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  He wiped a flake of pastry from the side of his mouth with a pinkie that was the size of a kishka sausage. “I had a virus two weeks ago and lost five kilos. I’m trying to get back to my one-hundred-sixty-kilo fighting weight.”

  “If Pyotr’s assessment of this trip is correct, you’ll gain that weight back and more.”

  Vasily smiled at her. Yasmine saw that her download was finished, put the flash drive into her purse and headed back to her office. Vasily seemed like a big huggable bear, but a shiver ran up her spine as she remembered something Pyotr had told her.

  A Moscow gangster had once tried to pick up Vasily’s wife at a bar. When she rebuffed him, he called her a whore and tore her blouse. Vasily came home and found his wife crying. He went back to the bar, where the gangster was cloistered in a private room, and killed all eleven people in the private party. The man who had accosted his wife was the last to die. Vasily took a medieval battle axe from the wall and embedded it in the man’s face.

  Like most of Ptushko’s inner circle, Vasily’s entire family was employed by corporations in their network. This inspired fanatical devotion and loyalty. Never a bad thing, Yasmine thought.

  36

  After their celebratory feast, the Colonel had laid out the newest plans for the men. As the enemy grew wiser, they knew they would have to change tactics. They also knew it was just a matter of time before their luck ran out, so the Colonel had planned two simultaneous raids, on grow houses just a couple of miles apart. With barely two weeks to go until they left the country, they needed to step up the pace and ensure they hit the dollar figure required to finance the coup in their country.

  It would be the first time they had split into smaller units, thus the load time for the pot crop would take a bit longer. But Barros had rigged a special covering for the ramps to the back doors of the vans that would keep them out of view. One truck would be disguised as a home electronics delivery vehicle. The other as an exterminator.

  They had left the base together, early in the morning. If everything went according to plan, they would return within two hours.

  Of the dozens of men Otis had deployed to watch his grow ops, Cain Stevens was almost certainly the toughest. Even Jesse Murdoch gave Cain Stevens plenty of space. He had trained as a Navy Seal, winning his class’s “Fire in the Gut” award. After serving in the Seals for five years, Stevens was dishonorably discharged for beating a suspected Yemeni terrorist to death—ironically with US Army Field Manual 2 22.3, the instruction book detailing approved interrogation techniques. Unwilling to abandon his vocation, he became a freelance member of an elite private security force. Coincidentally, he had spent two weeks training in urban street warfare at Pyotr Ptushko’s special facility in southern Russia.

  In addition to being a martial arts master, Stevens bristled with weapons. He carried a Sig Sauer P226 Navy sidearm and the Sig P290 concealed-carry in an ankle holster, a Ghost Hawk neck knife, a pepper spray ring on his right index finger, which contained a three-second burst of highly concentrated irritant, and a SpyderCo Credit Card blade.

  Unlike other members of Otis’s organization, Stevens never let down his guard. He was constantly wary. So while the others might surf porn on their laptops or video game between glances at the security cams, Stevens was on high alert at all times.

  Unfortunately, Stevens had one area of vulnerability that had haunted him since the age of eleven: he was deathly allergic to bee and wasp stings. As he began his fifth set of one hundred pushups on the floor of his surveillance room, he heard a buzzing noise and noticed a wasp in the small side window of the room. He rolled up a newspaper and smacked the insect, smearing it in a satisfying arc across the glass.

  “Target eliminated,” he said in a deadpan voice, and he went back to his pushups. Halfway through the set, he heard another wasp. Once again, he picked up the newspaper and dispatched the yellowjacket. Instead of returning to his exercises, he checked the inside pocket of his coat for his EpiPen, an auto-injector which contained a dose of epinephrine, designed to prevent the onset of anaphylactic shock if he was ever stung.

  As he hung the coat back over his chair, he checked the surveillance cams. He noticed an exterminator van parked in front of the next door neighbor’s house. He also noticed three more wasps trapped inside the window. The doorbell rang.

  Stevens drew his sidearm and walked calmly to the front door. Standing to the side, he shouted through the door.

  “Can I help you?”

