Page 22 of The House of Cross

JEAN-JEAN PAPILLON’S HIBISCUS BAKERYand Café operated out of an old storefront in West Baltimore under a hand-painted sign featuring the Haitian national flower superimposed on a silhouette of the island nation. The big glass windows had been painted over with a mural of tropical life, making it impossible to see inside.

As we approached the closed front door, we heard quickstep Haitian kompa music thumping from the interior. As I grabbed the door handle, Mahoney’s phone buzzed with a text from Ms. Lopes:Knife here. So are—that was all. Ned hesitated at the incomplete message, then nodded to me. I pulled open the door and immediately smelled beignets, croissants, and a dozen other baked delicacies.

There was a short entry hall about eight feet long. The kompa dance song was ending. We could hear men talking on the other side of the half wall.

Mahoney’s phone buzzed again as I rounded the corner and took in the room in a sweeping glance: A long glass case inside of which confections were laid out on plates and in tiers. Baguettes stood crowded in two wicker baskets. A young woman was loading fresh baked goods into another case.

At the café area to my right, seven men sat at a long table; three were white, two Black, and two Latino. All of them were staring at me and, behind me, Ned as if we were sewer creatures that had suddenly appeared among them.

Mahoney, as usual, was fearless. “FBI,” he said, holding up his identification. He pushed back his suit coat with his other hand and rested it on his service weapon.

Before he could tell them who we were there to see, one of the Hispanic guys yanked out a pistol from under the table.

“Gun!” I shouted.

The man shot wildly. The round went between us, shattered one of the glass cases. The girl behind the counter screamed.

I drew my pistol as the other men at the table dived for cover. I fired one round at the gunman, grazing his left shoulder, and Mahoney put two rounds in his chest. He dropped the pistol and collapsed backward.

“Who’s next?” Mahoney roared, swinging his pistol around at the remaining six men, who were scattered on the floor. “Who wants it next?”

“On your bellies, hands behind your heads!” I shouted over the ringing in my ears. “All of you! Now!”

One by one, the men rolled onto their bellies. One by one, our guns aimed at the backs of their necks, Ned and I frisked them for weapons.

“You won’t find any, my friends,” Jean-Jean Papillon said in a thick French accent. He was a wiry guy in his late forties, blueT-shirt, colorful crochet net pulled down over his hair. “It’s against the rules.”

“Your pal didn’t get the message,” Mahoney said, putting zip cuffs on him.

The other Hispanic guy seemed shaken. “I told Luis, but he wouldn’t listen. He had four felony warrants out on him and said he wasn’t going back to prison, so the gun went with him. I had nothing to do with it.”

“We had nothing to do with this, my friends,” Le Couteau said. “It’s against the rules.”

“Of what?” Mahoney said, checking one of the white guys for weapons and finding none.

“This is meeting,” the big guy said in a heavy Russian accent. “This Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.”

“What?” I said, skeptical.

“Once a week, we are here,” the Knife insisted. “I have three years of sobriety.”

“Six,” grunted the Russian.

The other four men on their bellies each announced how many years they’d been sober. Mahoney and I looked at each other.

Were we being conned? Was AA a cover for a criminal meeting?

Sirens wailed and neared. Mahoney went outside with his badge and explained the situation to the patrolmen while I guarded the six men and the corpse.

I realized the girl behind the counter had fled. And where was Lopes? If she was keeping her cover, she probably ran at the shot too.

Mahoney came back with more zip ties and started binding the last few men. “I’ve got them calling in a criminalist team from FBI Baltimore. We’ll be under review.”

“Par for the course,” I said. “Meantime, we’ve got a Mr. Knife on the floor.”

“We do,” he said. He went over, hoisted Papillon to his feet, led him to another table, and sat him down.

“I have nothing to say,” Le Couteau told him. “You can talk to my lawyer. I had nothing to do with this insane Luis.”

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