The Flower Man

by Vincent Zandri

  “How the hell am I going to get proof if it happened all those years ago?”

  “You need something. A picture or something.”

  “You don’t take a picture of a rape, Miller. Jeeze whiz.”

  He hesitates again. More breathing. More anger.

  “You know how sex freaks can be, Jobz,” he says. “Or what the hell, maybe you don’t. They like visuals, and they like visual trophies. It fits their profile. They had cell phones capable of taking pictures back when the alleged rape or rapes occurred, and I can bet you dollars to donuts if Terry felt as though he could send the adult Natalia pictures of his dick, there’s a good bet he’s got a library or film in which the teenage Natalia stars. In fact, he’s probably got a library with a whole stable of starlets. Young and old.”

  Once again, I see the drunk Janice at the lunch table, spouting off about Terry making Super-8 films of the young Natalia, and grabbing hold of her arm to shut her up. I also see the shiner she showed up with at dinner that night. They both claimed it was the fault of her running into the bathroom door jamb. But I’m more convinced than ever that Terry balled his fist in it.

  “Listen, Miller, Janice said something about films. Super-8 films that Terry used to make. Make of Natalia when she was kid.”

  “Oh Christ,” Miller says. It’s all he needs to say.

  Heart now pumping in my throat, I start the car, pull away from the curb. Making a U-turn, I head back toward North Albany and Dutch Village Apartments. One hand on the wheel, the other with the phone pressed against my face.

  “I’m heading to Natalia’s apartment right now.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if she’s all right.”

  “What about your assignment? The McGovern’s?”

  “To be honest, Miller, I’m starting to believe that it’s other people who need protecting. Protecting from the very people I’m protecting.”

  “If your theory holds up, Jobz, you just might be right. But do Terry and Janice know you’re gone?”

  “Terry is gone.”

  “Jesus, I gotta do everything myself.” He exhales deeply, bitterly. “How do you know he’s gone, Jobz?”

  “Cop parked outside the house told me.”

  “And the blue uniform didn’t try to stop him?”

  “Cop said stopping him was my job, Miller. Besides . . .”

  “Besides what, Jobz?”

  “He was busy texting.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Miller grouses into the phone. Then, “Look, be careful. No telling who could be following you. You’re digging deep and coming up with some decent stuff. Disturbing stuff. But if Megan Barker’s murder proves one thing, it’s this: You hang around these people too long, and you’re likely to find yourself in a world of hurt.”

  In my brain, I see Megan’s head on the front lawn of the McGovern mansion covered with a pile of rose heads. Then, I see her head resting on her own torso down inside the Albany Medical Center morgue. Not great memories by any stretch of the imagination.

  “I’ll let you know what I find out when I find it out,” I say.

  Hanging up, I turn onto Scott Drive, the road that accesses the dozen or so four-story stately brick buildings that make up the Dutch Village apartment complex. A complex that, with its mature oak and maple trees, rivals Brown or Harvard University in appearance. And for good reason. It was originally constructed as housing for the wives of soldiers who returned home from the World War Two and who wished to spend the entirety of their GI Bill on a college education at one the many nearby universities. Or so one of my old girlfriends informed me while we were lying in bed in one of the Dutch Village penthouse bedrooms.

  Shoving the phone back in my pocket, I look for building number ten. Since I have a general idea of where it is, I find it pretty quickly, park the Mustang in a free spot. Get out.

  I’ve always loved these apartments. They make me feel like I’m back in college, and young, my whole life ahead of me. Back when I had all my looks, my hair, and my health, and I didn’t even need eyeglasses. Course, all I wanted to do back then was fly fish. And when my dad was killed, and my mom injured while sleeping in their beds from a drugged-up intruder, any kind of youthful optimism I harbored went south.

  I graduated college, but from there, I dropped out of the world, became a fly fishing guide, squeaked by on a few dollars per week. It was a good life, but an unrealistic one. Eventually, I became a cop, and when I tried to do the right thing for both society and a convenience store clerk who was about to get his brains blown out by a teenager hopped up on crack, I was fired from the job and made an example of from the politically correct politicos and the liberal New York media.

  Welcome to the new world order where right is wrong, and the truth will get you killed.

  Making my way to the front wood and glass door of Building 10, I gaze at the names displayed on the intercom panel. Brezinski is apartment 10C. If I remember correctly, that’s the top floor or penthouse apartment. One of my old girlfriends lived in a “C” penthouse in a separate building. I press the intercom buzzer and wait for an answer. Meanwhile, I turn back around to get another look at the parking lot. I have no idea what Natalia’s car looks like, but I try to make an educated guess. Beside my Mustang, there’s an old model Honda civic. Black. Plus a pickup truck. A family minivan, and finally a fire engine red Jeep Wrangler.

  The Jeep maybe.

  No answer coming from Apartment C. I press the buzzer again. Wait, again.

  Nothing. Time to get creative.

  Three other apartments exist on this side of the building. Judging by the cars outside, at least one of them might be home. I press all three and wait for someone to take the bait. After a long beat, a tinny voice speaks to me over the old intercom.

