Detective Flint Box Set: A Detective Story Box Set Books 1-3
Page 1
Contents
Detective Flint Books 1-3 Box Set
Disclaimer
Dedication
Get A FREE BOOK!
Lights, Camera...MURDER!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Hunted In Hollywood
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
The Deadly Desert
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
DETECTIVE FLINT,
THE BOX SET
Book 1:
Lights, Camera…Murder!
Book 2:
Hunted In Hollywood
Book 3:
The Deadly Desert
By
J.T. Dawson
&
Nancy McGovern
Rights & Disclaimer
This is entirely a work of fiction. All people, places and events contained have been completely fabricated by the author. Any similarities to real people, places, or events are completely coincidental.
Detective Flint Copyright © 2017 J.T. Dawson & Nancy McGovern
All Rights Reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any manner or used in any way without advanced written permission by the author.
Dedication
This box set is for YOU! Thank you for reading our stories!
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DETECTIVE FLINT
Book 1:
Lights, Camera…Murder!
By
J.T. Dawson
Chapter 1
Detective Flint Brason tossed a toothpick into his mouth. Just another day on the job, he thought, leaning against a wet brick wall in a dirty alley. Yeah, just another day on the job and another body. Los Angeles was good business for homicide detectives. Almost every week a new body turned up somewhere - in an alley, a dumpster, washed up on the beach, lying dead at the bottom of a dry canyon, or in a pool lying face down.
Flint watched the crime scene photographer work the body as if it belonged to a famous model instead of a dead dealer that probably got filled with bullet holes during a bad buy.
Reaching down into his tan overcoat, Flint brought out a cigarette, examined it with his calm green eyes, and then shook his head. “Another time,” he said in a low voice. “Hey, Steve, work on the chest more than the face!” he yelled at the photographer.
“Yeah, yeah,” a young man with wacky black hair said, rolling his eyes. “I know, I know. Gee, Flint, smoke a cigarette, will ya?”
Kids, Flint thought, running his hands through his messy blond hair. He needed a shave. He needed coffee more. He needed a cigarette even more.
“Flint.” A man walked toward him from down the alley, maneuvering through yellow crime scene tap, police officers standing around talking about nothing, and political horse manure. “Hey Flint, a word.”
“Go away, Rinson,” Flint growled at the approaching reporter. Mark Rinson was a young reporter, anxious to write the big stories, hungry to make a name for himself among the endless faces of other young reporters fresh out of journalism school and possessed with a Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew mindset.
“Don't bite the hand that can make you famous,” Mark said.
Flint studied Mark's fancy, expensive, gray suit. He shook his head. Underneath his overcoat, he had on a cheap, green hockey t-shirt and a pair of old jeans. Even his sneakers were worn down. A detective's salary was pitiful. But young reporters with shiny white teeth seemed to be doing okay. “Go buzz around another body.”
“Ha, good one!” Mark laughed and clapped Flint on his right shoulder. “But seriously, what have we got here? A mob hit? A serial killer on the loose? A gang killing?”
“A dealer that got popped during a bad buy is my guess,” Flint said, breaking Mark's hope of writing the next big story. “Mr. John Doe lying dead over there was found with an empty brown paper bag in his left hand. The buyer probably wasn't in the mood to give up his cash.”
Mark's face went flat. “Is that it?” he asked, disappointed. “Just a dead dealer?”
“I'm sorry to disappoint you,” Flint said, spitting the toothpick out of his mouth. “Now take a hike, will you.”
“Man,” Mark said, shaking his head at Flint, “you're one sour turnip. My grandmother used to say that--”
“I could care less what your grandmother used to say,” Flint interrupted, brushing past Mark and bumping him with his shoulder. “I didn't even like my own grandmother.”
“It's true,” Steve called up to Mark, “but don't worry, Flint pays for her to stay at the roach motel in the middle of gang town.”
“Just take the pictures, smart guy,” Flint snarled at Steve. “I'm heading back to the station.”
“I'll e-mail you to the photos as soon as I--”
“I want hard copies,” Flint ordered. “Got it? None of this e-mail stuff. I want you to walk your lazy butt to my desk and place the photos down in my in-box in a plain brown folder like policy requires, do you understand me?”
“Yeah... yeah, I understand,” Steven answered. He hated to be scolded by Flint in public, but everyone knew that mouthing off to Flint when the guy was in a bad mood was a no-no.
Flint strode out of the alley, ducked under some crime scene tape, and turned right onto a dirty, rundown street where his 1994 Honda Accord EX was parked up. Yeah, the car was old and was working on three hundred thousand miles, but to Flint it was better than the plastic cars being thrown onto the American streets by car companies that seemed to cut corners everywhere they could.
Pausing at his car, Flint studied the run down buildings lining the street. His gut told him the fingerprints taken off the John Doe lying dead in the alley would belong to a known seller, but just in case his gut was wrong, he wanted to memorize every detail surrounding the crime scene.
“Run down, condemned apartment buildings, a street lined with cigarette butts, beer bottles, trash... yeah, it was a buy gone bad,” he said, committing it all to memory.
