“I don’t mind you sitting in on this, Henry, since you’re the boss,” he says. “Just so long as you understand that what I’m about to reveal is entirely confidential.”
“It’s already a police matter, I’m guessing?” she asks.
“Yup, but it involves a local celebrity, so we’re trying to keep it as hush-hush as possible.”
The local celebrity angle piques my interest. But then, it also confuses me. This is Albany, after all, not Hollywood or New York City for that matter.
My eyes connect with Henry’s. I’ve known her for a lot of years now. I can tell just by looking into her eyes, that she too is interested.
“Celebrity,” she says. “Anyone I might know?”
Miller gets up, goes to the door, closes it.
“You mind?” he asks.
“Mi Casa, su casa,” Henry offers.
He sits back down, pulls out his smartphone, thumbs an app, comes up with a photo.
“Before I show you this,” he says, “let me give you a little background. About a month ago, a local news anchor was accused of sending inappropriate photos of his male biology to a female colleague who works in his office. She is claiming that not only did said news anchor sexually harass her, but she’s so upset about the situation, she can’t even do her job anymore as associate producer.”
For a quick second, I see myself sending unsavory texts to Kate. But then, I can’t exactly be sure I actually sent her anything either. Best to stay focused on Miller and what he’s telling me.
“Who is this anchor?” I press. “What’s his name?”
“This is all strictly confidential like I said.” He’s sitting on the edge of his seat. “His name is Terry McGovern. He heads up the nightly news broadcasts for the local Fox News affiliate. You both, no doubt, know precisely who I am talking about.”
How can I not? Terry McGovern is Mr. TV. He has not only become a local legend over the many decades he’s been delivering the nightly news for several network affiliates, but he is by far the highest paid broadcaster in Albany. And since Albany is the epicenter of New York State politics, that makes him sort of famous outside the city too.
Once more, I glance at Henry to gauge her reaction. Her unblinking eyes tell me she’s just as shocked at the mention of McGovern’s name in a sexual harassment lawsuit as I am.
“I thought McGovern has a family?” I say.
You see, it’s different if I send lewd pics to an adult female coworker (keyword being adult). I don’t have a family and a wife sitting at home waiting for me. But then, scratch that. Family or no family, sexual harassment is a no excuse kind of workplace violation. It’s just that some people, never mind McGovern, can’t control themselves once they get their beer muscles on, which happen to be the only muscles I have these days.
Miller nods. “He does have a family. His wife, Janice, of twenty-five plus years, plus two sons in college. But then, that’s inconsequential.”
“And who is this assistant producer?” I ask.
“Girl, or woman I should say, by the name of Natalia Brezinski.”
“Russian,” Henry jumps in.
Miller nods again. “Exactly,” he says. “Immigrated here with her parents back in the early two thousands when the Russian economy was a shambles, and little kids like Natalia were being sold into the prostitution market just to make money for food.”
History is quickly forgotten. Lots of young people have no idea how broke the Russian economy was immediately after the fall of the Berlin Wall back in the early nineties. The entire USSR fell apart as communism was slowly replaced not with democracy but a sort of oligarchical power grab, where a handful of crooked, mafia-like politicians grabbed up ninety percent of the wealth. Most people who’d been living a relatively normal middle-class life, for Commies that is, were immediately thrust into poverty. I could only assume her family fell into this category.
“I assume she’s attractive?” I ask.
“What’s looks got to do with anything, Jobz?” Henry snaps.
“Bite my head off why don’t ya, Henry?”
Miller holds up the phone, displays a snapshot of an extremely attractive young woman. Shoulder length sandy blonde hair, beautiful blue eyes, and a killer smile. In fact, she almost looks like she could be Kate’s sister.
“Well, I guess that answers Jobz’s question,” Henry comments. “So, why is it you wanna farm out my UI fraud investigator, Detective Miller?”
He sets the phone down on his thigh. “McGovern has been suspended by the station,” he states. “Pending investigation into the allegations, of course.”
“Hold the phone a sec,” I jump in. “How is it he’s already suspended when there’s no proof he sent . . . what’s her name—”
“—Natalia,” Henry interjects.
“Yes, Natalia . . . How is it he’s already suspended when it’s her word against his? Anyone actually seen the pictures he sent her? And even if they have, how can they be sure what he sent actually belongs to him?”
The cop in me is coming out. Maybe I was a cop for little more than a year, but you never really lose the instinct for thinking like a police officer. Which is likely why Miller wants to work with me. One of the reasons anyway.
“As state workers, you must know the drill,” Miller says.
“It’s the accusation that counts,” Henry offers.
“Exactly,” Miller says. “But here’s the thing. A very upset, and supposedly unfairly treated McGovern, has applied for Unemployment Insurance, which I assume he may not be entitled to.”
Once more, I glance at Henry.
“We’ll have to pull his application,” she says.
“How is it none of this has hit the local news?” I ask.
