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

by Nancy McGovern

  Stopping at the exit door, Flint tipped Melinda wink. “Can I help it if I suddenly got called away?”

  “Jerk,” Melinda said with a smile. She turned her face away.

  “Thanks for the compliment,” Flint said, then disappeared.

  *****

  Down in the evidence room, Tori stood arguing with Sergeant McKay, insisting that she needed the briefcase from the Dry Canyon Case.

  “Listen, my partner and I need that briefcase,” Tori said firmly to the skinny old man who stood looking at her like she was a nut. Eyeing her warily, he picked up the phone and he called Chief Cunningham.

  “He’s coming down now to sort this all out,” the man said.

  *****

  Chapter 2

  “No more funny stuff,” Chief Cunningham warned Flint, allowing his tone to change just enough to let Flint know he meant business. But, then, remembering his anger management, he added, “Please.”

  Looking to his left, Flint rolled his eyes at Tori.

  Tori gave him a sour look. “Not funny, you know, and so not cool.”

  “Neither is that purple clown dress you're wearing.” Flint grinned. “Hey Chief, you better send me out to investigate the circus, I think all of the clown suits have been stolen.”

  “And who dresses you, the Detroit Red Wings?” Tori shot back.

  “Enough of that,” Chief Cunningham said, his patience wearing thin. “Flint, listen, I need you at your absolute best right now. There's been a homicide. I just got the call an hour ago. An actress named Lila Crastdale has been found floating face down in her pool.”

  “Who?” Flint asked, not recognizing the name.

  “Lila Crastdale,” Tori whispered to herself. “Oh, yes! She starred in all those wonderful drive-in horror movies from the fifties.”

  “A B-rated actress that made it big for a while. She faded away in the mid-sixties,” Chief Cunningham explained to Flint. “Her last movie, though, ended with the lead actor being murdered. Lila Crastdale was arrested for the murder, but later proven innocent.”

  “Jealousy killing?” Flint asked.

  Chief Cunningham shrugged his shoulders, impressed with Flint's quick thinking. “Could have been, but the case was marked unsolved. “Lila Crastdale turned eighty-four years old a couple of weeks ago.”

  “An old broad, huh?” Flint said, leaning back in his chair.

  “Lila Crastdale was a magnificent actress, you jerk. She wasn't just an old broad,” Tori said.

  Flint clicked his tongue. “Chief, do I really have to take this fog horn with me?”

  Chief Cunningham nodded his head. As much as he enjoyed watching Tori torture Flint, he also knew Flint was his best homicide detective. Having a clumsy greenhorn tailing him around might interfere with Flint's ability to conduct a thorough investigation. But political pressure outweighed the obvious. “Ms. Arnold, I need you to listen to me. Detective Flint is one of my best. He has years of experience and more importantly, common sense. I need you to listen and learn from him. A woman has been found dead, and that's very serious business. The studio she worked with will be crawling all over me before lunch. I don't have time to play referee between you and Detective Flint. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tori said. “And I’d appreciate if Flint was clear on that matter, too.”

  Ignoring Tori, Flint folded his arms together. “What time was the body found?”

  “About two hours ago, around 7:00am. A groundskeeper found the body,” Chief Cunningham explained. “So make some tracks and get to the residence.” Writing down the address to Lila Crastdale's home, Chief Cunningham said a quick prayer. “Okay, get moving,” he then told Flint, handing him the address. “Ms. Arnold, this case is to be handled with kid gloves. That means do as Detective Flint orders, are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tori said, standing up.

  “Excellent,” Chief Cunningham said. Looking at Flint he nodded his head. “Kid gloves. You know what the studios are like when one of their own is murdered. The press will be all over this like flies. But for now, a gag order has been given. This Lila Crastdale woman is very sensitive. When the time comes, the press will be let in, though.”

  “If you're up at midnight, maybe you'll catch some reruns of some bad B-movies,” Flint said. “The studio that made this woman's movies won't waste any time squeezing a few last dimes out of her, even at her death.”

  Reluctantly, Flint glanced at Tori and tossed a thumb at the door.

