The Cold Moon

today a very special place. She was now walking to the back door of the workshop, reflecting that she wished she could have lingered for another half hour or so. Kevin had wanted to—there were more jokes to tell, more stories to share—but her job loomed. It wasn’t due till tomorrow night, but this was an important client and she needed to make sure the arrangements were perfect. She’d reluctantly told him she had to get back.
    She glanced up and down the street, still a bit uneasy about the pudgy man in the parka and the weird sunglasses. But the area was deserted. Stepping inside the workshop, she slammed the door and double-locked it.
    Hanging up her coat, Joanne inhaled deeply, the way she always did when she first walked inside, enjoying the myriad scents inside the shop: jasmine, rose, lilac, lily, gardenia, fertilizer, loam, mulch. It was intoxicating.
    She flicked on the lights and started toward the arrangements she’d been working on earlier. Then she froze and gave a scream.
    Her foot had struck something. It scurried away from her. She leapt back, thinking: Rat!
    But then she looked down and laughed. What she’d kicked was a large spool of florist wire in the center of the aisle. How had it gotten there? All of the spools hung from hooks on the wall nearby. She squinted through the dimness and saw that somehow this one had slipped off and rolled across the floor. Odd.
    Must be ghosts of florists past, she said to herself, then regretted the joke. The place was eerie enough and an image of the fat man in the sunglasses came back immediately. Don’t go spooking yourself.
    She picked up the spool and saw why it had fallen: the hook had slipped out of the wood. That’s all. But then she noticed something else curious. This spool was one of the new ones; she hadn’t used any wire from it yet, she thought. But she must have; some was missing.
    She laughed. Nothing like love to make a girl forgetful.
    Then she paused, cocking her head. She was listening to a sound she was unaccustomed to.
    What was it?
    Very odd . . . dripping water?
    No, it was mechanical. Metal . . .
    Weird. It sounded like a ticking clock. Where was it coming from? The workshop had a large wall clock in the back but it was electric and didn’t tick. Joanne looked around. The noise, she decided, was coming from a small, windowless work area just beyond the refrigerated room. She’d check it out in a minute.
    Joanne bent down to repair the hook.

Chapter 13
    Amelia Sachs skidded to a stop in front of Ron Pulaski. After he jumped in she pointed the car north and gunned the engine.
    The rookie gave her the details of the meeting with Jordan Kessler. He added, “He seemed legit. Nice guy. But I just thought I ought to check with Mrs. Creeley myself to confirm everything—about what Kessler gets because of Creeley’s death. She said she trusts him and everything’s on the up-and-up. But I still wasn’t sure so I called Creeley’s lawyer. Hope that was okay.”
    “Why wouldn’t it be okay?”
    “Don’t know. Just thought I’d ask.”
    “It’s always okay to do too much work in this business,” Sachs told him. “The problems’re when somebody doesn’t do enough.”
    Pulaski shook his head. “Hard to imagine somebody working for Lincoln and being lazy.”
    She gave a cryptic laugh. “And what’d the lawyer say?”
    “Basically the same thing Kessler and the wife said. He buys out Creeley’s share at fair market value. It’s all legit. Kessler said his partner had been drinking more and had taken up gambling. His wife told me she was surprised he did that. Never was an Atlantic City kind of guy.”
    Sachs nodded. “Gambling—maybe some mob connections there. Dealing to them, or just taking along recreational drugs. Money laundering maybe. He win or lose, you know?”
    “Dropped some big money, seems like. I was wondering if he hit a loanshark to cover the loss. But his wife said the losses were no big deal, what with his income and everything. A couple hundred thousand didn’t hurt much. She wasn’t real happy about it, you can imagine. . . . Kessler said he had a good relationship with all his clients. But I asked for a list. I think we ought to talk to them ourselves.”
    “Good,” Sachs told him. Then she added, “Things’re getting gluier. There was another death. Murder/robbery, maybe.” She explained about her meeting with Gerte and told him about Frank Sarkowski. “I need you to track down