causal and giving room for Richard to trap himself.

  “The Mayor and I came to an agreement about Lila Crastdale's death.”

  “Oh?” Flint asked.

  “Yes,” Richard answered, allowing a portion of his anger to flow freely. “Mayor Duffy and I agree that the death was merely accidental and that there is no need for an intense investigation to be conducted. I am not pleased that he requested your services after we came to such an agreement.”

  Flint leaned back in his seat and folded his right leg over his left knee. He had heard all that he needed to hear. “Listen, pal,” he said, throwing off his gloves, “I don't care what kind of an agreement you and the Mayor came to, a woman has been found dead and it's my job to investigate her death, got it?”

  “Don't cross me, detective,” Richard warned in a deadly voice.

  “Draw as many lines as you want, slime ball, and I'll cross them. Your kind makes me sick to my stomach. I'm going to find out who killed Lila Crastdale. It's obvious you're trying to hide something, and I'll find that out, too. But right now I would be worrying about City Hall. It seems like the mayor isn't playing only the red cards with you.”

  Richard yelled at the driver to pull over, then opened the door. “Enjoy your walk back, Detective,” he hissed.

  “Oh no,” Flint said with a grin. “Driver, take me back to the station or spend a few nights in jail!”

  Richard leaned forward, murder in his eyes. “Listen, you pathetic excuse for a human being, and listen closely. Leave Lila Crastdale's death alone. There are men more powerful than myself that will take whatever measures necessary to keep the death silent.”

  “I like playing hardball,” Flint said, leaning even closer, “I don't like threats, and I never back down. I could arrest you right now for suspicion of murder, but your team of criminal lawyers would have you free within the hour. So I'm going to give you some rope to hang yourself with. But mark my words, in the end, you're mine.”

  Richard held his ground. “Lila Crastdale never did like the water. Do you like the water, Detective?”

  “Love the water.” Flint grinned and leaned back.

  Richard screwed up his face in revulsion and remained silent until the limo arrived back at the station. “Get out.”

  “Before I do,” Flint said, “you’d better call that groundskeeper and tell him to stay put. If he runs I'll put out a warrant for his arrest and throw it in the news. I want to speak with him. I know you paid him off to lie. This limo was seen at the mansion this morning leaving soon after the groundskeeper left. Now, why would you even be at the crime scene?”

  “Get out!” Richard hollered.

  “See you later,” Flint said, and hopped back out onto the street. Wasting no time, he jogged to his car, only to find Tori waiting for him. “I thought I told you to--”

  Tori, still appearing damp, frowned. “I need to go back to the mansion. I need to get the serial number off the piano. I thought I memorized the number, but somehow my mind’s just blocked it out…”

  Flint rolled his eyes. “Get in, sparky.”

  “Maybe we can get a bite to eat first?” Tori asked, hearing her stomach growl. “I'm starving.”

  “Fine,” Flint said, yanking open the driver's side door. “I'm a little hungry myself. Besides, I was just saved a trip to the studio. For now, anyway. After we eat we'll go see what Dr. Miles has come up with.”

  Tori nodded. “I'm with you, boss. To the morgue. We’ll go and see what the old doc has come up with. Yes, sir, we're making some real progress.”

  “Hey, Einstein?” Flint said, sliding down into the driver’s seat?

  “What?” Tori asked.

  “If we're making progress, then maybe you should run your backside back inside, get your shield, a pad of paper and a pen.”

  “Oh,” Tori said, looking down at her empty hands. Fussing at herself she turned and hurried away. Halfway to the station building she tripped and tumbled down. “I'm okay!” she yelled at Flint. “I think... Just a scraped knee. No big deal.”

  Shaking his head Flint watched Tori stand up, check her left knee, and then limp back to the station. “Good grief,” he muttered to himself, “how did I end up with Steve Urkel? She's going to get us killed.”

  Flint heard the sound of tires on gravel, and jerked his head up to the rearview mirror. A fancy silver BMW pulled up into the parking lot, then eased up beside him and came to a stop. The driver's side window slowly rolled down and Flint put his hand on his gun instinctively.

  “Detective Flint, how are you?”

  It was the Mayor. In his early fifties, with silver gray hair, he carried too much weight on his face and around his middle.

  Flint shrugged his shoulders. “A day is a day, Mayor.”

  “Mind if we take a ride?” Mayor Duffy asked, nodding to the passenger seat.

