—Serafina … that really is a beautiful name, by the way … okay, here’s what I’m guessing, and correct me if I’m wrong. But you’re a snitch, right?
—I prefer canary.
Richie allows a sly smile to sneak out.
—Okay, Lady Canary. But you do have a deal with the cops, right? Don’t answer. I’m gonna assume you do. In fact, I’m counting on it. Because, you know, killing a guy like Little Pete isn’t something that’s easily forgiven. I’m pretty much fucked sideways, and my only way out is through immunity. So I’m hoping you’ll bring me to your cop. Let me make a deal, too. Maybe you’d put in a good word for me, how I helped you and stuff?
CI #137 knows there is no “deal” to be had. Wildey fucked her over, left me for dead. But the neighborhood is cruel and cold and
CI #137 could very much use a friend.
Death can go fuck itself—CI #137 wants to live.
Strike that—I want to live.
I want to punish the motherfuckers who killed D.
I want to hurt the police for what they did to me.
And you can’t do that dead.
I drain the rest of my Diet Coke and turn on my stool to face my new best friend.
—Are you hungry, Richie?
He smiles.
—Starving. But the food here is crap. C’mon, my truck’s down the street.
“We got them.”
“Them?”
“Ringo’s with her. I’ve been telling you, Cap, there’s something not right about that fuckin’ wacko.”
“Goddamn it.”
Rem Mahoney already knows that Ringo betrayed them. He heard the sickening crunch of Pete D’Argenio’s neck snapping over the wire, followed by a mocking whisper into the pen transmitter—Yo, El Jefe! I quit. Have a nice Christmas!—before the pen itself snapped, too. Transmission over.
The loss of D’Argenio is serious bad fucking news but not insurmountable. There are always other wiseguys. Maybe he was wrong to pick the D’Argenio clan anyway. Maybe the Perellis were the way to go. Fuckin’ Little Pete; he should have followed his gut back in the summer and gone with Lisa. At the time he thought it was a rare instance of his brain overruling his dick, but now he’s thinking he should have sided with the penis. Lisa is one ice-cold bitch; Rem will forever question his attraction to dames of her kind. She’ll make a fine second-in-command.
But no, right now his immediate concern is containment. Two people out there in his city breathing air right now have the ability to blow up everything. Rem needs them to stop breathing.
“So … Cap?”
“Do it.”
“We’re gonna need to be a little audacious.”
“You have my permission to be audacious.”
Ringo insists on the Melrose Diner. Passyunk and Snyder, represent! There is no other place; Ringo loves it here, dreamed about it all the time in Kansas. His first meal back, he ate here and licked his fingers clean afterward. So many good memories.
Now Ringo orders the Chicago steak with eggs, hash browns, and cottage cheese on the side. The girl, Serafina, surprises him by ordering bacon and eggs, with extra bacon (emphasis on the bacon). She kind of struck him as the watches-what-she-eats, vegetarian type. But you go, girl—do your bacon. On top of that, Ringo tells the waitress to keep the coffee coming like Beyoncé, hot and black. Serafina stares at him. “What did you just say?” But she kind of cracks a smile and he knows it’s going to be okay. The kid had him worried for a while there.
Before the food arrives, Ringo slides his cell phone across the table to her.
“You can use my phone. Figure we’ll be safe here, in a public place, until we can arrange a meeting place.”
“Meeting place with who?” Serafina asks.
“Look, I know how this whole thing works. Not sure who was handling you, but I know the Russian chick was in charge. I’m no dummy. I know that’s how we were scoring our intel.”
“So you’re the one who’s been killing the CIs,” she says softly.
“Yeah, well, no. Not just me. Me and three other people. But I can hand them to your Russian lady on a silver platter, along with all the dirt she’d ever need on her lousy ex-husband. Never liked that prick.”
Ringo stops talking as the coffee arrives. But he gives her the raised eyebrows that practically shout, Well, whaddya think?
“If this is your master plan, then we’re both fucked. The Russian lady, as you call her, is crooked. So is my handler. They sent me to you to be killed.”
“No, I don’t think so. It was her husband, the Internal Affairs guy. Apparently he has her apartment wired for sound, cameras out the ass, the whole thing, like that creepy movie with Sharon Stone and the Baldwin guy, not Alec, one of the other ones.”
Serafina blinks, utterly befuddled. “What are you talking about?”
But she doesn’t have the chance to hear Ringo’s answer. Because a moment later she’s too busy screaming.
Lisa and Frankenstein, both in hoodies and the kind of face masks you wear in cold weather or bank robberies, step inside the diner just as Ringo and CI #137’s orders are coming out. They fall in so close behind the waitress that Frankenstein could reach around and grab a piece of bacon from the hot plate as it moves its way through space. The bacon smells good. Maybe after this is all over tonight they’ll hit some other diner.
Lisa glances at him, nods. Frankenstein nods in return. Lisa body-checks the waitress forward. The tray and breakfast orders go airborne. Frankenstein pulls his guns from the hoodie, aims. The girl snitch at the table sees the waitress tumbling, the guns; she screams. Ringo reacts to her screams. He turns and whips the table away in the same fluid motion. Lisa has her guns out now, too. Ringo dives forward, probably trying to crawl over the poor girl in an attempt to escape. But there will be no escape. They’re too close.
They open fire.
THE CANARY FLIES
BENEATH THE BEN FRANKLIN BRIDGE
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 12
“Wild Child.”
“Loot.”