  He heard a man’s voice, muffled by the reinforced door. “Good morning. Sorry to bother you, but the neighbor called us to take out a wasp nest and it turns out it’s actually on your side of the property line. He says he won’t pay. Can I get you to sign the PO authorizing our services?”

  Stevens thought for a second. “I’m just house-sitting. I can’t authorize it.”

  There was a pause from the man. “Okay, no problem. Have a nice day.”

  Stevens looked through the peephole in the front door and watched the man walk back to his van. Then he turned to go back to his desk. He got as far as the doorway to the room where his monitors were set up. The room was now buzzing with dozens of angry wasps. His EpiPen was in his coat, hanging over the back of the chair in front of the monitors.

  “Fuck!” he said. He ran to the front door and entered the code to deactivate the explosive entry booby-trap. He burst from the house just as the exterminator’s van started up and began pulling away from the curb.

  “Wait!” he called after the truck.

  The truck braked and Stevens heard the transmission protest as the driver found reverse. The truck backed up to where he was standing.

  Stevens eyed the driver. “I changed my mind. There’s a swarm of the suckers inside the house. Can you get rid of them?”

  “Let me back into your driveway,” the exterminator said.

  He backed the truck up to the house and parked in the driveway. The driver jumped from the truck, clipboard in hand.

  “We’ve got a special on right now. I can take care of that nest, and I’ll also come inside to take care of any stragglers. You gotta be careful if you take the nest out before dusk because some of the wasps might be out foraging. But I’ve got a synthetic pyrethroid that should do the trick. If you can sign here, I’ll get started.”

  He handed Stevens the clipboard and pointed to a signature line at the bottom of the form. He went to the back of the van and lifted the sliding door.

  Stevens signed the form with an alias. Then he collapsed on the pavement as his muscles surrendered to the stun gun Hector jabbed in his back.

  Two miles away, the Colonel’s other team had gained access to the other grow house by posing as a home electronics company delivering a state-of-the-art gaming system and giant flat-screen TV. They had held a work order up to the peephole with J.A.’s name on it, which was enough for the man in the house. Once they were inside, Diego and Arturo opened the large TV box and pulled out automatic weapons. Then they flexi-cuffed the open-mouthed sentry and went about their business.

  37

  With the SWAT raid on the auto body shop now last week’s news, the detectives in the Eighth Precinct returned to the semblance of a daily routine. Tewks had the parade security finalized and had turned a deaf ear to Mitchell’s constant ridicule about the convertible limo. The investigation of the Verdant Florists and Greenhouses was under way, but they were also trying to clear the docket of a number of other complaints.

  “Hey, Sandman,” Mitchell said looking up from his computer screen.

  “What?”

  “Didja see Batman made another appearance?”

  “You’re kidding. Where?”

  “Not far from Emilio’s. It happened at a dry cleaners up in Fairfax Common.”

  “Usual MO?” Hernandez chirped.

  “Yep. The victim was a fifty-something guy in a Corvette.”

  Nelson wandered over to Mitchell’s desk. “Who’s Batman?”

  Mitchel
l leaned back in his chair. “Dude in a wheelchair who has a real problem with people who park in handicapped parking stalls.”

  Sandovan took a slug of coffee from his cup, grimaced, and put it down. “When he sees someone who obviously isn’t disabled park in a spot that’s reserved for the handicapped, he wheels up behind them and smacks them in the melon with a Louisville Slugger. Usually knocks ‘em unconscious. Then takes off. We think he must be a former wheelchair athlete. He gets out of there so fast nobody’s ever caught him.”

  Nelson laughed. “I bet most people think that the ignorant putzes who park in those spots got what they deserved.”

  Mitchell nodded. “Put it this way, Ramsey’s not exactly organizing a task force to deal with it.”

  Tewks piped up from the back of the room. “Well one of these days someone’s going to get killed, then the jerk’s going to have to be brought to justice.”

  Sandovan looked at Tewks with scorn. “But until that day, Tewksy, we can focus on more important criminal activities. Like the city’s biggest organized crime syndicate, which just happens to be fronted by a legit business.”

