The family room was darker than usual. He threw back the drapes to be confronted by his jungle of a back yard. Thick grass, wild weeds, gangly flowers that looked like the witches yard in a fairytale.
“You need to do some gardening,” Flynt told himself. He said it with the same anger but now, directing it to himself. He shook his head in defeat. “I should have Mr. I Know Everything come over and show me how to do my gardening properly. He reached up and pulled the drapes closed again. He stood in the room alone and then said something that hurt his heart.
“Damn you, Bill, leaving me to be stuck with this guy!”
The whirring of the refrigerator was the only sound in the silent house. Flynt stood in the middle of the family room and kicked off his shoes. He glanced at the rectangle of slightly lighter beige paint on the wall. His Police Academy graduation picture used to hang there. It was up until his ex-wife threw it across the room at him.
The sagging green sofa beckoned and Flynt fell into its soft caress. He closed his eyes and put his hand over them. The beige rectangle appeared like an old photo negative. The dark spot turned into his framed photo in his imagination.
He wondered what happened to the young man and the nice smile from the other side of the frame. It was no secret. Everyone knew the story, the promising patrol cop who worked so hard to finish night school. Many said his promotion during a retirement wave was premature. Being assigned under Bill Barrow was like winning the lottery. The best detective in the city would mentor him. Everyone knew it and, though it was only mentioned in hushed whispers, a lot of members of the force resented him for it.
An image of a young Bill Barrow drifted across his vision; Strong, ruggedly handsome, a real hero cop from the movies. Dirty Harry meets Jim Rockford. They demanded respect as a team. Flynt was a fast learner and completely devoted. He would have taken a bullet for his partner.
Flynt’s thoughts shifted back to the open door of a rundown duplex. Bill Barrow, with gun drawn, motioned for Flynt to go to the right once he was inside. Flynt nodded and entered, hand hovering over his own gun.
A TV was blaring in the living room. Flynt went right and into a dark hallway.
Bill took charge right away. “Police! Get on the ground! Hands above your head.” A woman screamed and cursed at Barrow. Barrow turned his attention to her. “You, too! On the ground! Hands above your head!”
There were three doors along the hall. Flynt was breathing hard. He wanted to wait for back up, but Bill insisted they were perfectly capable of arresting Marvin Wheeler alone. What they didn’t expect was the woman. She was enough of a surprise to throw them off their game.
The first door along the hallway was wide open. A nightlight burned brightly and reflected in the bathroom mirror. Clear. He moved along the hall trying to decide which door to open. The one on the right showed signs of being kicked in on more than one occasion. The room at the end of the hall, probably the master, was plastered with several stickers; NWA, Bullet Proof, Legalize it! and a tattered Bob Marley poster.
The damaged door seemed the right choice. He slowly turned the knob, then kicked it, gun raised. Flynt flashed his light across the room from side to side. He slipped his hand along the wall and turned on the light switch. The room was a jumble of dirty clothes, filthy bedding, pizza boxes, DVD cases, a dresser and nightstand covered with empty liquor bottles, and at a glance what appeared to be used needles, tin foil, and a variety of glass pipes. Otherwise, the room was empty.
He continued down the hall to the third door. A cold sweat ran down his back. This is what he trained for, practiced at the Academy. He knew the procedure. Flynt took three rapid shallow breaths and kicked the door in.
A large object flew through the half-lit room and struck the door just next to his head with a heavy crushing thud. Without hesitation, without thinking, without processing, he fired two shots in the direction of the projectile.
The blast of his Glock was thunderous in the confined area. The sound seemed to echo, again and again. Flynt cast the beam of his flashlight across the room. This room was a distinct contrast to the other room. There were shelves filled with trophies, photos, model planes, and books. The bed was made and the room was clean. A chunk of rock about the size of his fist, with two painted eyes and a smile, lay at his feet.
He found the wall switch and flicked on the light. The room was silent. The air smelled of AXE cologne and gunfire. Flynt moved into the room, gun still extended. As he moved around to the far side of the bed he saw the splattered pattern of blood on the wall. Lying in a twisted position, his arms over his head, was a boy of about twelve. Two bloody holes punctuated the front of his powder blue MLK Jr. High t-shirt.
