“Feelings,” Mikey sings at the top of his lungs. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, feelings. Whoa, whoa, whoa feelings…Feel you again in my arms . . .”
You gotta be fucking kidding me. I hated this song when I was a kid and now I’ve got to listen to this tone-deaf moron belting it out of his tar-stained lungs at full volume while I’m face down in the asshole end of a dirty truck cab. I need to make my move and make it now if only to free myself from this hell hole.
Shifting my right hand under the cardboard, I take hold of the pistol grip, pull the semi-automatic out of my pant waist. This is the part of our program where hesitating can get me in a world of hurt. Bounding up, I throw the cardboard off me, press the gun to the back of Mikey’s head.
“This is a fuck up, Mikey!” I bark. But then, realizing what I just said, “I mean, this is a stick-up. Pull the truck over.”
Mikey is so startled, he lets go of the wheel and goes for the gun. He throws his hand over his shoulder, grabs hold of the barrel. My finger presses down on the trigger, and a round explodes, poking a nickel-sized hole out of the windshield. But the explosion causes Mikey to let go of the gun, while he inspects his hand for a wound. That’s my cue to pull myself out from the back, jump into the empty passenger side space.
He’s got one hand back on the wheel, the other in front of his face. As far as I can tell, his hand is all there. Nothing’s been blown away, no fingers blown off. The truck is back under control, but that doesn’t prevent annoyed motorists from speeding recklessly past, some blowing their horns, others flipping us off.
“Pull over,” I insist.
“Who the fuck are you?!” he barks. “Some sort of flower burglar?”
“Listen, Mikey,” I say, “you already almost got your hand blown off. You know I’m not shy about using this thing.”
He glances at me, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, his face unshaven. Now that I’m only a foot or so away from his face, I can smell the booze on his breath.
“My name,” he says. “You know my fucking name?”
“I’m really, really observant, Mikey,” I say. “Now, here’s the deal. You’re going to pull over. I’m going to let you out, unscathed or unmolested, as they say.”
“Molested?” he shrieks. “You some sort of creep?”
“It’s a manner of speaking, Mikey. It means I have no intention of hurting you, nor robbing you, not doing any harm whatsoever to you if you play nice and pull this truck over and get out. Got it?”
He stares at the road speeding beneath us.
“This don’t feel right,” he says. “I might work a shit job, but this truck is still my responsibility.”
I pull back on the hammer. It causes his Adam’s apple to bob up and down in his thin neck.
“Mikey, think about what you’re saying,” I say. “You don’t own this truck. Your boss doesn’t care if you live or die. How much is he paying you for the privilege of assuming the responsibility for operating this truck anyway?”
He glances at me, at the gun.
“Not enough,” he says.
“Exactly, Mikey. Not enough. So, you know what that means?”
“What’s it mean, Mister?”
“It means you’re going to pull over, stop this truck, get out and live to tell your boss you were robbed at gunpoint, that you escaped with your life. Sure, the son of bitch—that’s me—stole the truck and all the flowery merchandise stuffed in the back, but hey, you’re alive, and that’s what counts, right? You might even be seen as a hero, especially when you tell your boss you’ve already contacted the local newspapers and how they’re all gonna write a story on you about how you escaped mortal danger and now your boss is gonna give you a big fat raise and an even bigger fatter bonus.”
I see his facial muscles moving. He turns to me, smiling.
“For an asshole,” he says, “you make a lot a sense, Mister.”
He pulls the truck over onto the shoulder. Gets out. Leaves the keys in the ignition, the engine running. I scooch on over, set myself behind the wheel. Mikey is on the shorter side too, so I don’t need to adjust the seat. I close the door. As a final gesture, I give Mikey a wave. He waves back, his face still full of smiles.
I throw the truck back into gear, pull back out onto the highway, knowing that if I don’t alert Detective Miller to my pulling what amounts to grand theft auto, I’m going to have the Albany cops on my ass before I can get to The Flower Man.
Pulling out my cell phone, I speed-dial Miller.
“It’s early,” he says, instead of a pleasant hello. “Where are you? Sounds like you’re in a truck.”
“Funny you should say that, Miller.”
I explain to him my plan and what’s just transpired with the driver of said truck.
“Jesus Christmas on a snow cone!” he barks. “What the fuck is the matter with you? You’d think a man with the name Steve Jobz would have more sense than to steal a truck with the driver still inside it.”
“Commandeer is the word I would prefer,” I say. “And I did it for the good of the cause. You personally mandated that I have a come to Jesus with Anatoly Brezinski. So, what do you expect me to do? Make an appointment with his secretary?”
“Okay, so grand theft auto and kidnapping is the best plan you could come up with?”
“Under the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
“Bullets through the McGovern’s living room window. Terry nearly shot to death. A severed head underneath of a pile of rose heads on the front lawn. You know, those circumstances.”
Dead air while the truck enters the Albany city limits. To my left is the Hudson River. My third-hand houseboat is docked not far beyond the section I’m driving past now. Thank God the Hudson hasn’t frozen much this year, or I’d have to find a place to live on dry land. Not the easiest thing in the world for an ex-fly fishing bum.