  “Yes, what is it?” The voice of an elderly woman. Or maybe just a woman who sounds old because she’s sick and tired of life or at the very least, the forever long cold gray Albany winter.

  “It’s the mailman. I have a package for Ms. Brezinski that needs to be placed inside the building.”

  “Isn’t she home?”

  “She’s not answering her buzzer. Maybe she’s napping. I don’t want to wake her.”

  “Napping? She’s probably passed out after all the partying she’s been doing. I nearly had to call the cops over the racket. Partying during the day when she should be at work.”

  I find myself biting down on my lip, shaking my head. Natalia doesn’t seem like much of a partier to me.

  “Okay,” the woman says, releasing the front door lock.

  There’s a loud click as the electronic latch releases and the door opens slightly. Grabbing hold of the opener, I pull the door open and start up the stairs two at a time before someone opens their door to get a good look at me.

  When I make it to the top floor, I face the solid, two-panel white door, knowing I’m going to have no choice but pick the lock. But when I place my hand on the opener, the door simply opens by itself. It’s then I can see that the door has already been jimmied with something like a screwdriver. The doorjamb has been gouged out.

  Pulling out my pistol, I slowly step inside.

  “Natalia,” I say aloud. “Natalia, are you here?”

  I glance over my right shoulder into the living room. It’s been ransacked. The couch is completely tipped over, the coffee table flipped, the flat screen television ripped off the wall, and the bookshelves completely ravaged. By the looks of it, someone was searching for something important. Desperately searching, I would say. No wonder that old lady sounded so annoyed.

  “Too bad she didn’t call the cops,” I whisper.

  The small dining room before me is untouched. But the galley kitchen beside it has been torn apart. The floor is littered with boxes, broken plates, and glasses. There’s a crushed banana on the floor. The refrigerator door has been left wide open. I close it, as if that will make an ounce of difference.

  My gun at the ready, I make my way alo
ng the short corridor into the bathroom.

  Same story.

  The cabinet under the sink is in shambles, rolls of toilet paper, cleaning supplies, wash clothes and towels are strewn all over the floor. The medicine cabinet above the sink is open, its contents emptied into the sink. The cabinet has been partially pulled out of the wall as if whoever did this was desperate to find what might be hidden under it. Something like a Super-8 film reel maybe.

  The shower curtain is torn away from its metal rings, and the cover on the toilet tank has been removed and set on the toilet seat. I move into the bedroom, my heart pulsing in my throat, adrenaline speeding through the veins and capillaries in my brain, my entire being afraid of what I might find laid out on the bed. But there’s nothing on the bed. Correction, the bed is filled with all sorts of shit, including clothes, books, magazines, makeup bottles, hair brushes, a hand-held mirror, and tissue boxes. But no body. No Natalia.

  The drawers on the tall dresser are pulled out and emptied. The drawers on the vanity have been pulled out entirely and tossed onto the bed along with the other crap. The closet door is open, and from where I’m standing I can see that it has been ravaged, the intruder even having gone so far as to tear up the loose floorboards.

  “Loose floorboards,” I whisper to myself, covering the few steps from the open bedroom door to the open closet door.

  I take a knee, pick up one of the boards, and then another, set them aside. I peer down into the opening. It’s about six inches deep and maybe one foot by one foot wide. By the looks of it, the brittle concrete was chiseled out by hand on purpose by someone who wanted to use it as a place to hide something. Something of great value or great importance, or both. Something like a film that proves Mr. TV raped a teenage girl back in the early two thousands. Jesus, did Natalia somehow get her hands on one of Terry’s videos? Did she somehow steal it and now he desperately wants it back?

  Standing, I stuff the barrel of the 9mm back into my pant waist, pull out my smartphone. I thumb the camera app, start snapping pictures of the hole in the floor. I go a step further and snap pictures of the entire apartment. When I’m done, I send some of them to Miller just to give him an idea of what’s happening.

  My phone rings. It’s Miller.

  “Get out of that place,” he says. “The uniform parked outside the McGovern house just informed me that Terry is back home.”

  I feel myself nodding.

  “He see Terry at all?” I ask. “Or was he too busy texting?”

  “You mean did Terry get out of his Suburban and strike up a conversation with him? No. Mr. TV just pulled into the garage and lowered the garage door.”

  More nodding.

  “Means it’s possible he not only has the film he’s been looking for, but he’s got the girl too.”

  “What are you saying, Jobz?”

  “Terry McGovern,” I say. “Maybe he not only took the Super-8 film from that hole in the closet floor I just sent you a picture of. Maybe he also took the girl.”

  “What would she be doing with one of Terry’s films, Jobz?”

  “I have no idea how she could have gotten her hands on it, but it looks like a good bet that she did.”

  He pauses for a beat, breathes.

  “Let’s hope he didn’t hurt the girl,” Miller says. “Any sign of a struggle? Blood stains, smears, droplets, and or puddles?”

  “Nada,” I say. “Far as I can see. But the place is a wreck. Woman downstairs described it as a party gone berserk in the middle of the day.”

  “Get back to Terry’s,” he orders. “Act dumb. Meanwhile, I’ll send a crew over to the apartment.”