Flynt dropped his gun on the bed.
“Oh, Jesus, Sweet Jesus, what have I done. Mother Mary, oh, Jesus.” Flynt repeated this as half prayer, half chant, as he dropped to his knees.
“Flynt!” Bill Barrow’s voice seemed a million miles away.
Flynt muttered something indistinguishable and rocked back and forth next to the bed.
“What the hell have you done?” Barrow’s voice was one of concern, not reprimand. He stood next to Flynt and stared at the puddle of blood spreading into the carpet.
Flynt groaned mournfully and rolled toward the back of his couch.
The voice of his ex-wife seemed to scream at him from the stuffing, “What kind of a person kills a child?” It seemed appropriate. After all, the couch held smells and stains from his past—old cologne, spilled spaghetti sauce, worthless stain remover. Maybe too, it held the ghosts of things screamed while people sat on it.
They were married less than three years at the time. The death of Rashad Wheeler drove a wedge between them that, though they lived in relative civility, was always shadowing every disagreement, imagined slight, or perceived neglect by Flynt. The shooting created a persona that wasn’t him, but that his wife embraced and despised.
The following April she left him for the H&R Block bookkeeper that prepared their taxes. In a completely fabricated, tear-soaked, performance for the divorce judge, she claimed that ‘Comrade’s violent nature left her in constant fear for her life’. Thankfully the judge saw through her charade. His view was she abandoned her husband while he was trying to recuperate from a traumatic experience. The shooting she cited was deemed an accident. No witness produced could cite or even suggest that Comrade was violent, threatening, or uncivil in their experience and knowledge of him.
So, Flynt was given the house, she was given the bank accounts, car, and one half of what little there was in his retirement 401K. That was eighteen years ago. She never married the accountant. In fact, he dumped her when, after two trips to Hawaii and a trip to Jamaica, the money ran out. The last Flynt heard was from her sister he bumped into at the Econo Grocery Store. His ex was living in Arizona and working as a hostess at a Salad Garden Restaurant in Tucson.
In the first three months after the shooting Comrade gained forty pounds, outgrew most of his clothes, and let his gym membership lapse. Whether it was his horrible diet or the blood pressure and depression meds, his body type seemed to change and he became a very hairy man. It was a very depressing metamorphosis.
Comrade became a withdrawn, self-doubting, self-loathing recluse who went to work, went home, and nothing else. After a while, everyone stopped caring much about what he did in between.
Bill Barrow watched as his young protégé sank into a funk from which he never returned. For reasons unexplained and known only to him, Bill covered for Flynt. “The shooting messed him up,” was his typical response.
As time went on, the relationship deteriorated to the point of, as one fellow detective described it, dog and master. Yet through the ups and downs of eighteen years, Bill Barrow stood by him to the detriment of his health and reputation. Now it appeared that his motivation went to his grave with him.
Done with wallowing in the past, Flynt struggled to his feet and made his way to the kitchen.
; “What’s for dinner?” he asked the fridge as he opened its doors. “Cheese Whiz? Mustard? Ah, here we are! Wilted brown lettuce.” Flynt took the partially consumed head and tossed it into the sink.
The freezer produced a few better prospects. “Let us see here. Macaroni and Cheese TV dinner? Salisbury Steak? Ahoy Matey! Just the thing,” he exclaimed in his gruff pirate impression.
Flynt removed a box of fish sticks from the third shelf, slid three from the box onto a waiting paper plate, and chucked them into the microwave.
The bread box held a quarter loaf of partially molded white bread. Taking two slices out, Comrade dusted the gray-green mold from the front and top edges and dropped them in the toaster.
“That’ll kill it,” he said to his distorted reflection in the toaster.
It took less than two minutes for Comrade to consume his sandwich of under-heated, microwaved fish sticks, moldy toast, and questionable mayonnaise he squirted from little plastic packets he picked up in a variety of hamburger joints. The long open can of Keystone beer hiding in the fridge was flat and tasteless. But he stopped drinking for the taste right around the time his wife left.
