Chapter Text
It was a clement day, with weak sun filtering through wispy clouds. The garage doors at the back of Francesca's Floral Emporium stood open. Fraser swung into his accustomed parking space outside and switched off the van engine, squinting into the gloomy interior to see who was about. He deliberated over whether to sound his horn, a habit he'd not yet grown accustomed to even though Ray, Francesca's brother and delivery man, insisted it was common practice in Chicago. To Fraser's ears it sounded abrupt and demanding and typified much that he disliked about the United States. He preferred to knock.
He got out of the van, intending to do just that. The competing and overpowering smells of flowers and damp concrete, sweet fixative and mulch filled his nostrils as always, throwing him slightly off-balance. He heard echoing footsteps and turned to see a tall, lean figure emerge from the cold store with an armful of Dutch irises.
"Ray!" Fraser approached him gladly, then stopped dead.
"Fraser! Buddy!" The man dumped the flowers onto a tangle of florists' wire—Fraser winced at the mistreatment, knowing the lilies would bear obvious scars—and came towards him, arms outstretched.
Fraser backed up a pace, just in time to prevent the man from enveloping him in a hug. The man was clearly not Italian. He had a moderately sized nose, a graze of pale stubble on his equally pale chin and a wary look in his eye. His body all but hummed with taut energy, and he shifted restlessly under Fraser's regard. He also wore a sweet smile that confused Fraser further.
"Who are you?" asked Fraser. He'd swear he'd never set eyes on the man before. He would have remembered.
The stranger stretched out a hand. "Quit kidding around, Fraser! It's me, Ray!" He gripped Fraser's upper arm, his fingers firm on the battered leather jacket, and dragged him towards the cold store. "Something I gotta show you."
Fraser resisted, breaking free and looking around to check his bearings. "You may well be a Ray," he said, "but I'm looking for Ray Vecchio, the delivery man."
"Yeah, that's me. Come on. You gotta see this." The man didn't attempt to grab Fraser again, just beckoned urgently. Still facing Fraser, he took several steps backwards towards the cold store.
"Ray!" Renfield Turnbull appeared in the doorway to the shop, holding up gloved hands like a doctor about to enter surgery. "Be a peach and bring me a dozen red variegated tulips, would you?"
"Yeah, Rennie. No problem," said the stranger. "Gimme a minute."
Fraser stared at each of them in turn. "Renfield, do you know this man?"
The head florist looked surprised. "Oh hello, Fraser. How are you this fine morning? Did you receive the alteration to our order? We need three bales of sphagnum, this week, not two. It's the silly season, it seems."
"Yes," said Fraser. "But do you—?"
"That's wonderful." The shop bell tinkled, and Renfield gave Fraser and the stranger a wave and spun around to attend to a customer.
Fraser turned to see the stranger standing in front of the flower tubs, scowling. "Is there a problem?"
The man murmured, "You know a tulip from a hole in the ground?"
Fraser pointed out the striped tulips and watched as the man counted out a bundle and dumped them into a bucket of water, which he took through to the shop. While he was gone, Fraser closed his eyes and reviewed the last five minutes, trying to work out what on earth was going on. He opened his eyes again when he heard the man's booted footsteps.
The stranger came right up to him—so close that despite the pervasive smell of plant life in the Emporium, Fraser could detect a smooth spicy aftershave—and said, "Trust me."
He said it with such conviction that Fraser couldn't help but obey. He met the man's steady gaze and nodded, then followed him towards the back of the room.
They were two paces from the cold store when Francesca's voice rang out behind them. "Ray," she called, her high heels clanging on the metal steps that led up to her office. "We got four major deliveries that need to go out now. Sammie Miawanie's on the line saying if Ruby Tait's funeral is a disaster, he's gonna blame me. So get a move on. We can't afford that kind of push."
"Press, Frannie," called Ray. "That kind of press. I'm onto it. In just a moment. I gotta talk to Fraser first."
"Press, push, shove, squeeze. Whatever," Francesca muttered to herself. "Hey, Fraser!" She leaned over the railing, displaying her cleavage to impressive effect. "I hear the Musical Mounties are coming to town."
"Good morning, Francesca," Fraser replied, embarrassed at the array of soft flesh above him. "I—I take it you mean the Musical Ride? It's an extraordinary sight, very stirring and well worth the time." He paused, reconsidering his reckless use of the word 'stirring', and retreated hastily in the wake of the so-called Ray.
The stranger shut the cold store door behind them and opened his mouth to speak, but Fraser forestalled him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to be rude, but I rarely forget a face and, although you may claim to be Ray Vecchio, and despite the fact that everyone else here appears to accept that claim, I have been friends with Ray Vecchio for a number of months now, and I am very confident that you and I have never met."
"No kidding." The man grinned at him conspiratorially, then grew sober. "Listen, it's like this. I'm a cop. Vecchio witnessed a mob hit last night. The FBI've got him holed up somewhere safe—"
Fraser frowned, shocked. "Is he all right? Can I see him?"
The stranger seemed surprised at the question. He quirked his eyebrow and said, "Yeah, he's fine. But we gotta keep him under wraps until he testifies. No visitors—too risky."
Fraser nodded. "I understand. But why are you—?"
"He knew one of the guys." The man shrugged one shoulder, looking suddenly older. "If word gets out he's missing, it could cause all kinds of trouble. And if the mob finds out he's squealing, well, they might go after his family to keep him quiet." The man ran his hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at strange angles. "We need you to play along, okay? Business as usual. Pretend I'm Vecchio."
"That's an unusual precaution to take, isn't it?" Fraser studied the man curiously.
"Yeah, well, it turns out my Lieutenant, Welsh, is an old friend of the Vecchio family, so we're going the extra mile on this one." He tilted his head. "It's just for a couple of days, a week tops."
Fraser considered the implications of this for a moment, then agreed. "All right. You should know that you and I traditionally meet for dinner and a movie on Wednesday nights."
"Nah, we don't gotta—" The man broke off and looked at Fraser, his eyes widening. "You guys are just friends, right? I mean, I know it's none of my business, but you're not—"
Fraser felt heat rise in his cheeks, despite his best efforts. Was he so transparent? "We're friends," he said shortly. This man didn't need to know about his and Ray's abortive foray into romance or the long months of strained conversations that had followed. Sufficient for him to be aware that they were on good terms, and that was true now, after all.
The man was watching him closely. He clapped a hand on Fraser's shoulder. "Okay then. Cool. I'll see you tonight. Seven o'clock."
"Seven-thirty," corrected Fraser. "At Ratatouille on North Broadway." He hesitated. "Ah, one more thing."
"What is it, Fraser? I gotta get going." The man folded his arms, and Fraser guessed that the low temperatures of the store room were starting to get to him.
Fraser surprised himself by stepping closer, into the man's personal space. He craned his head forward and said, in a calm undertone, "Who are you?"
The man jerked back as though he'd tripped, but his voice was light. "When I'm not being Vecchio?" he said. "Ray Kowalski, Chicago PD. Detective."
Fraser held out a hand. "Pleased to meet you, Ray Kowalski." They shook hands as though they were making a deal.