  “A gentleman opens a door for a lady,” Tori said.

  “Show me a lady and I'll open the door for her,” Flint said, falling back on a lame saying but enjoying every second of it.

  Tori scowled at Flint and stalked out of the office.

  “Kid gloves with her as well, please,” Chief Cunningham pleaded with Flint. “Her relatives are high-level politicians in this state.”

  Flint paused at the door. “Chief,” he said, “if this woman was found face down in her pool, most likely she knew the killer. I'll examine the house for signs of forced entry, but I doubt I'll find any. Can you ask Melinda to create me a list of all know relatives, friends, acquaintances, so on?”

  “Sure. And Flint?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Lila Crastdale was a very wealthy woman. After her movie career ended she went into the stock market. She relocated to Manhattan for twenty years, after she was proven innocent in court. She returned to Los Angeles, to her old mansion, in 1988. That's all I have on her right now, and that's just from public records. I'll dig up more on her.”

  “Thanks… and appreciate the help,” Flint told Chief Cunningham. “Tell me something?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How are those anger management classes working for you?” Flint asked, a glint in his eye. “Not good for a man to stay all bottled up inside.” He swaggered out of the office before the chief could reply.

  Leaning back in his office chair, Chief Cunningham laughed to himself. “He may be a wart on this department's butt, but he's good.”

  Walking outside into an early November morning, Flint glanced up at an overcast sky. Maneuvering his way past a line of black and white squad cars, he focused his mind on the pavement under his feet. It was still damp from rain the night before. He knelt down and felt the pavement with his right hand.

  “Lose something?” Tori asked and then threw in, “Like maybe your mind?”

  “I lost my mind a long time ago,” Flint retorted calmly.

  “Listen,” Tori said. “I really tried to like you yesterday. You didn't have to be so mean to me. I'm not exactly thrilled about being partnered up with you, either. I did a little checking on you, you know.”

  “Yeah, and did the computer blow up in your face?” Flint asked, getting to his feet.

  “Ha ha,” Tori said, “but no. You're divorced, no children. Enlisted in the Army at the age of eighteen, became an MP, left the Army four years later and joined the LAPD, then--”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Flint said, throwing his hand at Tori. “I know my life, sister. Come on, I've got work to do.”

  “You mean we have work to do,” Tori corrected.

  “Listen,” he said, struggling to remain calm, “and listen carefully. I work alone. Do you hear me? I'll bring you along with me because I'm forced to, but I work alone. When we get to the crime scene, don't touch anything, talk to anyone or wander off anywhere. Just follow me around and keep your mouth shut.”

  “You quit smoking two months ago, and have been a grouch every since,” Tori finished Flint's life story. Holding her ground, she threw a silly grin at him.

  “Oh good grief, come on, Bozo,” Flint said, rolling his eyes.

  Flint slowed his pace as he approached the car. He spotted a black limousine parked on the side street next to the station but pretended not to notice. After fishing the car keys out of the side pocket of his tan overcoat, he unlocked the driver's side door. Tori walked around to the passengers door. “Ahem. My door? Unlock
it please.”

  Crawling down into the passenger's seat, Flint watched as the limousine pulled away from the curb and picked up speed. Unable to catch the tag from the position and distance he was at, he reached out and unlocked Tori's door. “Get in,” he said in a quick voice, starting the key. He threw on his seat belt and got the Honda moving even before Tori could close the passenger's door.

  “Hey!” Tori yelled. “Knock it off.”

  Hanging a hard left onto the side street, Flint spotted the limousine stopped at a stop sign. “Write down the tag number to this limo,” he ordered Tori.

  The tone in Flint's voice caused Tori to forget this feud. But then, she kicked herself. “I….left my purse back in my locker at the station. I don't have a pen.”

  “Glove compartment,” Flint said. Easing up behind the limousine, he focused his sharp eyes on the tag and quickly memorized the number. “Let's see where you're going.”

  When the limousine took a left, Flint took a right.

  “Where are you going, the limo went the other way?” Tori asked, confused.