*****
Back at the station, Flint tossed his overcoat onto the cheap bronze coat holder and made a straight line for the coffee area, passing rows of wooden desks crammed with ringing phones, ashtrays filled with cigarettes, overworked cops, and white Styrofoam cups filled with cold coffee.
“Hey Flint, Captain wants to see you,” a pretty red headed cop called out when she saw Flint walk by.
Flint stopped still but didn’t turn around. “I'm busy on a case, Melinda. Can't he wait?” Looking down at his old sneakers resting on the same old brown carpet that lined the patrol room since he had earned his Detective badge twelve years prior, Flint shook his head. While the city was busy wasting money like it was water, cops were still getting the short end of the stick.
“Chief said to see him right away,” Melinda Jenkins said, tapping a pen against her desk. As she was wearing a blue and white cop uniform with her red hair tucked into a tight bun, Flint guessed the woman thought making a good impression through professional appearance still mattered in a world gone mad.
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, “I'm going.”
“Smoke a cigarette first,” Melinda teased Flint, “Mr. Grumpy
Bear.”
Hearing other cops begin to laugh, Flint spun around and threw his hard eyes around the patrol room. Every cop ducked his head down, suddenly recalling a vital task in need of attention. The sound of ringing phones replaced their laughter. “Knock it off,” he warned Melinda as he huffed away.
Grinning, Melinda went back to filling out a report.
After leaving the patrol room, Flint turned left and made his way down a stuffy hallway lined with the same old used brown carpet. Overhead fluorescent lights hummed.
Flint paused at the wooden door at the end of the hallway.
Might as well try and look somewhat alive, he thought, running his hands through his hair and tucking his shirt into his jeans. At least his Glock sleeping in the shoulder holster and his badge attached to his belt looked professional.
Knocking on the door, Flint waited.
“Come in,” a voice said cheerily.
Flint rolled his eyes. It wasn't that he didn't like his Captain, it was just that the guy was too nice. He told jokes, slapped people on the shoulder, asked how family members were doing, and listened to every gripe and complaint in the book. Flint expected a man who had served on the NYPD for twenty years before relocating to Los Angeles to be a real hard nose, a guy he could respect and get along with. Instead, New York had sent Mr. Nice Guy.
Flint opened the door and walked into an office that screamed Mr. Nice Guy. Photos of the Captain’s family hung everywhere on the white walls. Flowers of different varieties stood in flower pots all around the office. A wooden bookshelf lined up against the east wall held every self-help book in the world. And the worst part was the smell of potpourri - apple cinnamon. Closing the door behind him, Flint caught the sound of relaxing piano music coming from the computer sitting on the Chief's desk. “Oh brother,” he mumbled.
“Flint, it's good to see you,” Chief Tom Cunningham said happily. A man in his mid-sixties with stylish gray hair, the Chief held an intelligent and patient face that most politicians envied. But, unlike most politicians, the man didn't wear fancy suits. Instead, he wore a simple white button up shirt tucked in a pair of gray trousers that cost him fourteen dollars.
“You want to see me, Chief?” Flint asked, spotting a dinky black haired woman wearing a bright yellow dress sitting in one of the two brown cushioned chairs in front of the Chief’s desk.
“First, let me be the first to wish you a happy birthday. You turned thirty-seven, today, right?” Chief Cunningham asked.
Plopping down in the vacant chair, Flint ignored the woman staring at him with big, curious, lost puppy dog eyes. “Yeah, but I don't do birthdays, okay, Chief? If this is about the Rolling Hills Case, the report should have already--”
“I've read the report. Excellent work, Flint,” Chief Cunningham said. “You wrapped up the case in great time, too. I doubt Mr. Engles will think twice about killing anyone else now.”
“He knows the governor. So he'll spend a few years behind bars and then get early parole,” Flint replied disgustedly. “A few years from now that slime ball will be back on the golf course.”
“Let's not be bitter,” Chief Cunningham told Flint, leaning back in his brown cushioned chair. “Our job is to catch the criminal. The courts handle the rest. Now, Flint, the reason I wanted to see you is because I have a very important job for you. The job is so extremely vital that I have chosen my top detective to handle it.”
Feeling like he was being pulled through mud but being told he was walking through flowers, Flint prepared for the worst. “Chief, I'm really busy on this new case. Heavy stuff. Could be a gang war over drug control and--”
“Flint,” Chief Cunningham said, narrowing his eyes in a way that drove Flint crazy. Flint didn't know how the guy knew he was lying, but every time Flint threw a lie into the air, Chief Cunningham swatted it down.
“Yeah, okay, some dealer got filled with holes during a bad buy, nothing more,” he admitted.
“Good, then you're open for new adventures.” Chief Cunningham smiled pleasantly. “Flint, the young woman sitting next to you is Tori Arnold. She's just come to us from Bakersfield.”
“Oh no,” Flint said, feeling his stomach tighten.
“Hi, partner,” Tori Arnold said, throwing her hand out at Flint. With a goofy smile on her face she popped to her feet like a wound up jack-in-the-box.