  Mitchell got up from his chair. “Speaking of which, Sandman, how’s about we go check out Emilio’s to see how the butter tarts are selling. We can grab a decent cup of coffee, then stop in and once again try to get an appointment with one of the busy executives at Verdant Florists’ head office.”

  Sandovan looked at his coffee cup with scorn. “Sounds good. I need something to counteract the acid drip that passes for java in this place.”

  The trip to Emilio’s took twenty minutes in the stop-and-go of the morning rush. When they arrived at the store they were amazed to see a line-up out the door and down the sidewalk. Mitchell angle parked in the fire lane and he and Sandovan skirted the line. As they walked in, Emilio spotted them. “Rosangela! Two large primo Colombian coffees to go, cream no sugar.”

  Sandovan started to hum the Guess Who song “No Sugar Tonight.”

  Emilio walked over and shook their hands. “Mrs. Vargas delivers the goods. The butter tarts are a big hit. I sell out every day!”

  Emilio’s wife Rosangela brought them their coffees and gave them each a hug before heading back behind the counter.

  “This line is all about the butter tarts?” Sandovan asked.

  “No! This line is just for one butter tart in particular,” Emilio gushed. “It’s a miracle! A week ago I noticed one of the pastries we received from Mrs. Vargas had the image of the Virgin Mary in it! It’s unmistakeable! Come, come!”

  He took them around the counter and pointed to a display case where a tiny makeshift shrine had been constructed between the cured meats and artisan cheeses. There, in all its glory, was one of Mrs. Vargas’s butter tarts. It took a second, but once noticed it was impossible to miss. The image of a beautiful woman had materialized in the caramelized top of the pastry.

  The line that Sandovan and Mitchell had seen when they arrived was filled with pilgrims, some clutching rosaries and saying prayers. Many of them genuflected when they saw the image in the butter tart. Emilio told them that a local news crew had come by and interviewed him about the “miracle,” and newspapers had called from as far away as Brazil, the Philippines and Portugal.

  “I’ve also received many offers for it,” he gushed.

  Sandovan smiled. “Well if it’s the last one, I’ll give you ten bucks for it. You never seem to have any left when we stop in.”

  Emilio’s expression changed to one of impressive gravity. “Would you believe that a millionaire from Texas has already called and offered me one hundred thousand dollars!”

  Mitchell and Sandovan looked at each other. “Are you kidding?” Mitchell said.

  “It’s no joking,” Emilio said. “I am displaying the butter tart for another week, then I’m shipping it to him. Unless I get a higher bid.”

  “Wow,” Sandovan said. “Maybe you’d better get a couple of security guards in the meantime.”

  They made small talk with Emilio, then left the store. The line of people had snaked around the block by then. “Geez,” Sandovan said, “And we thought the pastry was flaky. Looks like a lot of people believe in the power of the divine butter tart.”

  “We know one thing for sure, it can heal the hungry,” Mitchell added.

  They left Emilio’s and dropped by to see Mrs. Vargas. She was just leaving the house when they pulled up to the curb.

  “Hello, detectives!” she said. “I am just on my way to see Rammi in hospital. The doctor says he may come out of the coma any day this week.”

  Mitchell asked her if she had heard about the miracle butter tart.

  “Mr. Emilio told me about it,” she said skeptically. “I didn’t notice anything special when I dropped off that morning’s batch. To tell you the truth, my faith is very strong. But it might not be strong enough to believe in images that appear in my baking.”

  They laughed. Sandovan and Mitchell decided not to mention the six-figure bid that Emilio had gotten for the butter tart. They asked her to call them if Rammi showed any signs of consciousness. The mayor was still calling for the heads of whoever had defiled the Salento Zoo and “the magnificent tiger” in such brutal fashion.

  The detectives watched Mrs. Vargas drive off, then went on their way to the corporate head offices of Verdant Florists and Greenhouses. When they arrived at the reception desk, a beautiful twenty-something woman was taking calls over a headset at the rate of about one every seven seconds. They watched in fascination as her fingers flew over the console.

