The Flower Man Page 5

  “All good questions,” Miller responds. “I’ll give you the short of it.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “First of all, it’s always one man. We believe him to be in his late fifties or early sixties. A heavy smoker judging by the gruffness of his voice, maybe a little overweight, and quite possibly an alcohol abuser. He always calls either McGovern’s or Janice’s personal cell phones. And he always says the same thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He says, ‘Lose the lawsuit, or the rose head will be clipped.’”

  In my mind, I see a red rose head being decapitated from its stem, just like Morticia Addams used to do to her roses on the old Addam’s Family reruns I watched as a kid in the seventies.

  “The rose head will be clipped. So, what we have is a killer Russian who likes to speak in bad metaphors.”

  “Something like that,” Miller says.

  “And you’re interpreting the clipping of the rose head to mean the chopping off of heads.” It’s a question.

  “You aware of Russian mobster tactics, Jobz?”

  “I haven’t brushed up lately, Miller.”

  “Like our friends in ISIS, they use beheading not as a means of murder but as a means of intimidation.”

  “Why would a Russian mobster be so concerned about a low-level employee of a local television station being sexually harassed? Where’s the connection?”

  “Natalia is Russian. There’s a large Russian immigrant community in Albany being that it’s a sanctuary city.” Another beat ensues, and I picture the old detective shrugging his shoulders. “I can’t be sure yet, but maybe it has something to do with solidarity. You know, don’t mess with our own or we’ll have no choice but to come after you.”

  “So, why doesn’t McGovern just drop the lawsuit? I’m no expert, but I doubt an assistant producer at a local affiliate can afford fifty million, even if the anchor were to win his case.”

  “Maybe it’s just a symbolic gesture,” Miller says. “Just like his UI application. It’s not like he needs the money.”

  I was starting to doubt McGovern’s wealth, but I wasn’t ready to reveal that to Miller yet. I needed more proof before I started shooting my mouth off.

  “Maybe I should ask McGovern to drop his case,” I say. “Then the death threats will stop.”

  “Good luck with that,” Miller says. “In the meantime, grab your shit, and get back to the house. I don’t like you being gone.”

  “Yes sir, sir,” I say.

  He hangs up. I, in turn, enjoy the freedom of the open road.

  I turn onto Broadway which will take me to the old Port entrance. When the black sedan first started following me not long after I left the McGovern house, I naturally assumed it was some rich person from North Albany heading downtown. A lawyer, maybe, in one of the many firms that occupy the State Street hill. But now that the sedan is pulling up on my tail, I’m beginning to have my doubts.

  He’s closing in on me, which is making me more than a little nervous. Not to mention, there’s a distinct possibility that if I slam on the brakes, he’ll smash into my tail and do significant damage to my Mustang. If that happens, I will have no choice but to clip his rose head with a chainsaw, so to speak.

  I pull out my smartphone again, speed-dial Henry. She answers after a couple rings.

  “How’s the new gig, Jobz?” she asks.

  “I’m learning a lot about my favorite newscaster. Mostly that he likes his girls.”

  “Don’t all you men?”

  “I guess so. Speaking of which, is Kate around? I need to speak with her.”

  “She’s around,” she says. “Let me have her call you from her line. See you at Lanie’s later? Or won’t your new clients let you out for a little fun?”

  Miller’s order to stay put comes immediately to mind.

  “I’m sure I can sneak out for a beer,” I say.

  “That’s the rebel spirit. I’m hanging up. Kate will call you within the minute.”

  She hangs up. I’ve got one eye on the road, the other on the rearview mirror. The black sedan is still tailing me. Too close for comfort. But also close enough that I can make out his license plate.

  My phone rings. I see the name Kate on the caller ID. My heartbeat picks up speed, blood heats up. I answer.

  “Jobz here,” I say, calm, collected.

  “Hello, Mr. Jobz? It’s Kate. You were looking for me?”

  I tap the brakes, pray the sedan doesn’t knock into my back end, turn left onto the Port road. Just as I suspected, the sedan follows close on my tail.

  “Kate,” I say, “I have a couple of quick assignments for you.”

  “Shoot,” she says.

  My good eye on the sedan license plate. “You got a pen handy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jot down this number. XJY789”

  “Sounds like a license plate number.”

  “It is. It belongs to an asshole who’s following me. Errr, excuse me, an unidentified motorist I should say.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” she says. “You live quite the life, Mr. Jobz, for ummm, a middle-aged guy.”

  Heartbeat not only speeds up, heart lodges in the back of my throat.

  “Please, please, please call me, Jobz,” I insist. “Everyone does, remember?”

  “Okay, Jobz,” she giggles. “I guess it’s hard to get used to it. What else can I do?”

  You can undress for me while I watch . . .

  “I want you to run a credit check on a man named Terry McGovern. Full disclosure. He filed recently for UI but it’s gonna be denied pending an internal investigation for, ummm, sexual harassment at his place of employment.”

  “You mean like Terry McGovern the news anchor? He’s hot. I grew up watching him. Mr. TV. He’s still got it.”

