The Flower Man Page 10

  “So, why no arrest? That’s messed up.”

  “He wants me to look into the McGovern situation more deeply. Which also means he wants me to look into The Flower Man more deeply.”

  “The phone calls between Janice McGovern and Anatoly the Flower Man. They look suspicious, Jobz. A little strange that he’s making death threats and she’s talking to him sometimes several times per day. What’s with that?”

  I sip some beer. “Terry said something about Anatoly and her being great friends over their common love of flowers. But here’s the thing, Natalia claims that The Flower Man and Mrs. TV are a hell of a lot more than just friends.”

  “So, they’re doing it?”

  “Probably inside Janice’s arboretum.”

  “An abor-what?”

  “An arboretum. You know, a glass hothouse or greenhouse for growing flowers all year round. Like the kind that carpet-bagging magician used to melt Frosty the Snowman in. I still have nightmares about that. Janice is looking forward to showing me around it tonight.”

  “You better watch yourself with that one, Jobz,” Henry says. “Sounds like she’s one lonely housewife, you get my drift.”

  “She’s also angry at Terry for showing Anatoly’s daughter his male appendage via text message. It’s sort of thrown a monkey wrench into their perfect world.”

  “So, tell me something, Jobz,” Henry goes on. “How are Janice and Terry making it? They gotta be making money somehow. If Terry is broker then broke, and now on top of it suspended without pay, how are they making ends meet in wealthy North Albany? There’s gotta be some cash coming in somehow. Off the books cash.”

  That’s when a lightbulb flashes on not over my head, but inside it.

  “Janice,” I say, after a pause.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Janice has got to be making some money, honey,” I say. “Substantial money.”

  “How?”

  “That’s the question.” Then, holding up my hand. “Scratch that. There’s more than just one question. The second one being, is the money she’s making legal or, like you said, off the books?”

  “Her phone calls to The Flower Man, Anatoly. Her fucking around with him.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “He’s worth a lot of money. I’m not sure all of it has been generated by selling bouquets to kids on prom night. No wonder Miller wants to hold back on busting him for probable cause in the case of shooting at Terry’s house. And what the hell, Terry didn’t want the police involved in the first place.”

  “So, what’s the plan, Stan?”

  “I’m going to keep digging until I figure out precisely what Janice, Terry, Anatoly, and his daughter are all mixed up in. Uncover their common denominator.”

  “You best be careful. Those Russians play for keeps. Just ask the Ukrainians, the Romanians, and the Germans.”

  I open my jacket just enough to reveal the grip on my 9mm semi-automatic.

  “That’s quite the hard rod you got there, Jobz,” she says.

  “Always hard for you, baby.”

  “In your dreams.” Then, “Speaking of hard rods.”

  The door opens and in walks Kate. She’s holding a manila envelope. She spots Henry and me right away and waves at us with the envelope. Henry removes the scarf from the chair beside her while my heart begins to beat faster and faster. Didn’t I just enjoy a grand time with Megan Barker on her office couch? A woman who is much closer to my age? How is it I can be so excited by a woman half my age? I think I have issues. Maybe my mother and father didn’t pay enough attention to me when I was growing up. Or hell, maybe I’m always hopelessly in love.

  Kate smiles at me.

  “Here you go, Jobzy,” she says. “Some of the stuff I gathered for your secret mission.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I say, taking the package from her hand, setting it on the bar beside my beer. “You certainly like to be on top of things, Kate.”

  Good choice of words, Jobz, you stupid idiot . . .

  “I knew I saw solid gold in you, Kate,” Henry says. “Take a seat and order a drink. Jobz is buying. Aren’t you, Jobz?”

  “You bet,” I say, my voice exiting my lungs like a squeak. Clearing my throat. “I mean, you bet.” I purposely work up some baritone in my voice just to prove that I’m a man and a virile one at that.

  Kate orders a vodka martini. Dirty. I order another beer and another daiquiri for Henry, pay for it all with two crumpled twenties I pull from my jacket pocket along with the severed rose head. I shove that back in. While the drinks are being served, I open the envelope, peek inside. There are several sets of papers that appear to be a list of employees from some unidentified business. I also see what appears to be a credit report with the name Terry McGovern printed on it. Under those is something that sucks the oxygen right out of my lungs.

  They are printed copies of the texts I sent her last night. Me, bear chested, staring into the bathroom mirror. What the hell was I thinking? I quickly close the envelope back up, take a long, deep drink of my new beer. Turning to Kate, she offers me a wink. She’s got me by the short hairs, and she knows it.

  Of course, I have a choice here. I can continue to allow her to have this power over me, or I can come clean and just admit to Henry that I fucked up. But then, while Henry might be my good friend, when it comes to work she goes by the book. Which means, even if she does love me, those pictures would mean an immediate suspension from the agency without pay pending an investigation which will almost certainly lead to my firing and a permanent record that would prevent me from finding gainful employment anywhere but the local mega-mart as a grocery bagger, and even that might be a long shot, considering all the pretty girls employed there.

  For now, the best solution is to keep my mouth shut and keep Kate happy. Whatever that means.

  I drink more beer. Deeply.