  “Good morning, Verdant Florists and Greenhouses. Oh hello, Mrs. Winston. I’ll put you through.”

  “Good morning, Verdant Florists and Greenhouses. That would be Mr. Derekson in payables. I’ll put you through.”

  “Good morning, Verdant Florists and Greenhouses. Hi Ellis! Congratulations on your orchids. I’ll put you through to Curtis Montclair in Marketing.”

  “Good morning, Verdant Florists and Greenhouses. No, I’m sorry, Mr. Gaverill is unavailable. But please hold for his assistant.”

  “Good morning, Verdant Florists and Greenhouses. Yes, that’s on the twenty-second of this month. We look forward to seeing you.”

  She pushed a button and the onslaught of calls magically disappeared. The woman looked up at them with large green eyes that rivaled those of a Japanese animé heroine. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

  Sandovan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “How did you make all the calls go away?”

  She laughed and pointed to a flashing light on the immense console. “I can delegate to one of three backup stations when a visitor comes to my desk.”

  Mitchell leaned on the granite counter. “We have an appointment with Curtis Montclair. I gather he’s here, since you just put a call through to him.”

  She turned to him. “I put a call through to him, but he could be anywhere in the world. The transfers from this board go to his office upstairs but are automatically re-routed to his mobile if his assistant thinks they’re important.”

  Mitchell looked stymied. “Um, is he here?”

  “I’ll check for you.” She gave them a smile that could disarm North Korea, then pressed one of three red buttons along the top of the console.

  “Hi, Teri, there are two gentlemen here to see Curtis Montclair. It’s a mister…”

  “Detective Mitchell and a Detective Sandovan.”

  “Detectives Mitchell and Sandovan,” she continued. Then she thanked the person on the other end and disconnected.

  “Teri says that Mr. Montclair will be right down.”

  “And this Teri…she’s trustworthy?” Mitchell said.

  “Oh definitely. She’s on my beach volleyball team.” She smiled again. “So you’re detectives?”

  “That’s right,” Sandovan said, showing her his badge.

  “If you know Eric Hernandez, tell him that Bess says hi.” Bess blushed slightly at the thought, and then went back to managing the deluge of
incoming calls.

  Sandovan and Mitchell walked over to a couple of luxurious looking leather chairs and took a load off. “Damn, Hernandez gets around, don’t he?” Sandovan said.

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised if he coached a little beach volleyball on the side.”

  Ten minutes later a well-dressed, fit young man walked across the stone lobby toward them. He thrust out his hand confidently. “Curtis Montclair, detectives. What can I do for you?”

  Sandovan shook his hand, as did Mitchell. Sandovan looked around the lobby. “Quite a place.”

  Curtis smiled. “It’s unique. My brother J.A. and I oversee one of the greatest vertically integrated horticultural companies in the country. He’s in charge of operations. I’m in charge of marketing.”

  “It’s the marketing aspect we’d like to talk to you about today, Mr. Montclair,” Mitchell said. He pulled the Seraphim package that Jak Mosely had designed out of his jacket pocket and passed it to him.

  Curtis took the package, held it up and examined both sides, then passed it back. His expression betrayed nothing. “What is it?”

  Sandovan paused. “We thought you might be able to tell us.”

  Curtis shook his head. “I have no idea what it is. It almost looks like a cigarette package. But tobacco is just about the only thing we don’t grow.”

  Mitchell tried to get a read on Curtis. “We found this at a marijuana grow house that was ripped off. It was among the personal effects of whoever was looking after the crop—he got away. We… ah…thought since Verdant is the largest greenhouse and flower operation in the state that you might be able to help us. Maybe it’s a fertilizer or other chemical?”

  Curtis took another look at the package. “Too small. We don’t sell anything in packages that small. Except for rat poison.”

  Mitchell tried to discern whether there was any irony in the man’s remark, but again, Curtis’s face was impassive.

  “Okay, Mr. Montclair, thanks for your time.” Sandovan said.

  “No problem,” Curtis replied, absentmindedly fiddling with his smartphone. “Hey what precinct are you guys with?”