The Deadly Desert Read online

  Contents

  The Deadly Desert

  Disclaimer

  Dedication

  Get A FREE BOOK!

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  One More Thing...

  DETECTIVE FLINT

  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 book is for Mary. You have been so helpful in bringing this series to fruition and made the process so much fun for everyone involved! Thank you!

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  Chapter 1

  Field Trip

  Flint elbowed Tori in the side.

  “Got a mint?” he asked.

  Tori shook her head. “All out,” she answered in a sleepy voice. “Flint, we've been in this mansion all night. Can't we leave?”

  Standing in a large windowless parlor that smelled of cherry tobacco smoke, Flint fought back the exhaustion eating at his mind and body. He walked across the soft green carpet to an antique wooden bookshelf and began exploring the books. “Nice parlor... makes me feel like I'm back in the 1950's.”

  Tori folded her arms. Glancing around the parlor, she admired the vintage furnishings that complimented the burgundy walls. And somehow, the absence of windows gave the room a cozy feeling that melted into her mind the way warm chocolate melts into the mouth of a happy child sitting around a lazy campfire. “Why are we in this room, Flint? Mr. Parson's body was found upstairs in his bedroom.”

  “Well,” Flint said, turning away from the bookshelf, “when we first arrived I roamed around alone for a few minutes while you were upstairs. When I entered this parlor, I noticed that that carpet had traces of wet shoe prints on it, leading from the door to this bookshelf.”

  Tori rolled her eyes. “And you're just now telling me this?”

  “Hey,” Flint snapped back, “this place was crawling with reporters when we arrived. Henry Parsons was a well-known actor, Arnold. Whoever killed him alerted the media.” Flint fought back a yawn. “You should know by now to never show your cards until your ready to make a play. As far as we know, the killer was present tonight, watching our every move.”

  Tori kicked at the carpet. “Yeah, I know. I'm exhausted, Flint, okay? I just wanna get outta here. I need my beauty sleep.”

  “Tell me about it,” Flint said with a grin, maintaining a safe distance. “Listen, Arnold, the killer was in the parlor and we need to find out why.”

  “Okay, Flint, you're the boss.” Tori sighed. Walking over to the bookshelf, she elbowed Flint out of the way and began examining the books. “Nothing here but old classics.”

  “Yeah,” Flint said and began rubbing his bottom lip with his right fingers. “Arnold, this mansion was built in 1931. It's the second largest mansion on Mansion Lane, besides the O'Mally Mansion.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Flint paced around the parlor. “A person could get lost in this mansion, Arnold. There's a private viewing room, a basement so big that you need a map to help you find your way around, three public staircases and a private staircase, an elevator, more bedrooms than I can count... this place is something else.”

  “I get that, Flint, okay,” Tori said becoming impatient. Allowing a yawn to escape her mouth, she watched Flint pace around. Then she realized Flint was tossing her clues in order to make her think and learn. Kicking herself for missing the invitation, Tori began chewing on the words Flint had spoken. “Flint, are you implying there might be hidden passages located somewhere in this mansion?”

  Flint smiled. “The wet shoe prints I found stopped at this bookshelf. You'll notice that all the books are in alphabetical order... except one.”

  Turning back to the bookshelf, Tori reexamined the books. That's when she noticed that all the books were, indeed, in alphabetical order. Rolling her eyes across shelf one, Tori read each book title and then dropped her attention down onto the second shelf, and then third, finishing with the fourth shelf. “Flint, all the books are in order. Which book is out of order?”

  Flint walked back to the bookshelf. Kneeling down, he pointed to a book covered with an expensive brown leather cover. “This one.”

  Tori focused on the book Flint pointed at. “That's Dickens... 'A Tale of Two Cities' ...seems to be in order to me.”

  “Really?” Flint asked. “What letter does the title of that book begin with?”

  “The letter 'A'... but Flint, usually...” Tori paused. Staring into Flint's eyes she understood. “Unless you're trying to be clever, right?”

  “Right,” Flint replied in a grateful voice. “Okay, now that I have your mind on track, do me a favor and pull that book out for me, will you.”

  Tori watched Flint take a few cautious steps away from the bookshelf. “Hey, why me?”

  “You're the rookie and I'm the boss,” Flint replied.

  “And you're a jerk.” Looking down at the book, she drew in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and with a nervous hand, quickly yanked the book free. Only the book wouldn't pull out. Only the top was coming loose, and as it tipped back a few inches, a loud metallic click snapped into the air. Tori shot to her feet and backed up to Flint. “What the…?”

  Flint didn't respond. He watched the bookshelf begin to slide to the left, revealing a gray metal door. Once the metal door was clearly revealed, the bookshelf came to a rest. “Neat.”

  “Neat... I nearly faint and all you can say is 'Neat'! Oh, one of these days, Flint.” Running her fingers through her hair, she shook her head. “One of these days.”

  “Come on,” Flint ordered. After walking over to the metal door he paused, studied the material, design, and thickness, and then focused on a simple brass doorknob. Reaching out his hand he tried to the doorknob, which turned. “Neat,” he said again, pulling the metal door open.