“Chief, you know I work alone,” Flint said, ignoring Tori's offer to shake hands. “You can't do this to me. Stick her with Zach or... yeah, toss her at Vince.”
“Nope, sorry,” Chief Cunningham said, standing up from his desk. “Ms. Arnold comes to us as a very special person. Her father is the mayor of Bakersfield and the cousin of the Governor of the State. I need my best detective to train her. You're the best, Flint. Even if you’re a stubborn jackass.” Catching his bitter tone, Chief Cunningham quickly closed his eyes, took ten deep breaths, and then forced himself to smile. “Pardon, my last remark, Flint. You are an excellent detective.”
“How long do I have to babysit Ms. Royalty here?” Flint asked.
“Excuse me?” Tori objected.
Flint ignored her. “Chief, how long?” he demanded.
“As it stands, for now, you two are permanent partners,” Chief Cunningham said and then, quite out of character, grinned like a devious crook taking pleasure in watching his victim fall into a pit.
“Oh good grief. Come on you,” Flint snapped at Tori.
“That's the spirit,” Tori said, clapping her hands. Hoping to make a good first impression, she hurried around the chair but immediately tripped over her feet and stumbled to the floor. The gun in her tan shoulder holster tumbled out and went off with a pr-RANG!
Jumping down to the floor, Flint saw a photo of the Chief’s wife and kids explode, its glass bursting through the air in shards that glinted in the light .
“Sorry, my fault!” Tori yelled out, getting to her feet. “Completely my fault! Forgot to put my weapon on safety.”
But before she could get off her knees, the door burst open. She froze as a swarm of police officers appeared, their service guns at the ready and pointed right at her.
Gritting his teeth, Flint jumped to his feet, snatched up Tori's gun and strode over to her. “No guns for you,” he said, slamming the gun in his hand down onto the Chief's desk.
“Oh sure,” Tori said apologetically. “I guess I can come back for my gun later and--”
“Not for a long time,” Flint said, then stormed out of the office past the officers.
“Everything’s okay,” Chief Cunningham told the police officers waiting at his door. “Go back to work. Ms. Arnold. You’d better catch up to your partner.”
“What about my gun?” Tori asked.
“Uh... for now, we'll leave your gun on my desk,” Chief Cunningham said, forcing a police smile to his face. As soon as Tori left his office and closed the door he threw the smile into the trash, yanked open the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a red stress ball. Beginning to squeeze the ball, he closed his eyes. “Anger management... anger management... anger management…”
*****
“Hey partner, wait up!” Tori called out to Flint.
Letting his shoulders droop, Flint stopped walking. He turned his head to see his new goofy partner running up to him. She looked far too happy for his taste. He was a man that nearly always wore a scowl. “What?” he asked.
“Where you heading to?” Tori asked enthusiastically, hoping that her first case would be something grand.
“Coffee,” Flint said, walking back to the patrol room. Approaching a tight corner that had been transformed into a crummy coffee area, he searched a coffee-stained brown counter top for his Charlie Brown mug. “Where is it?”
Following Flint to the coffee area, Tori tried to keep the rapport going. She folded her arms and leant against the wall. “So, partner, what's in store for us today? We gonna snatch some punks?”
Rolling his eyes, Flint located his coffee mug. “You’ve b
een watching too many cop movies,” he said, picking up a coffee pot holding hours old coffee in it. “No one talks like that. And I work best alone.”
“Well, you heard the chief,” Tori said.
Flint filled his coffee mug and returned to his desk. Tori followed behind him, always trying to make eye contact he wanted to avoid. Melinda grinned at him. Flint shot her a hard eye and sat down at a messy desk littered with files and papers.
“So, where do I sit?” Tori asked, searching for a spare chair.
“You don't,” Flint answered. He snatched a brown folder out of his in-box.
“Oh... Well, I don't mind standing,” Tori said, folding her arms and glancing around at the faces staring at her.
“Here,” Melinda said, carrying over an extra office chair, “you can have this chair.”
“Oh, great, thanks,” Tori said. She happily sat down on the opposite side of Flint's messy desk. Melinda smiled and returned back to her desk. “So, what's this?” Tori asked Flint, reaching for a file.
Flint quickly slapped her hand away. '”Don't touch anything on my desk. You’ll mess up my system.”
“Don't mind Mr. Grouch,” Melinda told Tori. “Word is he ate his own mother just for the fun of it.”
Taking a sip of his coffee, Flint focused his attention on the file in his hand. “Listen, make yourself useful. Go down to the evidence room and tell Sergeant McKay I need the briefcase from the Dry Canyon Case.”
“Hey, yeah, sure,” Tori said excitedly. She shot to her feet and hurried away.
In his peripheral vision, Flint saw her trip over her feet and tumble to the floor. He sighed with impatience as she picked herself up and continued on her way.
“There isn't a Dry Canyon case,” Melinda fussed at Flint.
“I know,” Flint said. Dropping the file in his hand he hurried to his feet. “I got stuff to do. If you need me call dispatch.”
“You're horrible,” Melinda said, watching him make his great escape.