“It was bogus, Terry,” I say. “You have one hell of a reputation with the ladies.”
He nearly snaps his neck when he turns to me, fury painting his face.
“You watch your fucking mouth, Mr. Jobz. I’m not the only one in this relationship who’s drifted.”
“I’m sorry,” I pose, acid in my tone. “I say something wrong?”
“Your cock and your philandering nearly got you killed today, Terry,” Janice snips. “And now it’s gotten your lawyer killed. Don’t you dare yell at him for telling it like it is.”
Terry looks out the window. There’s nothing out there but cold, steely darkness. But in my heart, I know he’s seeing the absolute disaster that has resulted from his original act of texting pictures of himself to Natalia. His is a world as cold and lonely as a midwinter night in Albany. His and Janice’s. I’m not entirely unfamiliar with that world either.
“In the morning, I’ll make sure the lawsuit is withdrawn,” he states. “That is, Megan didn’t already withdraw it before her . . .”
I down the shot, set the empty glass onto the table.
“The cops are done out there,” I say. “Miller is sending a cop car over to watch the place. Some added security in the form of the real police. Sorry to bear the news to Terry, but I got no choice now. I’m gonna try and get some sleep. It will be daylight in a couple hours.”
“Good night, Jobz,” Terry says, under his breath.
“Sleep well, Steve,” Janice says, not without a bitter laugh.
The laugh tells me she doesn’t mean it.
Back in the cottage, I don’t bother changing. I simply put my feet up on the bed, close my eyes. Sadly, the whiskey I just drank is having no effect on my nerves. Every time I close my eyes, I see rose heads falling from the sky. I see severed heads, all of them belonging to Megan Barker. My mind torments me, pokes the inside of my skull with hot exposed electrical wires. I see Megan and me on her couch inside her office, our bodies naked, glistening with sweat, our sexes joined together, our flesh pressed together as one. But she has no head. Only a bloody stump of a neck.
Christ, I’m not even dreaming . . .
I sit up fast, plant my feet firmly on the floor. Bringing both hands to my face, I attempt to slap some life back into it. But it’s no use. I might be wide awake, but all I can think about is death. All I can smell are dead roses. All I want to do is strangle this SOB Anatoly with my bare hands.
But that’s just it. I need to find a way into his world without him suspecting me as a cop. Or a man working for the cops anyway. That means, I must become someone whom he can trust. Someone he recognizes as one of his own. But how?
Outside the cottage, the sun is coming up on another frigid gray winter day. Suddenly, I feel old. Like my life has passed me by, and I never paid any attention to it. What have I got to show for the life I’ve led? A divorce, an ex-communication from the force, no house, no property, no money, no wife.
Hell, not so much as a steady girlfriend.
I do have the New York State Unemployment Insurance Fraud Agency, however, and Henry, and a killer car. I have Kate if only to look at and long after.
“Jesus, listen to yourself, Jobz,” I whisper. “Get your sorry ass out of bed and go to work.”
Lifting myself off the bed, I go to the kitchen sink, splash some water on my face, brush my teeth. Stuffing my semi-automatic back into my pant waist, I head back outside, feel the cold envelope me like a second skin. It’s one of those mornings that smells like worms, and the cold eats away at your bones. There’s a light on in the kitchen, so I head up onto the deck, rap my knuckles on the French door.
Janice appears to me. She’s no longer in her robe but dressed in gray wool slacks and a black turtleneck sweater. She unlocks the door, opens it.
“You’re up early,” I say.
“Impossible to sleep,” she says. “The image of Megan took over my brain. A severed head covered in roses. Can you imagine?”
“Lot of that going around,” I say.
She asks me if I want coffee.
“Black,” I say. “And Janice?”
She turns, eyes me. “Yes?”
“I’ll take it straight, no chaser.”
“Good idea. Yesterday was overkill.”
A couple minutes later, we’re sitting at the kitchen table. I lay my conversation with Miller on the line with her. Rather, I reveal the part about Miller wanting me to investigate Anatoly personally.
She shakes her head. If I were to put words to the gesture, they would be, “Sure hope you know what you’re doing.”
I wrap my hands around my coffee cup, allow the warmth to seep into my body.
“Problem is,” I say, “I can’t just walk into The Flower Man shop and ask to speak with Anatoly. I need some sort of a way inside his world.”
“You mean, like a disguise,” Janice clarifies.
I nod. “Yeah, I guess so. It will be one thing to observe him face to face, but another to have access to his personal space.”
“Why?”
“You never know what incriminating evidence he might have lying around. Evidence that would point directly at him, or one of his people anyway, as the killer or killers. If he feels as though his world is impenetrable, then it stands to reason he’s made mistakes.”
She sips some coffee.
“I see where you’re going with this,” she says. “I don’t see why the police aren’t picking him up right now. They should have picked him up after he shot Terry, for God’s sakes.”
“I agree,” I say. “But Terry didn’t want real cops involved, and the law doesn’t always work that way anyway. You need hard evidence, and right now, all we have to go on is someone who dresses in black and drives a black four-door sedan.”