  “I have a hunch I know where the driver is going. It's better to let the passenger think I lost interest,” Flint explained, driving down a narrow street filled with old police cars that were now out of commission. Passing the station’s main garage, Flint stopped at another stop sign, looked both ways, and hung a right. “We're going to Canyon View Studios. When we get there… just don't touch anything.”

  “Oh, come on, I'm not a moron.”

  “Where's your shield? Flint asked.

  “I...” Tori began, but then realized she had also left her shield in her purse, which of course, was in her locket back at the station. “Can we turn around, it won't take me a minute to--”

  “No.”

  “But I can run in really fast and--”

  “No.”

  “I'll be really quick and--”

  “No!” Flint said. “But I'll take you back to the station when it's lunch. I'm not going broke buying your food.”

  “Funny,” Tori said, throwing her arms over her chest. “Just so you know, I'm on a diet.”

  Flint glanced at Tori. The woman weighed a hundred and twenty pounds at the most. “Yeah, who isn't out here?” he replied, then focused back on the road.

  Tori looked down at a cheeseburger wrapper lying on the floorboard. “Not you, obviously,” she said.

  “Life is short, sister, eat what you want. I ain't out to impress nobody, so what does it matter?”

  “No wonder you're divorced with that attitude,” Tori shot at Flint, but then quickly regretted her words. “Wow, crossed the line. Sorry for that one.”

  Flint shrugged his shoulders. “I was married for four years, it wasn't a lifetime. My ex-wife wanted more than my salary could give her. She wanted fancy country clubs and I liked cheap Chinese food.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. My last boyfriend dumped me for a skinny blonde. He said I didn't fulfill his, quote, emotional needs, unquote.”

  Flint grinned. He couldn't help it. “Yeah, tough one,” he said.

  “It's not funny,” Tori said, catching Flint's grin. She balled up her left fist and punched him on the arm.

  “Yeah, sorry. Getting tossed to the curb is tough.” Flint tried to sound sincere but failed. Shaking his head, he eased off the personal track and ran back onto the task at hand.

  Driving toward the studios, he entered a strange world—a world that transformed Los Angles into a mystery that he could not quite figure out. The studios were just buildings sitting on acres and acres of land, yet they represented something more. Somehow they were everything Los Angeles was, all of its appeal and mystery, wrapped up in a foggy view, where only the lost could peek through.

  After all, Flint thought, Los Angeles was a place where nobody belonged but thousands of people lived. And in the midst of it all stood the studios, calling people from all over the world into their womb, transforming them into different people who changed faces each decade to match new demands. But through the glamor and glitter, deep down in the womb of the studios, stood a vicious, hungry monster that was not beautiful or appealing, but deadly, lurking in dark, wet corners, waiting to attack innocent minds.

  Pulling up to curb, Flint parked his car. Across the street, hanging over a high black iron fence, was a simple wooden sign with the words Canyon View Studios etched in it with silver letters. Behind the sign stood rows and rows of buildings, some large enough to fit entire towns in, it seemed. Flint watched an endless row of vehicles coming and going, as a poor, underpaid, guard waved them out or in through an electric gate.

  And there, he nodded his head, was his limousine. The limousine slowed down, hung a right into the studio, and vanished. “Okay,” Flint said, pulling away from the curb, “now we go see Lila Crastdale.”

  Ignoring Flint, Tori studied the studio with fascinated eyes. She saw herself becoming the next big star. Flint nudged her with his elbow. “Get the stars out of your eyes and focus.”

  “Oh, yeah sure, we're off to see Lila Crastdale,” Tori said. She pretended to focus, but in her mind she saw millions of adoring fans begging her for autographs, while thousands of cameras flashed around her beautiful face.

  While Tori daydreamed, Flint studied the limousine. Nodding his head, he made a mental note, then went back to thinking about the rain the night before.

  *****

  Flint was never impressed with the cold statues of mansions that caused normal people to forget their humble homes. They began to lust after false beauty and dangerous wealth, and it quickly swallowed their souls, he thought. Lila Crastdale's mansion was no different from all the rest. Large and overly fancy, its old country Spanish design seemed fake.