  Tori watched, then bent down and drew out her gun. “I'm right behind you.”

  Flint eased his eyes into a dark hallway. Feeling a draft hit his face, he carefully placed out his right hand and began patting the right wall. “Bingo,” he said, finding a light switch. A row of dusty white glass globes attached to the ceiling began to glow with a weak light just about sufficient to illuminate the wooden hallway lined with a brown carpet. “Ready?” he asked Tori and pulled out his gun.

  “Let's go,” Tori said.

  “Shoot at anything that moves, and that is an order.”

  “Trust me, I will.”

  Flint stepped into the hallway, waited for Tori, and then began walking forward, feeling as though he was walking down a strange corridor leading back in time. “This hallway is leading away from the mansion,” he told Tori in a low voice. “We're walking north. The mansion faces east to west.”

  Tori let her eyes soak in the dark wooden walls. “Flint, we're talking about some real money, here.”

  “Yeah,” Flint agreed, then suddenly stopped.

  “What?” Tori asked, alarmed.

  “Melinda checked on Parsons for us when she got back to the station. Parsons was flat broke.
..well, in a rich man's sense. The man only had a little over four million dollars left out of his vast fortune.”

  “Whoever killed Henry Parson didn't kill him for money then, is that what you're saying?”

  “I'm not sure,” Flint answered. “Henry Parsons was ninety-five years old. The man was famous back in the late 1940's through the late 1950's. He then dropped off the face of the earth. He accumulated millions by investing his own fortune into stocks. Then in the late 1980's he began a Tourist Company called—”

  “Old West Tours,” Tori finished. “I know, Flint. I spoke with Melinda, too. He and his wife Amanda Parsons relocated to a town in Nevada called Dry Cliff, south of Virginia City, and I'm talking about the real Virginia City, not the Virginia City Ben and his three sons lived close to.”

  “A lot of old deserted towns out that way,” Flint said. “Melinda said Parsons and his wife didn't fare well but kept the business going anyway.”

  “Cover up for something?” Tori asked.

  “You're reading my mind,” Flint said. “Come on.”

  Flint followed the hallway until it came to a dead end at a wooden door.

  “End of the line,” Tori said, looking behind her. “You try the door, I'll cover our backs.”

  With a steady left hand, keeping his gun at the ready in his right hand, Flint opened the unlocked door. A dark room appeared. Cautiously Flint eased forward a couple of feet. Checking the inside right wall for a light switch, he felt the dark room staring at him with curious eyes, examining his mind and intentions. Finding a light switch, Flint hit it. A simple overhead light came on. “Interesting,” Flint said.

  “What?” Tori asked, backing up to the door. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Flint walk into a room about the size of the parlor. Only the room was almost completely empty – just old wooden walls, a brown carpet, and an old black safe made of iron sitting against the far back wall.

  “Keep watch,” Flint said. Putting his gun away, he walked through the room. He stopped at the safe and knelt down. The door to the safe was cracked open. Drawing in a deep breath, Flint smelled the dying scent of a man's cologne. “Parsons was in here not long ago,” he called out to Tori.

  “I assumed that. The same cologne I smelled on his body is lingering out in this hallway... faint, but there,” Tori answered.

  Flint nodded. Staring at the safe, he made a few mental notes, then moved forward. He reached into the front pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a pair of plastic gloves. As he put them on, he looked over the safe to see if he could spot any wires. The last thing he wanted was to activate a trap by pulling open the safe door. Unable to spot any wires attached to the safe or any other signs of a trap, he reached forward with his right hand and slowly pulled the safe door open. “Aha.”

  “What?” Tori asked.

  “A ticket,” Flint said, pulling it out. He went back over to Tori and showed her the ticket. “This is from Old West Tours, look. Date, May 11th, 1988.”

  “The year Henry Parsons and his wife began the company,” Tori pointed out, her eyes bright.

  Flint looked down. The ticket was about the size of a raffle ticket, brown in color. “Gold Pot, Nevada,” Flint read out, the name of the town printed on the ticket.

  “Now why would Henry Parsons keep this ticket in a hidden room like this?” Tori asked and then quickly answered her own question. “The person who left the wet footprints in the parlor wanted this ticket.”

  “Could be,” Flint added, “that Parsons was killed because of this ticket.”

  “But why?” Tori asked, lowering her gun.

  “You tell me,” Flint said, shoving the ticket into his front pocket and taking off the plastic gloves.

  “Well, let's see... if Mr. Parsons and his wife created Old West Tours as a cover-up for something, it could be that the person who left the wet footprints in the parlor knows what they were covering up... and the ticket you found is the answer.”

  “Getting smarter by the day,” Flint said. “Listen, here's what we're going to do. We're going to go get some sleep and then give Melinda a hard day. I need her to run... we need her to run... Parsons’ genealogy line for us. While she's going that, you and I are going to do some digging on everyone who paid a visit to Old West Tours.”