“Okay, Jobz,” Miller says, after a time, “I’ll call the dogs off once the call about the truck theft comes through. But if this case goes south, you and I both will have to pay for your actions this morning.”
“I get the top bunk,” I say.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Means we get busted together, you get the bottom bunk. I’ll take the top.”
“Fuck you, Jobz.”
He hangs up.
Thumbing the Google app, I press on the voice activation option.
“The Flower Man flower shop,” I speak into the phone.
The pleasant female computer voice says, “The Flower Man Florists . . . Here you go.”
There are three shops, but only one self-contained brick and mortar store. The others are just kiosks inside the malls in the suburbs. I focus on the address provided.
55 North Allan Street on the corner of Central Avenue, the main business route that runs east to west throughout the heart of the city. I know exactly where I’m going. No need for Google maps or GPS. Up ahead, an off-ramp for Clinton Avenue. I turn onto it and enter downtown Albany. Just another flower truck on its way to making its morning delivery.
Ten minutes later, I pull up to The Flower Man florist. I wait for a moment until I spot someone heading into the shop. It’s a heavy-set man, dressed in dark slacks and a long black wool coat.
I roll down the window.
“Excuse me,” I say, “I have a delivery for The Flower Man. I’m a bit new on the job. Can you tell me where I should unload?”
The man makes a swirling gesture with his black leather-gloved hand like he’s telling me to pull around back.
“I will get gate for you,” he says in a distinctive Russian accent. He says, will, like weel.
He’s not Anatoly. I know this because Anatoly is far older, bigger, his face covered with a big white beard. But for all I know, he is the man who served me the severed rose head outside my houseboat. Maybe he’s the man who dumped Megan Barker’s severed head on the McGovern front lawn, covered it over with a pile of rose heads.
Perhaps he is even Anatoly’s blood son.
I pull the truck around the corner, spot the back gate. I wait for the man in the black overcoat to come outside, unlock the gate. When he reappears, I feel my sternum go tight, my breathing shallow. I’ve been in plenty of hairy situations, especially when I was a cop, and this will be one thick and hairy situation I have no doubt. Best thing to do is act calm and natural.
Wool Overcoat unlocks the padlock, and with his black leather glove-covered hands, pulls away the heavy chain that secures the two fence gates. He pulls both gates open, and I slowly pull in.
“You can back up to the first bay,” he says.
I maneuver the truck so that I am able to back it into the indicated gate. That’s when I open the door and go to get out. But before I do, I notice a stack of packing slips held to the sun visor with a thick rubber band. I pull them off, stuff them in the pocket on my flannel shirt.
Jumping down I feel the barrel of the semi-automatic secured in my waist. If worse comes to worse, and I’m forced to shoot my way out of here, I have to remember I’m one round short of a full mag.
Wool Overcoat is staring at the windshield. I’m trying to think of something to divert his attention.
“You must be used to this kind of weather,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“You know, the freezing cold and the snow and ice. Like in Moscow. Or Stalingrad.”
“There is no more Stalingrad, stupid.”
Now, I not only feel the cold on my face, but a chill runs up and down my backbone. That was a stupid thing to say, even for me.
He’s still staring at the windshield.
“Bullet hole,” he says, a little under his breath.
“Excuse me?” I say.
He nods in the direction of the windshield, raises his gloved hand, and with an extended index finger, points to it.
“That looks like bullet hole to me.”
My pulse picks up.
“I wouldn’t know, friend,” I say. “The boss assigns me a truck first thing in the morning, and I drive it. Not always the same truck.”
“That so,” he says. Then, “I don’t recall order from Capital Florist.”
I cup my hands around my mouth, blow hot air into them. I do a little jig with my legs and feet like I can’t shake the bone-deep cold. And I can’t. Pulling the stack of packing slips from my chest pocket, I pretend to go through them, one by one.
“Jeeze,” I say, “I’m sure they told me The Flower Man was my first delivery. You sure you didn’t order a whole bunch of stuff?”
He makes a sort of sly smile. “The new guy fucks up, da?”
I pat myself down.
“Damn,” I say. “I forgot my cell phone. You got a phone I can use?”
What I’m hoping here is he won’t pull out his own cell phone, offer up its use. I’m guessing he won’t since he’ll have to type in his pin, and there could be things on there he wouldn’t want me to see. Open texts, or emails, or even porn.
He cocks his head over his shoulder in the direction of the building.
“Inside, da?”
“Da,” I say, with a smile.
He doesn’t smile back.
We make our way through the back, delivery bay area of the facility. It’s built of concrete and rusted metal siding, the dock bumpers made of thick rubber. The smell is a combination of motor oil, gasoline, and flowers. It’s a thick, almost sickening smell that sticks to my nasal passages like a gas or a vapor.
I follow him up a metal staircase that leads to a glass door accessing the interior offices and the retail space. He opens the door for me, and we make our way along a hallway. Offices are located on either side of the brightly lit corridor. They’re all accessed by solid wood doors. One of the offices has a metal plate screwed to the door, the name Anatoly Brezinski embossed into it.