He didn’t use a plate, so there was no dish to wash. He crushed the beer can, rinsed his hands, and wiped them on his pants. The can hit the trash on his way out of the kitchen.
Flynt was tired, bone-tired, and emotionally drained. He slipped off his pants and laid them on the bed. He carefully matched the seams and picked them up by the cuffs. With his right hand, he lifted the mattress. Resting it against his chest he made a wave of the trousers as smooth as a toreador’s cape and let them fall neatly onto the box springs next to a green pair, then gently lowered the mattress.
He hung his shirt in the closet next to several others. He was able to get three or four wearings from his shirts before he was forced to wash them. In the dresser drawer was a pair of pale blue pajamas he wore six nights a week. On Saturday, he wore his shorts and t-shirt to bed, while the clothes dryer tumbled the week’s laundry. Comrade’s life at home was one of order and neatness.
Flynt stood looking down at the neatly made bed. The white chenille bedspread was now a yellowish beige. He hadn’t slept in it since his wife left. He cursed her, he cursed the H&R Block man, and he cursed Noah Steele.
He moved back to the closet, opened the double accordion doors. On the floor of the closet were a flannel sheet, a blanket, and a pillow. Comrade stepped inside, closed the folding doors, and lay down for a long night of fitful sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Even from four houses away, the Vernon driveway was easily visible. The grass was cropped and neatly edged, the landscaping an explosion of multi-colored flowers, much like Julie. A bit farther down the street, a figure sat in his car and observed all of this. He turned off the engine and sat with the window down.
He knew that Julie was at school. Her mother went to the gym three days a week. She would be gone for at least an hour, and Julie even longer than that. As he watched, Mrs. Vernon hurried out of the house wearing a pink velour jogging ensemble, accented by black hair and armbands. A huge handbag was slung over one shoulder. The moment her snowy white Jordan’s tucked themselves into the car, a heavy dose of excitement hit him.
The figure in the car waited until Mrs. Vernon drove down the street before he slipped out of his car. Quickly crossing the street, then casually strolling toward Julie’s house, he tried to show a confidence he didn’t feel. Anyone looking would say he was a regular visitor unless they saw his car parked at the corner waiting for her to leave.
He panicked at the thought and glanced around in a very telling manner. No, stop. Calm down! He tried to look around in a more confident way, suggesting an almost bored air.
The whole block seemed deserted, but anyone could be peeking through their windows. At the edge of the driveway he bent and pretended to tie his shoelace and looked over at the neighbors, no windows parted, no sound, not even the sound of a TV through a window or cracked door. One last glance around at the neighbors calmed him and satisfied his curiosity. Maybe they weren’t around. Maybe they went to the gym, too. Maybe there was a country club gathering. It looked like a country club kind of neighborhood with all of its trimmed lawns and white picket fences. Somewhere a dog was barking, but that was far away. The Vernons, he knew, didn’t have a dog; somebody in the family was allergic to their fur. He heard Julie laughing about it not too long ago.
He looked over his shoulder as he moved swiftly to the side gate. It was latched, not locked, something he was counting on. He slipped in quickly, the freshly sprinkled bushes on the side of the gate brushed against him. Leaving drops of water down his side, but he didn’t feel it. Moving to the side of the verandah, he looked up into the bedroom windows.
He knew her bedroom was on the second floor. He knew everything about her.
A wisteria-covered trellis towered by the patio. He tested it and it seemed solid. With one last glance to see if anyone was around, he began to climb. Bracing himself against the house with one hand, he carefully went from one cross-piece to the next. The crushing of leaves and flowers was the only sound.
He was quite lucky the trellis supported his weight, but it only took a moment for him to realize the patio cover might be a different situation. Carefully crossing the slatted cover, he made his way to a bedroom window. He cupped his hands against the glass while he braced against the wall as the wood below him groaned in protest. He peered into the bedroom. The neatly placed decorations, cornflower blue bedding with gold tasseled edges were visible from his perch outside. Just the sight of the bedding and blue dress lying across the bed confirmed it was not Julie’s. It was definitely not her style. She was not one for blue or light blue summery dresses.