  “Melinda is going to divorce you before you two even get married,” Tori said. “You know, it wouldn't hurt you to take her out to a really nice restaurant, Flint. Melinda is a nice woman. Smarter than you, by the way, and she works hard. And more than that, she cares about you, you stubborn ox. Your little stunt back at the Chinese restaurant last night was a real slap in the face, too. It was also downright rude. Melinda was looking forward to spending the evening at a nice restaurant with you.”

  Flint sighed miserably. “I know, Arnold, I know. I'm just no good in places that make you wear a tie and a suit. I feel all stuffy and crammed up. I'm also... I mean, I know Melinda cares about me and all, but... well...”

  “What?” Tori pressed. “Will you stop punching at shadows?”

  “Look, I've already tried the whole love thing... Got married, wore a tux, made the vows... and what happened? The answer is standing right in front of you, single, divorced, and scarred. My ex-wife liked those fancy restaurants. She liked fancy cars, houses, clothes, the works. Arnold, I'm a simple man.”

  “Melinda isn't your ex-wife, Flint,” Tori pointed out. “Melinda is a decent woman that works hard and lives off of a budget like the rest of us. Every woman likes to be taken out someplace nice every now and then.”

  “I get that, Arnold. I'm not stupid. And you missed the point,” Flint growled. “Keep your mind on the case and out of my personal life, got it?”

  “Got it... yeesh, bite my head off, will you,” Tori said.

  Hearing a sound coming from the down the hallway toward the parlor, Flint snatched out his gun. “Let's go,” he whispered. Running past Tori, he bolted toward the parlor. Tori followed.

  Reaching the metal door, Flint slowed to a stop. Bracing himself for a gunfight, he quickly threw his head around the door, examined the parlor, and then leaned back. “Parlor is empty, come on.”

  Tori felt a horrible fear tug at her heart. Being shot once was horrible enough. She wasn't prepared to be shot twice. But, Tori thought, running out into the parlor behind Flint, she had a job to do and a partner to back up. Fighting crime meant taking the risk of being killed every single second—a risk that had to become Tori's best friend. “Clear,” Tori yelled.

  “I can see that,” Flint said, spotting the parlor door standing open. Turning to Tori he checked her nervous face. “Hey, are you okay?”

  Tori aimed her gun at the open parlor door. “When William shot me... the bullet really shook me up. I'm still a little on edge, but I'll be all right.”

  Nodding, Flint jogged over to the parlor door. Hearing the main front door open and slam shut, he thundered out of the parlor. Running down a hallway lined with expensive hardwood flooring and pictures of old people who were probably related to Henry Parsons, Flint aimed his body toward the main front door. He slid to a stop in a foyer covered with white tile, then went for the front door. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Tori barreling toward the foyer. Not wasting a second, Flint yanked the heavy wooden door open and ran out onto a manicured front lawn lined with lovely flower gardens and palm trees.

  Fresh morning air, warm and delicious, struck Flint's face. Looking to his left and then to his right, Flint searched for his prey. Unable to spot anyone, he began searching the grass for footprints.

  “Anything?” Tori asked when she caught up.

  Flint threw his eyes toward the black iron front gate that surrounded the large yard of the mansion. “No time to jump the fence... he had to have doubled around to the back of the mansion. Come on.”

  They took off to the back of the mansion, only to find a large swimming pool, a stone pool house, and more palm trees sitting on a lawn so lush and green that it seemed a crime to walk on it
. But no people. “They’ve made tracks,” Tori said, breathless and disappointed.

  “I know,” Flint growled, upset. “Whoever it was wanted information, I think. And like an idiot, I let them hear.”

  “The ticket,” Tori said.

  “The ticket,” Flint confirmed. “I read the information on the ticket out loud.”

  “What now?” Tori asked, her eyes still scanning the back yard. Grateful for the fresh morning air, she glanced at the large pool. Remembering her first case with Flint and how she had fallen into the pool at Lila Crastdale's mansion, she bit down on her lower lip. “I can scout the neighborhood, try and spot anyone, ask anyone working on the lawn if they saw anyone make tracks out of here.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Flint said, still angry. Shoving his gun back into its holster, he scolded himself for letting his prey escape. He returned to the front of the mansion with Tori, kicking the ground as he walked. “Arnold,” he said, “we're going to take a little field trip.”

  “I'm too tired, Flint. I need sleep.”

  “Not now. First thing tomorrow,” Flint pointed out. “Henry Parsons was strangled to death with a scarf. The killer wanted to make his death very tidy and then called the press. Why? Because the killer wanted to be present.” Flint paused. Drawing in a deep breath, he looked into Tori's exhausted face. “Arnold, was it a coincidence that we found Parsons’ family photo album opened next to him on the bed?”

  Tori shrugged her shoulders. “It appeared Mr. Parsons was walking down memory lane before he was murdered. At least that's how I saw it.”

  “Me, too,” Flint agreed. “Now, I'm not so certain. Come on, let's get back to the station.”

  “Flint, I need sleep. Please. I've been up for twenty-eight hours already.”

  “When you reach forty hours, then you can complain,” Flint said. “That’s police life for you.”

  Tori sighed miserably. “At least stop for some coffee. I can't stand the coffee back at the station. That stuff makes me feel like I'm being churned into sour milk.”