Even from the back of the shop, Frank could tell that the woman was nervous. He swore silently to himself, then, staying low, slowly crept forward. He tried to stay beneath the level of the counter, so that his reflection would not appear in the glass of the cases behind it.
“Good Shepherd?” she repeated.
He’s not a cop, Frank thought, edging closer. Not the one who killed Lefebvre. He’s too young. Which left the only other person who’d be interested in white flowers. One of Dane’s men. This likelihood did not make him feel any better.
The wasp man said, “Yes. Lefebvre. My uncle’s name was Lefebvre.”
“I — I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
The wasp man sighed, then walked toward the door. Frank couldn’t believe he was giving up so easily — there was something else going on. Did the wasp man have a confederate outside? He hurriedly repositioned himself so that he was better concealed, but not aligned with the woman behind the counter. If he had to fire his weapon at the wasp man, he did not want her to be in the line of fire. He could not see as much of the man’s movements, but he still had a good view of the woman and the street outside. There was a Camaro parked at the curb. No one was waiting in it.
He hoped the wasp man was going to leave, that he had learned whatever he wanted to know. But he didn’t believe for a minute that it was going to happen that way. He thought of all the names on the police memorial that belonged to guys who had bought the farm just like this, on a night when some walk-in asshole’s random or not- so-random act of assholishness turned a trip to a florist or a store or a restaurant into a
Instead of going out the door, the wasp man locked it. As he bent to do this, Frank saw the outline of a weapon beneath his coat.
“Why did you do that?” the florist said. “Can’t you read the sign? ‘This door to remain unlocked during — ’”
“I said, I need your help.”
Frank unholstered his own weapon. With his other hand, he pulled out his cell phone, which was set on silent mode, and dialed Pete’s pager number. Keeping an eye on the wasp man, who was moving closer to the florist, he entered 77, the last digits of his badge number, which would immediately tell Pete who was calling. Separating each code with asterisks, he followed this with 1199, the radio code for “officer needs assistance,” then 211, “armed robbery,” then 2-4-BLOOM — driven nearly mad by having to translate the store’s phone number into digits before hitting the pound key. He put the phone away.
The wasp man was back at the counter now. “Come on, tell me.”
“I told you,” the woman said. “I can’t help you.”
He moved closer to her. “Can’t you?”
“No. I mean — yes, we did make that delivery, but the customer didn’t leave his name. He paid in cash.”
“Describe him.”
“You aren’t upset about him being illegitimate, are you?”
The wasp man momentarily lost his air of menace. “What?”
“He said that he was Mr. Lefebvre’s illegitimate brother. That’s why he didn’t want his name attached. He wanted to pay his respects but not to upset the family. I thought he was being overly sensitive, but—”
The wasp man reached across the counter, grabbed hold of her blouse, and dragged her halfway over it as he pulled his gun out.
Frank moved forward.
“I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you!” the woman said. “Please don’t shoot me! Please don’t! I don’t want any trouble!”
“Neither do I,” he said, releasing her. “Now tell me — who ordered the white flowers?”
“Please don’t shoot me!” she said again, cowering down behind the counter.
“Hold still!” the wasp man shouted at her. “Get your hands up where I can see them!”
She whimpered, putting her arms over her head, as if to shield herself from him.
The wasp man laughed. “Are your arms bulletproof?”
“Ohhh, God! Oh, God!”
“Christ, lady, did you just wet yourself?”
She began sobbing.
The phone rang.
“Don’t answer that!”
She sobbed louder.
“Shut up! Shut the fuck up! I just want a little information, for God’s sake.”
She obeyed, making little hiccuping noises. “He didn’t give me his name! I swear to you, he didn’t! I told you, he paid cash.”
“Describe him to me.”
“He was older, in his fifties, I’d say. Oh…”
“God damn it! Lady! Wake up! Oh, Christ — do