“How about in here?” I say, putting my hand on the doorknob, twisting it.
He grabs my arm.
“Not in there, nyet,” he barks. “That big boss office.”
I quickly remove my hand.
“Oh Jeeze,” I say. “Sorry about that.”
But what I’m not sorry about is finding out that the office is unlocked. Is Anatoly in the building already? I intend to find out.
We move on further down the hall, the smell of fresh flowers becoming nearly overwhelming. It’s not a pleasant smell at all. Makes me feel like I’m entering a funeral home.
“You may use phone in here,” Wool Overcoat says.
He’s pointing to a room to which the door is already open. When he flicks on the lights for me, I can see it’s like a workshop. In fact, it is a workshop, where the flower artisans put together their bouquets and vases. Where they pack the long boxes with roses and lilacs and daffodils. There are a couple long wood block tables positioned in the center of the room. While the exterior wall is made of floor-to-ceiling chicken-wire reinforced glass, the interior brick walls are covered with counters and cabinets. The surfaces of both the counters and the long tables contain scissors of all length and sizes, plus knives and little saws. Twine and every imaginable color of ribbon are accessed by spools attached to the table’s edges by metal rollers, sort of like paper towel dispensers.
The overhead lighting is industrial and harsh, and the concrete floor contains a drain in its center. The drain is so stained it has turned black over the years.
“There on the wall,” Wool Overcoat says.
He points to a black phone that’s mounted on the wall to my left.
“A landline,” I say. “Don’t see many of these anymore.”
“Make your call fast, da? We open for business soon.”
Just then, a commotion. The expression on Wool Overcoat’s face goes from annoyed to anxious over the course of a split second. Heavy footsteps on the floor, then a baritone voice shouting something in Russian.
“Yes, Anatoly,” Wool Overcoat says. “On my way.”
That’s my cue to pick up the phone, begin dialing a number. Any number, just to make it look good. Turns out, I’m dialing Miller’s personal cell phone. While the phone rings, I see a huge, white-bearded man dressed in black from head to toe, walk on past the open door. Even from where I’m standing I can make out the scowl on his face like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his size fifty shoulders.
He moves on past the door toward his office. But that’s when the footsteps stop, and he reverses, pokes his head in the open door. I turn away fast, face the wall, my heart beating in my throat.
“Who is man on phone!?” he barks.
“Ahhh, yeah, this is Phil, the driver,” I say, making something up on the spot. “I think I’m at the wrong flower shop. At least, that’s what they’re telling me.”
Miller answers.
“Who’s this?” he asks. No way he recognizes the number displayed on his digital screen.
“It’s me,” I say into the phone, as tersely and tense as possible. “I’m at the flower shop. The Flower Man. You know.”
“Jobz,” Miller says. “You okay?”
“They tell me I’m lost. But I don’t think I am.” I cough a huge frog from my throat like it’s a secret code. “The boss is here. The big boss. Maybe I should check with him.”
Miller pauses. I can hear his breathing.
“I think I see what’s happening,” he says. “To get inside The Flower Shop, you needed to use the phone. A landline.” He giggles. “Good work, Jobz. I’ll stay on the line as long as you need me to.”
“Thanks for that,” I say. “Yup, you guessed it right. Okay, I’ll wait while you make a check.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the big bearded Russian man remove his head from the door. I make out the sound of heavy footsteps walking further down the hall, then a substantial door opening.
“Bring me my coffee!” Anatoly barks like he’s Stalin on a bad vodka hangover morning. “And two blueberry cake donuts, da?”
“Okay, I’ll m
ake a check on things and get right back to you,” I say. Then I hang up.
I take a moment to listen. Is there anyone else outside the door? Anatoly is back in his office. But is Wool Overcoat still out there? I quietly make my way to the open door, gaze out into the corridor. Nobody there. Wool Overcoat must be making the coffee and donut run for Anatoly. That gives me my chance, however slight.
I head back to the workshop, begin rummaging through the tools left out on the long wood tables. There are so many saws, knives, and scissors it’s like looking for a piece of hay in a haystack. I’m not even entirely sure what I’m looking for. Something with the blood on it. DNA that can be matched with Megan Barker’s remains. Miller himself said that she had been killed outside her office, then her head and torso transported by the killers back to the State Street office. This looks like as good a place as any to decapitate somebody. At the very least, I can take pictures of the place.
Pulling out my smartphone, I go to the camera app and start snapping away. I take as many pictures as I can of the long wood tables, of the tools, of the floor and its dirty stained drain. It’s then, as I’m snapping photo after photo, that I see it, out the corner of my eye, almost like it’s calling out to me. A knife that’s been set behind a wooden box filled with spools of twine. I go to it, pull the box out of the way, get my first real good look at the knife. It’s not only got blood on the blade, but there are bloody fingerprints on the handle. Whoever put the knife here must have either been in a hurry to get the hell out, or in all the confusion and panic that can follow a cold-blooded murder, simply forgot about it.
The Flower Man Page 14