  “Yes, that Terry McGovern.”

  Why does her “hot” comment make me jealous? And what’s the deal about her thing for older men?

  “That damn sexual harassment,” she says. “It can really ruin a man’s career. You’d better watch it there, Jobz.”

  Another shot to the stomach.

  “Listen, Kate, about the picture I sent—”

  “Oh, I get it, mum’s the word. No worries, Jobz. I know you probably had a few too many. And you do have a nice body especially for a guy of your years. Or, excuse me, wrong choice of words. A mature man.”

  I can feel my face blushing. “Maybe umm, you should delete it. You know, just in case.”

  “You can count on me, Jobz,” she says.

  But why don’t I believe her? It’s like she’s going to keep the picture like a gambler keeps an ace up her sleeve.

  My houseboat is just ahead, docked at the mooring.

  “I’ll call you back with what I find out,” she says.

  “Thanks, Kate.”

  “Ciao, ciao for now,” she says.

  I hang up.

  Reaching under the seat, I grab the short baseball bat I store there as an equalizer. Pulling into the lot that accesses the docks and the boat launch, I slam the brakes, kill the engine, get out, baseball bat gripped in hand. Best way to handle these kinds of situations is to not run away from them but to confront them head-on. Sure, you’re taking a chance that the dude behind the wheel is going to blow your brains out, but then he might only be trying to scare you. If you come after him with a baseball bat, he might actually chalk you up as one crazy and not to be fucked with individual.

  I’m hoping for the latter.

  Raising the bat, I make like I’m about to smash his driver’s side window in. But before I get there, the window opens just enough to allow a black-gloved hand to reach out. There’s something in the hand. Something red. The hand opens, and the red object falls to the ground. The window closes, and the sedan speeds off.

  I go to the object. Bending my knees, I retrieve it with my free hand.

  It’s the head of a rose.

  I hold the rose in my hand, stare down at
it. It’s a pretty little thing, soft and fresh and so very red. But why then does it feel like I’m holding someone’s head in my hand? I can’t help but think about the warning lodged at Mr. TV. Lose the lawsuit or the rose head will be clipped. I haven’t been involved in this case for more than an hour and now decapitation threats are being lodged at me. What the fuck?

  My throat closes on itself and my mouth goes dry. What the hell have I stepped into? Whatever it is, let’s hope that in the end, my head is still attached to my neck.

  Shoving the rose head in my jacket pocket, I head back to my Mustang, slip the equalizer under the driver’s side seat. I grab my computer, take it with me to the houseboat. Unlocking the door, I step inside, go to the kitchen area of the wide-open space. Setting the laptop down onto the butcher block counter, I open the lid, click on Google.

  In the search engine, I type in the name Natalia Brezinski. A number of listings appear the first one a LinkedIn profile. I click on the profile, and the first thing I notice is her headshot. I can see why Terry McGovern is so smitten with her. Like the photo Miller showed me earlier, her hair is on the longer side, and sandy blonde, eyes blue. She’s got that eastern European healthy look. She’s young, and by that, I mean, thirty-four or thirty-five. She was educated in Moscow, attended high school and university there. But her profile stops at the year 2000 and then doesn’t pick up again until 2011. By then, she’s apparently moved to the US and gained employment at a local Albany radio station as a paid intern. The same radio station promoted her to assistant producer the following year. She made full producer the year after that. She stayed with the radio station for another three years before moving on to an assistant producer gig at WNYT, the same local FOX affiliate as McGovern.

  Closing out the LinkedIn page, I once more peruse the Google search. There’s a small Times Union Newspaper online side-bar piece about Natalia having completed the Freihofer’s Run for Women in downtown Albany on the very same day her application for citizenship to the United States of America was approved. In the accompanying photo, the tall, slim, but shapely Natalia is waving a small American flag on a stick at the finish line of the race. A big, barrel-chested man is standing beside her. His face is covered with a cropped white beard, and he’s wearing a black leather coat and black trousers. His eyes are shielded by sunglasses, and he’s not smiling for the camera, but instead, smirking. Another man is standing on the opposite side of her, and a second woman beside him. It’s Terry McGovern and his wife, Janice. Janice isn’t dressed in runner’s gear, but instead, a short skirt and a loose-fitting blouse.

  I lift my head, look out onto the very gray Hudson River.

  “McGovern and Natalia have themselves a history,” I say aloud. My voice sounds strange inside the houseboat all alone. “Janice and Terry have a history.”

  Eyes back on the photo. This time, I focus in on the big man in black. I’m trying to figure out who he might be. Could he be Natalia’s husband or boyfriend? Miller never gave me any indication that she was attached. I just assumed she was young and single and therefore easy prey for a dog like Terry. But then, what the hell do I know? Maybe Terry prefers to go after attached women. Maybe he enjoys the challenge.

  My phone vibrates. Pulling it from my pocket, I see that the caller ID says Kate.

  Once again, my spirits lift.

  Jesus Jobz, you’re no better than Mr. TV . . .

  I tap the green button, place the phone to my ear.