  Flint scanned the expensive blue suit the mayor was wearing. Why did politicians believe expensive suits impressed on them a sense of power? Didn't the mayor know he looked like an overstuffed blueberry? “Sure, why not?” Flint said, and hurried out of his car and into the mayor’s.

  “Flint,” Mayor Duffy said, turning his voice serious as he drove out of the parking lot, “I've requested you to investigate the death of Lila Crastdale personally. As you know, her death is a very sensitive case.”

  “Why?” Flint asked, playing dumb. “Lila Crastdale was a washed out actress that no one remembers. I didn't even know who the woman was.”

  Leaving the parking lot, Mayor Duffy began to drive around the block. “Surely you saw her file by now?”

  “Not yet,” Flint lied. “I spent more time at Lila Crastdale's mansion than I should have.”

  “Why?” Mayor Duffy asked, stopping at a stop sign. Before Flint could answer, the mayor spoke again. “Detective, we're on very sensitive ground here.”

  “Yeah, and keeping the scene of a woman's death just far enough above water to make CBI happy was pretty smart,” Flint added.

  Mayor Duffy let out a large sigh. “I don't need CBI breathing down my neck right now. I admit I threw my resources into high gear this morning once I received the news about Lila Crastdale. I admit I overstepped my legal bounds. In a court of law, I would be chewed alive for interfering with Lila Crastdale's death.”

  “So why did you?”

  “Flint,” Mayor Duffy said in a strained voice, staring at the stop sign. “My back was pressed up against the wall. I had to step in.”

  “You step in a lot when it comes to the studios,” Flint pointed out.

  “I know,” Mayor Duffy admitted. “Politics is a dirty game. I want to be an honest man, but you have to understand that you can't give everyone a smile and a nod without making sure someone in the shadows is happy.”

  “Call me stupid, but I'm confused. If this case is so sensitive, why request me? You know I'll do whatever I can to find the answers I need,” Flint said. “I don't play political patty-cake.”

  Mayor Duffy eased through the stop sign. “Detective Flint, I requested you because I need you to find the person who murdered Lila Crastdale. While you do I'm going to play the angry mayor part, do you understand?”

  “No,” Flint said. “Explain it to me, will you? I'm kinda thick headed.”

  Mayor Duffy drew in a deep breath and then lowered his head as he brought the car to a stop by the side of the street. “It's complicated, Detective. The tangled web goes back years. A tangled web I'm tired of being a part of. Next year I begin my campaign for Governor. I need this to end.”

  “What to end?” Flint pressed.

  “Just find the killer,” the mayor said. “Certain people are not pleased that I requested you for this case. We have very little time.”

  �
�Is your life being threatened?” Flint asked.

  “My life, my career...” Mayor Duffy said, “and it's all tied into one dead old woman that should have never escaped prison. Detective, you have to find the killer. If and when you do, I'll use the full force of my office to--”

  “Do nothing,” Flint interrupted. “Listen, Mayor, I'll find the killer, but when I do the justice system takes over.”

  Mayor Duffy objected. “It's not that simple. But for the sake of argument, we'll agree that your task is to find the killer.”

  Flint didn't answer. Usually, the Mayor was a smoothing talking, in-control, rat. Now the man was sweating through his suit as he got the car back on the road, basically begging Flint to save his life. Richard Wilson, even though appearing angry and deadly, also exhibited the same fear the Mayor was showing.

  “Who killed Patrick Wilson?” Flint finally asked. “Did Lila Crastdale murder Patrick Wilson?”

  Mayor Duffy let his shoulders slump. “Detective, those answers you have to find out on your own. I've said enough. Just find the killer. When you do, I'll make sure you rewarded.”

  “My reward is my job,” Flint said. “Drive me back to the station. And if you get any ideas of trying to snag me off this case, I'll go straight to the media. Are we clear?”

  “All I want is for you to find out who killed Lila Crastdale. Are we clear?”

  “You want a killer found. Richard Wilson wants the case turned cold,” Flint said.

  The last thing the mayor told him before dropping him back off at the station parking lot was not to press Richard Wilson too hard.

  “Why?”

  “Every man has a different agenda but are sometimes forced to play on the same team. I'm tired of playing on Wilson's team. Please, again, just find the killer. Time is short.”

  “I’ll find them,” Flint said. “Whatever the cost is to anybody.”

  *****

  “Nice car,” Tori said, watching the BMW pull out of the parking lot. “Your girlfriend?”

  “Nah.” Flint glanced upward and saw the afternoon sun breaking through the overcast sky. “Listen,” he said. “We'll make a quick trip back to the mansion and then grab some food. I need to look around again.”