We both stare into our respective coffees for a few moments.
“Janice,” I say, “you and Anatoly . . .”
She raises her head, locks eyes with me.
“Before you ask it,” she says, “it was over between the both of us as fast as it began. I’ve talked to Anatoly about flowers. But that’s the extent of it. I haven’t been with him for over a year, and now . . . since this lawsuit happened . . . we don’t even talk about anything, much less flowers.”
The phone records would indicate otherwise, but I decide not to push the subject. Instead, my eyes drift to yet another half dozen vases filled with orchids and those little bright red flowers. Janice certainly loves her orchids. So long as the vases aren’t filled with the English Blooms.
Flowers . . .
That’s when it dawns on me. The bit of conversation I had with Miller just a few hours ago when he spoke about how The Flower Man didn’t grow his own flowers. Instead, he got them from a distributor.
“Janice,” I say, “do you know of any flower distributors who might sell to Anatoly Brezinski?”
She sits back in her chair, one hand wrapped around her coffee cup, the fingers on the other combing through her thick hair.
“Could be any one of a dozen in Albany,” she says. “Why?”
“I think I know how I can get into his operation without being suspected of working for the cops.”
Her eyes go wide. She’s onto me and my idea.
“You’ll masquerade as one of his distributors,” she correctly surmises. “Not a bad idea. But how will you manage that?”
I drink the rest of my coffee, set the mug back down onto the table.
“Easy,” I say. “All I need to do is steal me a flower truck.”
“Easy,” she repeats, not without a laugh.
I look at my watch. “What time would a flower shop like Anatoly receive his daily shipment of product?”
“First thing, naturally,” she says. “Maybe seven in the morning.”
“Gives me a full hour,” I say.
“For what exactly?”
“To dress myself up like a flower deliveryman,” I say, rising out of my chair. “And to find a flower distributor who delivers direc
tly to The Flower Man.”
Janice and I both agree that going back to my houseboat on the Port of Albany would be too risky. Anatoly’s men are likely watching the house right now, which means they will likely tail me the entire way.
“I don’t have workman’s clothing with me,” I say.
“I think I can help,” Janice says. “Terry’s legs are a lot longer than yours, but I think I can jerry-rig a pair of his old jeans for you.”
She tells me to wait where I am while she heads out of the kitchen, into the vestibule, and up the stairs. When she returns, she’s holding a pair of well-worn jeans, a black T-shirt, and an old red and black flannel button down. Setting the shirts on the table, she unfolds the jeans, places the pant legs up against my legs.
“Hold this against your belt,” she says, handing me the jeans by their waist.
She then folds up the right leg on the jeans so that the length now matches the shorter length of my leg. Setting the jeans onto the table, she goes around the counter, opens a drawer, comes back out with a pair of scissors. She cuts the pant leg along the line of the fold and then cuts the second pant leg to match.
“Try these on,” she says.
“Here?” I ask.
“No better place,” she says.
I slip off my shoes, strip down to my boxer shorts. I then pull the jeans on. They’re more than a little snug in the waist, but the leg lengths are perfect. Damn, I gotta cut back on the beer.
“Great,” she says. “Now, while you put on those shirts, I’ll find you a pair of boots.” She focuses on my feet. “I’d say you’re about a ten?”
“Ten,” I concur.
“Perfect,” she says. “So is Terry.”
She opens a door located beside the entry to the vestibule. It’s the basement. She flicks on a light, heads downstairs. Moments later, she comes back up with a pair of old Timberland work boots that look like they were manufactured back when Jimmy Carter was President.
“Ten and a half,” she says, dropping them to the kitchen floor, “but they will have to do.”
“I’ll make them work,” I say, sitting myself down, slipping my feet into the boots.
Lacing them up, I tie them off and stand.
“Not bad,” I say, wiggling my toes. “Little more room than I’m used to, but not bad.”
“Your eyeglasses are going to have to stay,” she says. “Assuming you’re blind as a bat without them.
“You may assume,” I say.
“But you haven’t shaved in a few days, so that’s a plus.” Then, raising her hand. “Wait, you need one more thing to top off the disguise. This time she goes through the kitchen, and the dining room, and out to a mudroom that connects with the garage. When she returns, she’s holding a hunter green baseball hat that bears the word CAT on its brim. The hat isn’t old so much as it’s filthy with motor oil and mud.
She places it onto my head.
“One of the landscapers left this behind a couple years ago and never reclaimed it,” she goes on. “It will take away any unwanted attention toward your eyewear.”
“Now,” I say, “if only I could find the right distributor to use as a Trojan Horse.”
“I think I can help you there too,” she says. “Until recently, I did a lot of business with The Flower Man, and I’m certain they use a wholesale flower company called Central Florists. Their warehouse is located in Green Island. You take New York Route 787 north, and you can’t help but see their building on your right-hand side, soon as you come to the Cohoes, Green Island border.”