  “Hi, Kate,” I say, my voice an octave higher than God and nature intends. Clearing the nervousness from my throat. “Umm, hi, Kate,” I repeat, this time with as normal a voice as I can muster. “What did you find out?”

  “Everything okay with you, Jobz?” she politely asks.

  I can’t help but wonder if she’s goading me. She knows full well how I feel about her, which means she possesses a kind of power over me.

  “Yeah, fine,” I lie. I’m not about to start in on my drama about a mysterious black sedan that tailed me from North Albany to my houseboat only to toss a decapitated rose head at me. “What have you found?”

  “First off,” she says, “the license plate you inquired about is commercial.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning there’s no one name attached to it, but instead, a business name.”

  “So, what kind of name we talking about?”

  “Tsvesty Enterprises,” she says.

  “Tsvesty,” I say, the name raising up the fine hairs on the back of my neck. “Sounds foreign. Russian maybe. I guess that makes sense.”

  “Why’s that, Jobz?”

  “Oh, never mind. It has to do with the job I’m working outside of the office.” Then, “What about McGovern’s credit report?”

  “Now, here’s where things get mighty interesting,” she says, the enthusiasm in her voice like a bright light in an otherwise pitch-black tunnel. “I’ve always thought that Terry McGovern was like, you know, really mega rich. But turns out, he’s in bankruptcy. Or should be bankrupt anyway. His credit rating is not only in the toilet but in the sewer, and he owes everybody and their brother . . . On paper at least.”

  “Who are his major debtors?”

  I can hear her clicking some keys on her computer keyboard.

  “Hmmm,” she says. “Hospitals. Medical centers. Doctor’s offices. Then there’s the hotels and the spas, and oh my, he’s overdue on the rent for four apartments at least.”

  “Four apartments. Holy crap. Where are the apartments located?”

  “Two in Albany, one in New York City. The last one in Los Angeles.”

  “Okay, Kate, thanks for all this. I’ll catch up with you later, and we can discuss this in more detail.”

  “Anything else you want me to do, boss? Or, I mean Jobz.”

  “Just keep going through my list of fraud cases and taking any necessary actions you feel need be taken.”

  “Do I need to run anything by you?”

  “Nah, it’s not rocket science, and you seem like a bright kid. Excuse me, professional. If a client looks like he’s cheating, flag him, and send the file down the line to legal.”

  “Roger that. Maybe see you later at Lanie’s?”

  Was that her subtle way of saying she’d like to see me . . . socially? Pit in stomach and heart once again lodged in throat.

  Who knows Jobz, maybe you really do still have it after all . . .

  “That would be nice,” I say.

  “Ciao, Jobz,” she says, hanging up.

  Shoving the phone back in my pocket, I think about everything that just transpired over the past few minutes. My conversation with Miller, and his revealing of the clipped rose head death threat that’s apparently common amongst Russian mobsters. The black sedan following me, the rose head tossed out the window no doubt as a warning to stay away from this case—a warning that means I am now on the Russian mobster’s radar. My phone call with Kate and her revealing that the black sedan is attached to a Russian business owner, which makes total sense, and that McGovern is in fact, broke. Broker than broke.

  “Hospitals and medical centers,” I whisper to myself, recalling McGovern’s major debtors. “Hotels, spas, and apartments, oh my.”

  I try to make a solid connection between the three but come up short. In truth, I’m a little nervous about being at the houseboat all alone, now that the Russian mob knows where I live. Maybe I am safer staying at the McGovern cottage after all. Even if he too is being tracked by these bastards.

  I head to the bathroom, grab my toothbrush, stick it in my chest pocket like I would a pen. Then, taking the revolving staircase up to the top floor bedroom, I grab some fresh clothes from the clean pile that occupies the floor beside my futon mattress. Tucking the clothing under my arm, I head back down the stairs. My smartphone vibrates. Pulling it back out, I don’t recognize the number right away, but it’s an Albany area code. I consider ignoring it, but it occurs to me that it could be Terry or Janice.

  I answer the pho
ne.

  “Come quick,” Janice says, her voice a quivering bundle of nerves.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Terry’s been shot!” she screams.

  Inside the galley kitchen, I go to the sink. Opening the under-counter cabinet door, I reach inside, feel for the object that’s duct-taped to the exterior sink bottom. I pull it off and examine it. It’s a short-barreled 9mm that I purchased illegally in Arbor Hill some months back. The grip is wrapped in black electrical tape, and the serial number scraped off, making it almost impossible to trace should I use it to kill somebody, which naturally I would only do in self-defense.

  It makes me uncomfortable carrying an illegal weapon, but no way the State of New York is going to see its way to granting me an open carry or even a carry conceal after I shot that African American teenager in the convenient store back when I was a cop. Even if the cranked up young man in question was about to shoot the proprietor in the head with his own hand cannon, I was viewed as the aggressor and the bad cop by the identity politics lawyers and media who descended on the case like hungry vultures. In the end, I not only lost my job as a cop, but I also lost my reputation as a lawman entirely. So much for making the right decision in these politically charged times.