"But she didn’t go home, not to the home I know her to go to, yeah? She gets in the car with this cop, at the end of the day, she ends up back at his apartment. She… she… she.. Ah fuck.”Calvin took a deep breath and rolled his eyes. “…of course she did.” He concealed his pistol underneath his suit jacket and lit another cigarette. “Thank you. Very helpful. Now get the fuck out of my face.”
The creep seemed bewildered that Detective Lovegrove was letting him go. “Oh, thank you! Thank you, thank you! You won’t regret this.”
Calvin let loose a slight chuckle under his breath. This sorry son-of-a-bitch was truly convinced that he was about to be shot. “If I see you anywhere near this case again, you will not be thanking me. Go.”
With that, the creep disappeared down the murky alleyway and Lovegrove was alone again. He considered waiting for Ash, but evidently, that man was busy playing his own game. Calvin tossed his cigarette into a puddle of water that had formed in a dip in the shitty asphalt lining the perimeter of Club Carousel. He needed a breather.
Ossining General Hospital
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“The most exciting case of your life and—” Evelyn coughed. “—you still find time to see little old me.”
“I suspect it will not be long before they defer this thing to a different desk. Gallagher and I aren’t a coherent enough unit to do any half-decent investigation.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” said Evelyn weakly as she outstretched her hand for Calvin to hold it.
Cal smiled and held his wife’s hand, which was now feebly clinging onto his. “Don’t be. I don’t like this case. It’s a fucking mess, and we’re no closer to catching him than when we started.”
“I doubt it is your fault, darling.”
“It is, and it’s also Gallagher’s. I don’t like his white-knight style of police work, and with the death of his partner, he’s so close to this case that I’m appalled the NYPD let him anywhere near it.” Calvin neglected to mention the picture of the affair the creep had painted him. It was almost as if he respected Detective Gallagher’s privacy, though he was far from trusting him.
Evelyn smiled. “Give him a chance. For me. I want you to have friends when I am gone.”
“Don’t talk like that, my love.”
“You’re kidding yourself, Cal.” Evelyn let loose a violent cough that chilled Calvin to his bones. “I don’t have much longer, and I want you to make peace with it.” She chuckled. “You’ve never been any good at making friends – perhaps now is the time to start.”
Calvin sighed. “For you, I’ll refrain from demanding that he is taken off this case. That’s all I have in me at the moment.”
Evelyn nodded. “That’s a start.” She coughed again. “You’re a sweetheart underneath. You simply have to let it show.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“How many big-time fancy detectives take the time out of their day to send a fellow officer to visit their wife to check in on her? Not many, I’ll say,” said Evelyn, grinning ear-to-ear.
“What?” Calvin’s expression immediately became stern and inquisitive.
“Oh…what was his name... Johnny, I think? A swell gentleman from your precinct said you’d sent him to check on me. He was a lovely man. Asked me about how you were holding up.”
A shiver ran down Calvin’s spine. He froze, and for a moment, said absolutely nothing. “Darling…what did he look like?”
“Handsome. Come to think of it, he looked quite a bit like you. I thought it -was- you when he walked in. Got me these, as well.” Evelyn pointed at a vase on the table adjacent to her hospital bed.
Calvin turned toward the bedside table and his heart stopped. Sitting neatly next to his wife was a vase of white roses.
“Why? Is something the matter? You sent him, didn’t you?”
Calvin fought sternly against his breathing pattern, one that had become erratic and shaky. “Yes,” he lied. “I’ve just been so caught up in work that I had forgotten.” He forced a smile. “I’m going to go to the restroom.” With that, he bolted toward the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.
Shaking almost violently, Calvin turned on the sink and splashed water onto his face. He slapped his cheeks and desperately fought the pervasive fear that rattled in his bones. He couldn’t reveal to Evelyn what she had just unwittingly witnessed. She was barely clinging to life, and involving her in a case as ugly as this one was the worst thing he could possibly do to her in the final moments of her life.
Calvin swung open the front door to the precinct, his cigarette quivering along with his lips.
It had to have been midnight by this point. Most of the lights had been turned off. All except one. The desk in front of his office, where one Charlotte Petersen dutifully sifted through Detective Lovegrove’s correspondence, was dimly lit by a single lamp.
Calvin made a beeline toward his secretary. “Get the Florist case file out. Now. And bring it into my office.” He walked by Charlotte’s desk without saying another word and slammed the door to his office behind him.
After a minute, presumably spent by Charlotte to prepare for the temper of Detective Lovegrove, Miss Petersen opened the door, a large file in hand.
“I want you to transcribe a statement.”
Charlotte sat on the opposite side of the desk from the detective, whose face was buried in his hands. “Are you all right?”
“Not important. I need you to take a statement.”
“Okay.” Charlotte retrieved a blank form and prepared her pen.
“The suspect is Caucasian, brown-hair, early thirties, roughly six-foot-four.” As he described himself, he wanted to vomit.
“How—”
“Don’t ask me how I know, Charlotte, just fucking write it down.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” said Charlotte. She shivered as she transcribed what Detective Lovegrove was barking at her. “What else?”
“That is all. You can go home now.”
Charlotte seemed to understand that it was best for her not to pry. She consolidated the contents of the file and stood. “Good night, Detective Lovegrove.”
“Good night. Oh, and when you come in tomorrow, please look into finding me an apartment. Somewhere within a five-block radius of Club Carousel.”
Charlotte knew better than to ask why. “Okay.” She gave a half-smile and gently closed the door behind her.
Calvin jammed his cigarette into the ashtray on his desk and kicked up his feet. He was going to sleep here. He couldn’t go back to Ossining. In fact, he has skeptical that anywhere was truly safe. He had never mentioned his wife’s condition to anyone, yet the killer had paid her a visit.
For a moment, it puzzled Cal that his wife was still alive, but the ordeal began to make sense. The Florist was sending a message, one that became abundantly clear. No one within a mile of this case was safe.
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