  “Whoa, Jobz,” Henry says. “Take it easy. You’re drowning in your own beer. Or sorrows anyway. Something bothering you?”

  “Oh, sorry,” I say, wiping the back of my mouth with my hand. “All that action today at the McGovern house. It’s worked me up.”

  “I can see that,” she says.

  “That paperwork,” Kate chimes while lifting her martini by the glass stem, “it contains proof that Anatoly Brezinski is not paying all his payroll taxes, which means he’s not contributing his fair share to UI. His name came up in the system with more red flags than a May Day celebration in Beijing.”

  “We could get him on that alone,” I say. “Nice work, Kate.”

  Her hair is thick with just the right amount of wave. The way it drapes over one of her eyes makes her look sultry, even on the coldest of evenings. She’s wearing a black leather coat over her sleek button down, and a thin black scarf around her neck. If I could, I would jump inside her hair and crawl around for a while.

  “The McGoverns come with their own red flags,” she adds, sipping her drink. Her eyes light up when she tastes it. “There’s a lien against the house. The IRS is on their ass like pantyhose, and Mr. McGovern is apparently into WNYT for personal loans against his salary in excess of fifty thousand dollars. That’s just the stuff that’s showing up on the public record. My guess is, he’s been paying out for more than just a house in the money section of Albany and all the crap that fills it.”

  His affairs, that’s what he’s paying for. Maybe even a few abortions . . .

  “No wonder he applied for unemployment insurance,” Henry states.

  I glance at my watch. Six-forty-five. Fifteen minutes until dinner is served at the McGovern household. I slide off the stool, grab my old wool scarf, wrap it around my neck.

  “Time to get back to work,” I say, taking my change from the bar but leaving a nice tip. “I wasn’t here case anyone asks.”

  “You mean like Detective Miller,” Henry says.

  “That would be the point,” I confirm.

  “There’s an entire packed bar who knows you were here, Jobzy,” Kate says, not
without a smile. I’m liking that she’s finally calling me Jobzy. It means she’s comfortable with me, even if I did cross the line with her last night.

  “But they have no reason to care that I’m here,” I say.

  “I care,” Kate says.

  My heart skips a couple of beats.

  “I feel blessed,” I say, my eyes focused on her eyes. “And ummm, thanks for the package. Keep up the good work, Kate.”

  “Be seeing you,” she says.

  Of course, I know precisely what she means. She assumes I’ll down a couple whiskeys later and drunk text her more pics. But I’ve learned my lesson, and I’m not that dumb. Or am I?

  “Check with me tomorrow, Jobz,” Henry says.

  I give her kiss on the cheek. For Kate, I hold out my hand. She takes it in hers, grips it tightly, offers me yet another wink.

  “Maybe it’s possible she likes me,” I whisper to myself as I exit through the front entrance, back out into the bitter cold of a midwinter's night.

  One last RING app check before putting the Mustang in drive. Gazing at the front of the McGovern property through the cracked screen, all appears quiet at the front door. Same for the spotlight lit lawn. But out on the street, a car is slowly cruising past the property. By the looks of it, a black sedan.

  “Holy shit,” I say aloud as I throw the tranny into first, burn rubber out of the lot.

  I know I should call Miller right about now, but I’m only a few minutes from the house, and if he knows I haven’t been on-site there will be hell to pay. I come to a red light at the main north-south road that leads into the heart of the city.

  “Optional red light,” I whisper glancing over both shoulders.

  As soon as the coast is clear, I blow through the traffic light, continue in an easterly direction until I come to Schuyler Hills Road. Hooking a left onto it, I speed up the hill, past the woods that line both sides of the road until I come to the end. I then make a right onto a road that surrounds the country club and connects me with McGovern’s neighborhood. Tapping the brakes, I kill the headlamps and slowly proceed along the neighborhood road.

  When I come to Terry’s house, I can see that the black sedan is no longer in sight. But that doesn’t mean it’s not out there somewhere watching me, watching the house. Maybe Anatoly, The Flower Man himself.

  Backing the Mustang up, I pull into a wooded area that separates the McGovern property from its neighbor, kill the engine. At least here it will be somewhat hidden from Anatoly and his goons. Leaving the manila envelope behind, I get out, walk the wooded perimeter of the property until I come to the back deck. I take the short flight of steps up onto the deck and go to the sliding glass doors off the living room, rap my knuckles on the glass.

  Terry appears. He’s still wearing his short-sleeved polo shirt and neatly pressed jeans. The white gauze bandage taped to his left bicep is perfectly clean which tells me the graze wound is no longer bleeding. He’s got a toothpick going between his teeth. He slides open the door.

  “Come on in out of the cold, Jobz,” he says. “We weren’t sure you were going to make it. Thought you might have fallen asleep on the job.”

  I’m not sure if I should take this as a sort of underhanded warning. Like he might report me to Miller or something.

  “On the contrary, Terry,” I say. “I’ve been a busy little bee. I’ve been here, there, and everywhere to quote one of my favorite Beatle’s songs. You just haven’t seen me.”

  “Very Cloak and Dagger you are, Jobz,” he says once more, closing the door behind me. “Janice has prepared a feast. I hope you’re hungry.”