Sliding lightly, hands against the wall, he moved to the second window. There was a slight cracking sound and he stood motionless, praying the window ledge would remove some of his weight from the creaking patio cover.
This window proved to be what he was looking for. The room boasted black bedding, curtains, even the shade on the bedside lamp. It was draped with a silver chain and an upside-down crucifix. He stood outside where his Julie slept, woke, and stayed when she was at home. He sighed and leaned in closer, shoulder against the window frame, his nose, and forehead against the glass.
He shifted his weight. Looking down at the patio cover, he saw there was a six-inch opening at the bottom of the window. The screen was removed, and just outside the window at his feet was a metal jar lid filled with the butts of a dozen or so cigarettes. Apparently, Julie opened her window to smoke and forgot to close it last time.
He grinned. This almost seemed meant to be.
He paused, hands shaking wildly. He only wanted to peek, to look at where she slept. He looked through the window again. Almost without thinking, he found his hands inserted beneath the six-inch gap pulling up the window frame. The window opened wide, and he stepped inside.
The room was as he would have expected. Her things lay in disorganized piles in every direction. Most of it was solid black except for the occasional splashes of violent red, shiny metal studs, and bone stitched skulls. His heart raced as he moved from one thing to the other. He was only expecting to get a look through the window. This was better than he could have dreamed and he dreamed a lot about this. In all honesty, he’d dreamed of little else.
He moved over to the unmade bed. At first, he trailed his hand on the soft bedding, his fingers digging light grooves into the sheets. He contemplated the idea and then decided he must. There may never be an opportunity like this again. He fell facedown onto the crumpled pillows and breathed deeply. Rolling over he lay spread eagle on the bed, then pressed the pillow to his face. Her smell was intoxicating. Her perfume filled his nostrils, or maybe it was her shampoo, he wasn’t really sure. But it didn’t matter. It was her smell. She always smelled delicious.
He inhaled again and again. Heaven. He was placing his head right where she lay on her bed. Ma
ybe she lay right there and thought about him, about them. He loved her so much it hurt. He rolled over and pressed hard into the bed, eyes closed, in sensory ecstasy.
After several minutes he stood and looked around the room. Even if it was predominantly black, the silver crosses and skulls weren’t flaunted, but discretely placed. That was the real her, subtle but, they were there, signs of the real Julie.
She balanced it well among the posters, mirror and the room’s dreadfully morbid black decor. Black Flag, Ramones, Misfits, Dead Kennedys, and Paramore posters decorated the walls. He frowned at the Paramore posters because it wasn’t punk at all, no matter how much their fanbase wished it to be. But he also liked the idea of Julie listening to faux angry-girl rock. There was something cute about it.
A magazine on her bedside table was open to photos of tattoos. Was she planning to get one? Something discrete, hidden, maybe she already got it. Perhaps she was hiding it from everybody, especially her parents. The idea thrilled him darkly. It would be their little secret, something only the two of them knew about. One day she would show it to him when they were finally together. Maybe even on this very bed when they would be truly together. Lower back? Inner thigh? Oh God, it was just too much to even consider.
He hesitated in front of her closet imagining what could be inside. He opened the doors and saw clothes that could belong to any high school girl in America. On the floor were three bags from Forever 21 and Old Navy. At the very back, he saw a metal-studded jacket he’d seen her wear once, and some black fishnet stockings crumpled on the floor.
He picked up one of the bags and loosened the drawstring. Inside was a collection of micro skirts, tank tops, and two pairs of fishnet tights. He opened a second bag. Belts, chains, and collar studded with metal stars and encrusted with sequins, a black hooded sweater with its arms ripped off, and two packs of cigarettes, Marlboro lights. The third bag was a jumble of bras and skimpy panties. Grabbing a handful of the lacy underwear he held it to his face. He breathed deeply, taking in a good whiff of the detergent scent, but it didn’t matter. She wore them and that was what mattered. He took a pair of red and black thongs and shoved it deep into his pocket.
Dead Beat (Flynt and Steele Mystery Book 1) Page 15