  “Roger that, Chief.”

  “Don’t call me Chief,” he says before hanging up.

  Back down in the Mustang, I fire up the engine, throw the tranny in reverse. I’m still turning my head around to get a look out the back window when I feel the gun barrel connect with my temple. One eye in the rearview, I can see the face of the man holding the gun. It’s the Wool Overcoat man from The Flower Man store.

  “It’s my own fault,” I say. “I should know better than to leave my door open.”

  “Drive,” he says.

  When I don’t move a muscle, he pokes me harder in the cheek with the gun barrel.

  “Do it,” he says. He says it like eeet. For some reason, it strikes me as funny. Although, my situation is anything but. The man who holds a gun on me right now could be the same man who cut Megan Barker’s head off. That is, assuming, Anatoly left the dirty work up to his lackeys. His goons.

  Releasing my foot pressure on the brake pedal, the Mustang slowly backs out of the parking spot. Shifting the column-mounted transmission back into drive, I tap the gas, and we move forward. One eye on the road, the other on Wool Overcoat, I try to get a good look at his hands. It doesn’t take me long to figure out that he’s wearing those same black leather gloves he had on when I saw him earlier this morning at the shop.

  “What happened to your truck?” he asks after a time.

  I pull up to the stop sign at the end of d of the Dutch Village Apartments access road. No choice but to make a right or a left. He’s not telling me where to go, so acting on instinct I hook a right and drive away from the city toward the North Albany ‘burbs.

  “What truck?” I respond.

  “Come, come, Mr. Jobz,” he says in his heavy Russian brogue. “That was you this morning pretending to be flower distributor. I am not stupid.” He leans up quick, this time poking the back of my head with the gun barrel. “Are you calling me stupid, da?”

  I feel the pain in the back of my head. The pain is a good thing since it means my brains aren’t splattered all over the interior of the windshield. Not yet anyway. Meantime, I’m getting a little bored with the conversation. Or lack of it, I should say. Also, the lack of direction. It’s good to know where you’re going in life. Even if where you’re going in life is about to lead directly to a swift death.

  “How do you know my name?” I ask after a long beat.

  “You work for police,” he says. “You have been watching over McGoverns like they are little lost goats. I have been following you.”

  “Little lost sheep you mean,” I correct him.

  “What?”

  “It’s not lost goats. It’s little lost sheep, as in baa baa black sheep, have you any wool? If you’re gonna live in the US, you gotta get with the program.”

  “Shut up,” he says, poking me again.

  The image of a rose head fills my brain.

  I say, “So, you’re the one who keeps giving me red roses. How sweet.”

  Yet another gun barrel poke to the back of the head. It stings, but at least he’s not pulling the trigger.

  “So, speaking of roses,” I say. “Am I to assume that was your handy work on the McGovern front lawn? I mean, I’ve heard of thoughtful bouquets before, but a decapitated head covered in roses is a bit of stretch.”

  Another poke. I’ve got to be working up a big black and blue welt on the back of my skull.

  “Shut up,” he hisses. “Shut up and drive, Mr. Jobz.”

  I drive until I come to the end of the boulevard. Once again, I’m confronted with a choice. Go right or go left.

  “What’s it going to be, Mister?” I beg. “East or West?”

  “Go left,” he insists.

  “West,” I say.

  I turn left.

  “No, go right,” he adds. “Quickly.”

  I spin the wheel clockwise, pull onto the road that will eventually lead back to the McGovern neighborhood.

  “We’re going back to the McGovern’s,” I deduce. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

  “You talk too much, Mr. Jobz,” he says. “What do they call it in the US? Potty mouth.”

  “You got it wrong again, buddy,” I say. “It’s motor mouth. Motor. Mouth. Potty mouth is somebody who swears a lot. You know, fuck me and fuck you. Stuff like that.”

  This time I tot
ally expect it when he pokes me. Expecting the poke doesn’t make it any less painful.

  “Shut up, potty mouth. Right now, your job is to be quiet, and drive to Mr. TV house.”

  Drive . . .

  That’s when something else besides decapitated heads, both human and of the red rose variety, fills my brain. Back when I was a kid, if I was driving my friends around in my beat-up brown Chevy Nova, I would pull a prank that would scare the daylights out of them. I would gradually take on speed while at the same time, I’d press one hand against my chest. I’d make noises like I was in great pain. Like I was suffering from a heart attack. A sudden and very catastrophic heart attack.

  There’s only about a mile of distance to cover between my present location and the McGovern house. My guess is once this Russian asshole gets me inside the house, he’s going to extract what me and the APD know. He’s going to do it by ripping out my fingernails or cutting off my fingers one by one, or however he plans on torturing me. Then, when I’ve spilled everything I know, not only about his drug running scheme with the McGoverns but also his complicity in Megan Barker’s beheading, he is going to kill me, dump my body in the river.

  And if he doesn’t kill me, Terry will now that I know what he did to the young Natalia and how the evidence could be there for all the world to see on a reel of Super-8 film. So, I guess what I’m trying to tell myself is this: What the hell have I got to lose?