  What bothered Flint the most wasn't the mansions, though. It was the people inside the mansions - people with more money than sense, with cold hearts and a view on reality that separated them from the law and the truth of life. Somehow the people inside the mansions, at least the ones he’d met, anyways, believed they were special and unique, gifted and entitled, above the normal flock of people who worked hard to make society function on a sane level.

  These people believed because their faces were on the big screen they deserved to be treated like royalty, and that disease infected millions of innocent minds, luring them into the dark dungeons of Hollywood.

  Pulling his car up beside a black and white patrol car blocking a long concrete driveway that led up to Lila Crastdale's mansion, Flint glanced at Tori. “Don't talk, don't touch, don't break anything, understand?” he said, turning off the ignition.

  “Sure,” Tori replied, fascinated.

  Here she was, a promising and beautiful rookie detective, ready to begin her first case. She could see it now: Beautiful Detective Solves Lila Crastdale Murder Single Handedly. Oh, she would be famous. The studios would flock to her, ready to make a movie about her. An adoring public would beg for her autograph. Her face would be in every movie, on every billboard, on—

  “Hey,” Flint said, and quickly poked Tori on the nose. “Come back down to earth, will you?”

  Tori laughed at her own daydreaming. “I’m here, Flint, and ready to get investigating. Don’t you worry about me.”

  Shaking his head, Flint got up out of the driver's seat. Walking to the patrol car, he let his eyes absorb the scene. “Hey Roger,” he said to a gray-haired policeman leaning against the patrol car, “who's up there?”

  “The same,” Roger Mindale said, chewing a toothpick in his mouth. Tossing an eye at Tori he grinned. “I heard about your new partner. She's a real... bang, from what I understand.”

  “Funny,” Flint replied. He didn't have time for jokes. Roger was old and close to retiring with only a year to go. The only thing the man had to worry about was how many toothpicks he could chew through on a single shift. Flint, on the other hand, had a homicide to investigate. “No press, the street is quiet, no police tape, low key.”

  Roger nodded. “Gag order
was issued,” he explained. “Mayor wants this case handled carefully, Flint, and as quietly as possible. Not many people remember Lila Crastdale. Even if her name was thrown into the spotlight for a few nightly news reports, it wouldn't mean much. But still, you know it is.”

  “I sure do. Anyone up there?”

  “Just Steve,” Roger answered.

  “Where’s the groundskeeper?”

  “I took his statement and sent it back to the station. I was told to let him leave,” Roger explained. “Mayor is on this... you know how it is.”

  “I sure do,” Flint said. Taking a slow breath he glanced up and down the street. Palm trees lined the street on both sides. Tall, black iron fences ran shoulder to shoulder, separating private properties by mere inches. Behind the black iron fences stood the mansions, surrounded by well-manicured lawns, flower gardens, trees, pools, expensive marble walkways, pool houses, greenhouses, the works. What made Flint's belly sour was that every mansion on the street was simply for show—a show of money, prestige, privilege, and power. “Come on,” he told Tori.

  Tori offered Roger a polite smile and followed Flint through two large black iron gates and then up a long concrete driveway lined with palm trees. “Wow,” she said, turning her head to the right. The yard sitting in front of Lila Crastdale's mansion was beautiful. Gorgeous flower gardens made a circle in the middle of the yard, surrounding a magnificent white gazebo. Spanish Moss hung down from Southern Live Oak tress—obviously imported, Tori told herself—that stood in contrast to the palm trees lining the driveway.

  The farther she walked up the driveway, the more she felt as if her body was being escorted back into a strange and wonderful time; a time when Lila Crastdale's face was on the big screen, when men wore black tuxedos to cocktail parties and women wore long, flowing gowns. A time when film wasn't polluted with false faces, but when Los Angeles hummed happily. A time when movie stars went to diners and the world wasn't so complicated. “The good old days,” Tori said with a sigh and then stopped in her tracks. “Oh, my.”