I slip my wallet into my back pocket and tuck the semi-automatic into my pant waist, making the snug fit of the jeans that much snugger. Then I pull the flannel shirt tail over the grip. It’s perfectly concealed. Grabbing up my clothing and shoes, I roll them up into a ball and head for the French doors off the living room.
“You and Terry stay put today,” I insist. “Just like yesterday. And for God’s sakes, stay away from the windows. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Meanwhile, I’ll keep checking on the RING app. But you have a cop outside too, so you should have nothing to worry about.”
She nods.
“Okay,” she says. “Good luck, Steve.”
I raise my hand, blow her a kiss. I don’t know why I do it. It just seems like the right thing to do considering how much she’s helped me out this morning. She brings her hand to her puckered lips, blows me a kiss in return.
“You still got it, Jobz,” I whisper to myself as I head back outside on my way to the cottage. “You damn sure still got it.”
In the cottage, I toss my clothes onto the bed and grab the keys to my Mustang. I immediately head back outside, take it double-time to the car. Unlocking it, I fire it up, back it out of its narrow, wooded hideaway and cruise the neighborhood road to the end. I take the quickest route I know that will connect me with Highway 787. From there, it’s pedal to the floor until I come to a brick, glass, and metal building, the exterior signage of which reads, Capital Florist Wholesalers.
I don’t pull into the lot, but instead, pull into the lot reserved for the Riverside Home for the Elderly located directly across the street. I power down the Mustang, slip on out, locking the door behind me. Looking both ways, I cross the road and step onto the Capital Florist property.
A tall chain link fence surrounds the entire facility. A big two-bay gate accesses the back of the warehouse where the big trucks are parked and awaiting their loads of flowers for delivery. As I step onto the property, hiding behind the building’s northeast corner, I can see that one such truck is being loaded up right now by two bruisers who must moonlight as linebackers for the New York Football Giants. In fact, the driver’s side door has been left wide open, which means all I have to do is get in and take off.
But not so fast, Jobz . . .
Pause video . . .
Maybe my bud and fellow PI professional, Dick Moonlight, would jump in that truck right now and go all Bruce Willis badass on the big dudes who work this place. But here’s the thing. That happens, the jig, so to speak, is up, and I’ll never make it out of the lot, much less make it to The Flower Man. Better that I sneak into the vehicle, wait for the driver to get inside, then ditch him by the side of the road when we’re clear of the warehouse. Question is, how the hell am I going to pull this off?
…Resume video.
Out the corner of my eye, I make out a stack of collapsed cardboard boxes. Grabbing hold of a couple of the deconstructed boxes, I quietly if not silently, toss the boxes into the open truck, then hop up inside. Pulling the seatback forward, I then shove my body into the narrow space. Lying horizontally, I hide by pulling the boxes over me.
Even from my uncomfortable perch behind the seat, I can hear the deep voices of the muscle-heads packing up the truck.
“Bitch can’t keep her mouth shut, you know what I mean, Stan? From the minute I get home at night, she’s babbling on and on about how I don’t listen, how I don’t give her any money, how all I’m interested in is my video games and getting high.”
“That is all you’re interested in, Tony,” Stan laughs.
“Fuck you,” he barks. “I’m a good boyfriend.”
“That’s what he said.”
I hear a flower box being tossed and some playful wrestling going on. The truck rocks. Then, a third voice breaks it up.
“You two idiots done? Because I’ve got delivery orders coming out my ass.”
“We’re very efficient, the Stan man and me,” Tony says. “And if you refer to me as an idiot again, Mikey, I’ll tear off your head and piss down your neck.”
“Whoa, I’m scared now,” Mikey says.
He comes around to the driver’s side door. He’s smaller than the other two guys, which is probably why he’s a driver and not the hired muscle. He’s wearing jeans and a green T-shirt that reads Capital Florist in big white letters under a worn leather bomber jacket. Beneath the words is an artist’s rendering of a bouquet of roses. The rendering is
done in white. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses even on a cloudy day and a black watch cap. He’s also smoking a cigarette.
“Fucking freezing,” he says. “Get the heat going.”
He hops up behind the wheel, oblivious to my presence. Perfect.
“We done, Stan?”
There comes the rumble of a metal overhead door coming down with a loud slam. The truck’s back bay closed.
“You’re good to go, Mikey,” Stan shouts. “Be quick. Those Florida flowers are half dead already.”
“Great,” Mikey whispers. “I’ll catch a rash of shit from the buyers for sure.” He opens the window, tosses out the cigarette butt. “The flower business sucks.”
He closes the window, makes a noise like he’s shivering from the cold. He turns on the heater blower to what I can only assume is its highest setting. Sounds like an airplane propeller it’s so loud. Like we’re not driving out of the warehouse lot but flying.
Shoving the floor-mounted shift into first, he pulls away from the loading bay, hooks a left, and pulls up to the road. The truck jerks violently, and he pulls out onto the road, heads for the highway. Even though I can’t see him, I know Mikey is lighting up again because I can smell it. He turns the radio on, shifts through a few of the stations, settles on an easy listening station that I’m certain his buddies Stan and Tony would bust his ass for.
The Flower Man Page 13