  “I’m always hungry, Terry.”

  I follow him out of the living room, past a couple of new vases filled with the usual orchids along with dozens of little red flowers to add color. We head into the kitchen, and immediately I see that the table has been set. There’s a bottle of red sitting between the plates, drinking glasses, and silverware. Janice is standing over the stove, her back to me. She’s sizzling steaks in a big metal pan on a gas burner. The place smells and sounds like a New York City steakhouse. It’s all very pleasant, and all very unusual considering the man of the house was almost shot dead today and considering the man responsible is boning Janice.

  Terry grabs hold of the wine bottle, pours me a glass.

  “Hope you enjoy Malbec,” he says, handing me the glass. “Goes great with a good cut of meat.”

  “I’m good with any red,” I say. “How’s the arm?”

  “I’ll live. This afternoon’s nap helped a lot.”

  “No phone calls on your cell or the house phone while I was outside keeping watch?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Nothing. It’s been quiet. Perhaps Anatoly knows we’re onto him. Maybe now that he made his point this afternoon with real bullets, he’s decided to pack it in with his threats.”

  “And what about you?” I say. “Are you ready to pack it in with the lawsuit against Natalia?”

  I steal a sip of wine. It tastes good and sophisticated after downing three cheap domestic beers.

  “Funny you should say that,” he says, while pouring himself a generous glass of wine, “I have a call into my lawyer, Megan Barker. I’m going to ask her to drop the suit. It’s impossible for me to win it anyway, so why keep on kicking the beehive?”

  He smiles like he’s proud of his decision. I can’t help but see myself with Megan Barker on her couch just a couple of hours ago.

  “Have you heard back from her?” I ask.

  “No,” he says, his brow furrowed. “Strangest thing too. I understand it’s late and she won’t be in her office. But never once has she not gotten back to me within five minutes after I’ve called her cell phone.”

  “Maybe she’s just a little extra busy this evening,” I say. “I’m guessing she has a life.”

  “Oh, Megan Barker has a life all right,” Janice interjects, approaching the table with a platter of steaks in her mitt covered hands. “Megan is quite the cougar. Isn’t that right, Terry?”

  In my head, I see Megan seated precariously on the desk, her legs open enough to reveal the delicacies that lie within. But then, Janice is one to talk. Like they say, takes one to know one.

  Setting the meat on the table, Janice stands up straight. That’s when I see her face. Her left eye is so black and blue and swollen she can’t open it, much less see out of it. She attempts to work up a welcoming smile, but it’s like pissing in the wind. Aside from the mega shiner taking up most of her face, she looks positively put together in a long black dress over black leather boots, a long silver necklace, and on her wrists, matching silver bracelets which jingle whenever she makes the slightest move.

  She pulls off the oven mitts and tosses them onto the counter.

  “These steaks are imported directly from Argentina, Jobz,” she says. “Hope you’re good and hungry.” Then, “I see you’ve got your drink. Terry, would it hurt you to pour me a glass?”

  “Not at all, darling,” he says, taking hold of the bottle and the last empty glass on the table. “Forgive me for being so insensitive.”

  He hands her the glass. She raises it, as though to propose a toast.

  “So, what shall we drink to?” she asks, the acid in her voice more overwhelming than the aroma of the freshly grilled steaks.

  “How about your eye?” I say.

  I guess I mean it as a joke, but it goes down like a fart in church.

  Terry drinks half his glass of wine. Janice smiles sadly, sips hers.

  “That noticeable, huh?” she says. “I’m extremely angry with myself.”

  “It’s as a big as a baseball,” I say. “How’d it happen?”

  Terry coughs. “My wife did a face plant with the door jamb when she was heading to the bathroom.”

  “I had just woken up from our nap,” she adds. “I was groggy, and I hit the door jamb. It nearly knocked me out. How positively stupid of me.”

  Me, sipping some more Malbec.
It’s an excellent vintage, I must say. I go for the obvious question.

  “You two were, ummm, fighting?”

  “Mr. Jobz,” Terry says, “I will admit to you . . . to you both . . . that I am not, nor have I been the best husband in the world. I’m not about to win any awards for husband or father of the year. I’m Mr. TV to some people around here, and they think I’m perfect, with the perfect wife, living in the perfect neighborhood, with the perfect kids, and that I am blessed with the perfect life. But I am indeed flawed, and I have some major problems right now. One of them, however—and I shall not repeat this again—one of them is not physically abusing my wife. Do you understand me?”

  I glance at Janice. She purses her lips, nods in the affirmative. And to be honest, I believe him. Or, I want to believe them both anyhow. It happens. People wake up groggy and half blind, and they hit their heads, their noses, their eyes, their lips, they stub their toes and break them in three different places. Stupid accidents happen all the time around the household. So, why shouldn’t I believe Terry when he says he not only didn’t do it, he’s not capable of doing it.

  “Well, I don’t know about you guys,” I say. “But I’m starving.”

  Janice smiles. Terry smiles.

  “Let’s eat,” he says.

  “Yes,” Janice concurs. “Before everything gets cold.”