“It’s been kept under wraps,” he says. “Many of the local media darlings seem to be supportive of McGovern. There have been some reports about it, but thus far, news of the accusations have managed to stay off the front pages of the local papers. But that’s about to change now that he’s been receiving death threats.”
“The meat of the matter,” I say.
“Here’s the deal,” Miller says. “Over the course of the past couple days, McGovern has received several calls on his private cell phone. The number is untraceable, and the caller unidentifiable. The caller does, however, possess an accent.”
“What kind of accent?” I press.
“Russian, by the sound of it.”
“So, why are we having this meeting, Miller? Sounds like what McGovern needs is a good lawyer and a police escort.”
“That’s the thing,” Miller says. “He’s lawyered up, all right. Hotshot lawyer by the name of Megan Barker.”
I knew the woman. Knew of her anyway. Tall, brunette, stunning brown eyes, and a closet full of expensive suits and jewelry. Makes her money primarily on accident victims looking for big insurance payoffs. Most cases don’t even make it to court. It also just so happens that Barker represents more than her share of loafers who try their best to abuse the unemployment insurance program, which means our paths may have crossed on several occasions, not that she would have taken even the slightest notice of me. She was also known as a serial dater, not one to settle down into a monogamous life of tranquility. In other words, she liked to get laid by a variety of men.
“But the police escort is out of the question,” Miller adds. “I don’t have that kind of manpower. If anything, we’re understaffed.”
The lightbulb goes on over my head. “You want me to watch over him for a while?”
He nods, turns his full attention to Henry. “So long as you’re okay with loaning Mr. Jobz out to us for a little while, Henrietta.”
She smiles, purses her lips. “We’re only too happy to loan you Mr. Jobz, and to deny Mr. McGovern his request for UI.”
“The latter is your business,” Miller states.
He stands, turns to me. “Hope this isn’t going to put a crimp in your workload, Jobz.”
J
ust then, Kate reenters the office, quietly sets a paper napkin onto Henry’s desk, then sets a hot “I Love NY” mug of tea onto that. Kate smiles at me, winks once more. The wink sends a shiver through my spine again.
You know what? Maybe getting out of the office for a while isn’t a bad idea after all.
“The workload is all taken care of, Miller,” I say. “I have an assistant now. Isn’t that right, Henry?”
“A very young and attractive assistant with whom Mr. Jobz is treating with the utmost professionalism and respect. We wouldn’t want a scenario like Mr. McGovern’s to tarnish the good name of the New York State Unemployment Insurance Fraud Agency now would we, Jobz?”
“Something I should know about?” Miller queries.
My mouth goes dry, heartbeat elevates.
“Not at all,” I say.
“I’ll wait for you out in the cruiser,” Miller says.
“I need to get my shit together,” I say, as I exit the office.
Little does Miller know that getting my shit together means a hell of a lot more than just packing up my computer.
I hustle back to my cubicle, pull out my smartphone. My hands are shaking so bad I drop the phone to the carpet.
“Shit,” I whisper. “Fuck.”
“You all right there, Jobz?” the man in the cubicle beside me chimes in. His name is Dereck.
“Yeah, fine,” I say.
Bending over, I pick up the phone.
“Sounds like you’re having a hell of a time in there.” His voice is effeminate. Bitchy effeminate to be precise. I picture the soft-under bellied, tall, dark-haired, tan-skinned forty-something man staring at his computer screen, casually denying UI claims one after the other while just as casually carrying on a cross-cubicle conversation with me. Dereck prides himself on multi-tasking.
I turn the phone over. The screen is badly cracked.
“Shit, fuck, shit.”
“My, my. Such language, Jobzy man. You’ll hurt my virgin ears.”
“If you’re a virgin, Dereck, I’m Snow White. I hear the way you talk to your boyfriend on the phone.”
“Sticks and stone, Jobzy. Sticks and stones.”
I can still see the digital readout on the phone even if it is like looking at it through the cracked windshield of a crashed car. I immediately thumb the Messages app. My eyes focus on the most recent recipient. Heart skips a beat when I see the name Kate. Swallowing something dry and bitter, I thumb her name, and the messages appear.
My worst nightmare is realized.
The last message sent was from me. It’s a photograph of me with my shirt off. I shot the picture in the houseboat bathroom mirror. The typed message beneath the photo reads, “Not bad for a middle-aged guy!” There’s no response from Kate.
I want to melt into the carpeting, disappear from view entirely.
“Not bad. Not bad at all.” The words snap me out of my spell.
Dereck is looking over the cubicle wall like a nosy neighbor trying to get my attention over the picket fence that separates our two properties.
“Who’s the lucky girl?” he says. “Or maybe it’s a lucky guy. Or is that just wishful thinking, Jobzy?”
I immediately shove the phone back inside my jacket pocket.
“Mind your own business, will you, Dereck?”
He’s smiling at me, his smooth face radiant and excited. He’s wearing a pink shirt with a gold chain around his neck. The chain holds a Star of David pendant. He's also wearing gold rings on almost every finger and gold bracelets on both his wrists.
