Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(52)

I waited a full minute and drove away, U-turning south on Dot Ave. I told him what I’d learned from Teddy Cahill, and why Cahill suspected the property owner near the church had been apprehensive about turning over the security camera feed.

“So we might have to persuade them,” Z said.

“It may be bad karma to pistol-whip a florist.”

“Is this considered breaking the law?”

“I’m pretty sure what we’re doing isn’t legal or ethical.”

Z smiled very wide. The idea intrigued him. Watch out, City of Angels.





45


This fire that may be on video,” Z said. “It started before or after your apartment?”

“After,” I said. “Arson thinks someone played the fire department. They waited until several companies headed to the Back Bay and then set this warehouse on fire.”

“Just to make sure you knew.”

“We’re two blocks from Holy Innocents,” I said. “So it seems to be another not-so-subtle message.”

“How are the firefighters?”

“Still in the hospital,” I said. “Burns and some nasty smoke inhalation.”

I drove for a couple blocks off Tremont Street deep in the South End. On the next pass, we spotted a two-story brick building set off from the other warehouses. It had a chain-link fence around the perimeter and a sign reading BOSTON FLORAL. For the next hour or so, we watched several cars and vans come and go, a gate sliding open and shut behind them. We noted nothing suspicious. But we did spot at least two video cameras on the corners of the building.

“Busy for two a.m.”

I nodded. “Everyone loves a bouquet.”

“If it’s a legit operation,” Z said, “they’d have no problem with me stopping in. Asking for a dozen roses.”

“True.”

“And if not,” Z said. “They might take great exception and get nasty and physical.”

“Also true.”

“But at least we’d know who we’re dealing with,” Z said. “And what to expect.”

I started the Explorer and drove close to the gate. We waited for ten minutes until the gate slid open again and a green van departed. I darted into the warehouse lot just as the gate closed. The lot was empty. We got out of the Explorer just as two men walked out of the warehouse. I was no expert, but they did not appear to be florists. One man was black and muscular, the other was white and doughy. They both carried shotguns.

“I’m looking to purchase a pick-me-up bouquet,” I said. “Preferably with polka dots and posies.”

“We don’t sell to the public,” said the white guy. “Get the f*ck outta here.”

“Don’t you guys arrange more than flowers?” Z said.

“They arrange smiles,” I said. I kept walking toward the landing, arms outstretched, showing my palms. Z walked in stride with me. The black man stood still, eyeing us, shotgun held in his left hand.

“How about just one?” I said. “Surely you can just sell me one red rose?”

“I said, get the f*ck outta here,” the white guy said. “You can’t just drive on in a private business like that. Christ, you’re gonna get yourself f*cking shot.”

The black man walked up behind him. He held the gun in both hands now. It was a sawed-off Mossberg with lots of electrical tape on the grip.

“Ma’s going to be so disappointed,” Z said. His Boston accent was nearly passable.

I smiled, caught Z’s eye, and nodded.

Z hit the black man very fast and very hard in the face. He fell backward off the platform and onto the asphalt. The white man tried to raise the shotgun before I punched him in the stomach and took away the gun. It was also a shotgun, a 12-gauge Browning with a walnut stock. Perfect to shoot doves.

The man looked up at me as he tried to catch his breath. I raised his shotgun at him and told him if he moved I’d blow his f*cking head off.

Z had the black man by the arm, his pistol at the base of the man’s neck. Z held on to the man’s shotgun in his right hand.

“Now, about those flowers,” I said.

We marched them up to the landing. There was a white metal door with another security camera over it. “Who’s inside?”

“Binky.”

“Binky?” I said. “Really?”

He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s his f*cking name.”

“Call him what you want. But if there’s someone else inside, we’ll shoot you both.”

He unlocked the door and we walked inside to an open first floor. Several luxury cars and SUVs were parked inside the cavernous space. Long fluorescent lights were strung intermittently overhead, giving off the bright glow of a Super Target.

Another black man stood at a table. He wore a lightweight black leather coat over a white tank top. He had on a blue scally cap and his hands were full of money. On the table were hundreds of small plastic packets, more money, some handguns, and several cell phones.

“Hiya, Binky,” I said.

“Motherf*cker,” he said. It was less of an insult than a moment of realization.

“Hands up,” Z said.

I pushed the white guy over by Binky. I explained what would happen if either one of them lowered their hands. Z pushed the guy he’d punched in the face to join his friends. He was bleeding all over himself. Black and white thugs together. Progress.