“Are we doing a little naughty sexting?” he inquires, one eye open the other shut, his lips smirking.
“Like I said, Dereck, mind your own beeswax.”
“Oh, lighten up, Jobzy. We all do it from time to time. I especially get into trouble when I’ve hit the Vino Russo a little too hard. Stop beating yourself up. To err is human, to sext is normal.”
“Thanks,” I say, unplugging my computer, stuffing it into its travel bag. “Makes me feel a whole lot better about myself.”
“Going somewhere?”
“I’ve got an assignment outside the office,” I say. “The new girl, Kate, will be taking over my stuff for a while.”
“Wish we had a new boy on the scene,” he says. Then, “Are you like a secret agent man on the side, Jobzy?”
“Sure, Dereck,” I say. “You could say that.”
“So handsome and so talented. Well, let me know if you need help with your assignment. It sounds like a real adventure. And it would be sweet to get out of this place for a while. Soooo claustrophobic.”
I’m surprised he doesn’t go into a monologue about how he used to travel the world with his rich ex-boyfriend who left him high and dry for a younger man. Now, he has no choice but to work for a living.
I zip the bag up, throw the leather strap over my shoulder.
“Thanks for the offer, Dereck,” I say. “I’ll be seeing you.”
I step out into the corridor without looking and nearly run over Kate.
“Oh, Kate,” I say, my throat constricting, palms sweaty, skin tingly. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
She smiles at me, stares at me. Rather not at me, but through me.
“Heading out?” she asks pleasantly.
“Yes, the new assignment. Henry will bring you up to speed on my accounts. Easy peasy.”
I try to follow up with a smile like I don’t have a care in the world. But the white elephant that’s standing between us is way too hard to ignore. And she’s not saying anything. She’s just staring at me with those beautiful blue eyes, her thick hair veiling her sweet face. Oh my God, I just want to kiss her like nobody’s business.
My cell phone begins buzzing in my pocket. Saved by the bell, so to speak. Acting on instinct, I pull it out. It’s a phone call from Miller.
“Excuse me, Kate,” I say, thumbing the answer button, pressing the phone to my ear.
“Jobz,” I say.
“What’s with the holdup, Jobz?” Miller questions. “I’m getting old out here.”
“You’re already old,” I say. “Be right there.”
Pulling the phone from my ear, I thumb the end call button. That’s when Kate can plainly see that I’ve cracked the screen.
“Oh no, Mr. Jobz.”
“Call me Jobz, please” I interject. “Everyone else does.”
“Or you can call him Jobzy,” Dereck offers from his inside his cubicle.
“Thanks, Dereck,” I say. “I’m sure Kate can make her own decisions.”
“Just saying is all,” Dereck says in his high-pitched sing-song voice.
Eyes back on Kate.
“Okay, then,” I say. “I’m sure I’ll be talking to you later. I’ll check in with you . . . on your office phone of course.”
Oh, dear God, I’m an idiot . . . an absolute idiot.
Heart now pumping in my throat, I scoot past her, our shoulders just barely brushing. It’s enough contact to make me dizzy.
“Oh, and Jobz,” she says.
I stop in my tracks, turn slowly around.
“Yes, Kate?”
She takes a couple steps forward, invades my personal space like she wants to smother me in smooches. Positioning her sweet lips beside my right earlobe, she says, “You’re right. Not bad at all.”
She pulls back, her pouty lips only inches from mine, offers me one last wink, and walks off in the opposite direction.
God help me.
To say I descend two flights of concrete stairs to the bottom floor with a spring in my step puts it mildly. More like I could skip the stairs altogether and land perfectly on both feet. Maybe I was being too hard on myself. Maybe sexting after one too many beers isn’t the smartest or most respectful of all moves. Then again maybe, just maybe, I’ve still got it after all these years. I mean, I’m not about to kid myself. I’m not thirty anymore. But I’m not sixty either.
Something dawns on me, however, and it most definite
ly tempers some of my new found spring. Kate has something on me now. Leverage. She’s got the goods, whether I like it or not. She has tangible evidence she can use against me should I ever cross her the wrong way. Right now she seems like the sweet, young, innocent assistant. The eager to please assistant. But I wasn’t born yesterday, and I know all that sweetness can suddenly turn sour the second I step on her big toe, mistakenly or not. So yeah, I might not be thirty anymore, but I can most definitely still act like a stupid kid.
Miller is parked out front, his unmarked four-door sedan cruiser pulled right up to the curb. I go around to the passenger side, get in, set the computer bag on my lap.
“’Bout time, Jobz,” he comments.
“It was time for my morning constitutional,” I lie. “Consider it bad timing.”
“I hoped you washed your hands.”
Reaching out, I take hold of his hand. “Oh crap, I totally forgot.”
He pulls his hand from mine like I just burned it with a lit match.
The Flower Man Page 2