Wildey has spent the past two hours driving all over the city looking for the Honda Civic, listening to the police band radio, and thinking about his finger over the nuke button. Because that call to Rem Mahoney would indeed be the end of Kaz’s career. While he knows the leak was coming from her, Wildey has no solid proof. Before he pressed that button, he needed to be dead sure. And while he was all the way up in Olney (hoping to see that Civic somewhere on campus), a call came in: an anonymous tipster reporting something about a body being loaded into a truck under the Ben Franklin Bridge. The bridge wasn’t that far away from the Society Hill Towers. Wildey couldn’t rocket down Broad Street fast enough.
Apparently his soon-to-be-ex-supervisor heard the same call and thought the same thing, because she’s standing on the fringes while the crime techs work the scene.
“What’s going on?” Wildey asks, winding his way through the crowd. Cops, TV reporters, lookiloos. Then, lowering his voice to a fevered whisper: “Please tell me she isn’t here.”
“No, she’s not. I want to show you something.”
Wildey trails behind her as they walk into the public works building. But once Wildey steps into the room and sees all of the plastic and blood, his stomach feels like it’s dropped to his shoes. No. Not her. Not in this room. Every surface is covered in clear plastic, as if somebody is preparing to do a paint job. But this isn’t remodeling; this is an execution room.
“Jesus Christ.”
“No bodies, just trace amounts of blood,” she says. “You don’t know her type, do you?”
Wildey admits he does not. “Anybody hear anything? Screams, whatever?”
“No. The walls are too thick, the roar of the bridge too loud. Perfect place to torture and kill someone, though, wouldn’t you say? I think we’ve finally stumbled into the place where our CIs have been taken.”
“Where you sent them,” Wildey snaps.
Ooh, the hatred in
her eyes. She doesn’t bother to answer the allegation.
“I’m fairly sure,” Kaz says, “your girl was here.”
“How do you know that?”
Kaz walks over to a corner of the room where the techs have bagged every object in the room that isn’t nailed down. Wildey follows. She crouches, picks up a plastic bag, shows it to Wildey. Inside is CI #137’s bugged pen, snapped in half.
“Fuck me,” he says, then looks beyond Kaz at the other bagged objects. A purse. A nail file. An iPhone. All of Sarie Holland’s things.
“All of the puzzle pieces are here,” she says. “It’s just a matter of putting them together. Until then, Officer Wildey, you’re relieved of duty. Don’t go too far.”
FOX CHASE
DECEMBER 13
Whatever Kevin Holland is doing, you can’t exactly call it sleep. His body has downshifted into a low-wattage inactive mode as he stares sightlessly at the ceiling, waiting for his cheap plastic cell to make a noise. Come on, dumb phone. Do something.
Sleep is impossible, anyway. Laura always joked that when you become a parent, the first thing you lose is the ability to sleep soundly … for the rest of your life. Rest is not possible until your children are safe under the same roof, where you can check on them at any given moment. Hey there, kid, just making sure you’re still breathing. Sorry, part of the job. Carry on.
Kevin hasn’t heard from Sarie since 7:14 p.m., when she texted him she’d be at the campus library for a few hours getting a jump on her last final exam before Christmas break. Which Kevin didn’t really believe. He knew she’d skipped one exam today (the professor, concerned, had called). What was another one? But you pick your battles.
Now he is fervently wishing he’d picked this one.
Kevin rises from the couch. Stretches his lean frame, trying to crack his own back. (It refuses.) Checks his cell again. (Nothing.) How early is too early to hit the panic button? He checks his cell again, checks the audio mute button just to be sure he didn’t accidentally set it to silence. (Again, nothing.) He does something he never thought he’d do in this situation. He offers up a little prayer, mumbling it softly in case the angels require vocalization.
Laura, honey, if you’re up there listening, give me a little sign. Yeah, I know you’re laughing at me right now, because I’m probably worrying for nothing. Or maybe you’re scowling at me because I’ve been an asshole dad since last Christmas. But in either case, let me know. Give me one of those cracks to the forehead. Check in on our baby girl, okay? Please tell me nothing happened to her.
Kevin pads his way to the kitchen, pours himself a cup of water straight from the tap. Good old Schuylkill Punch. His gut is so tight he almost throws it back up into the sink. He should have eaten dinner tonight.
“Dad?”
The sound of Marty’s voice startles the shit out of him. Kevin recovers before he turns around. “Hey, buddy.”
“Waiting up for Sarie?”
“Yeah. But what are you doing up? Hope you’re not trying to catch Santa Claus in the act. Because you’re a few weeks early.”
Marty rolls his eyes. Kevin is fairly confident he knows the score on Santa. Especially after last year’s horrible Christmas.
“What are you doing up, Dad?”
“Just waiting for Sarie to get home.”
“Oh. Can I have some hot chocolate, Dad?”
“Sure, buddy. Make me a cup of coffee, too, if you don’t mind.”
As Marty busies himself with the tea kettle and a big ceramic mug with LA JOLLA on the side, Kevin checks his phone again. Again, fucking nothing. After a moment of contemplation Kevin sends another text, practically begging, please, whatever it is, just let me know you’re okay. He tells himself that if this whole thing is Sarie punishing him for his behavior this past year, then he won’t be mad. He promises, swears to God, on his own life. Sure, he’ll let Sarie know how cruel this all is, but he’ll instantly forgive her. Just as long as she’s okay. He can’t lose her, not now.
It’s quick, but Kevin catches it—that vaguely squirrely look in his son’s eye. Like he knows something but doesn’t want to rat out his sister. Admirable but wrong nonetheless.
“Martin.”
“Uh … Dad?” Marty knows it’s never good when his full name is invoked.
“Do you know where Sarie is? You won’t get in trouble, I promise. Just tell me the truth.”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
Martin’s eyes seem to be telling the truth. So, okay. Maybe he doesn’t know where his older sister is right now. But there was that moment, just a second ago, where Marty was clearly hiding something. Kevin tells himself to circle back to that, focus on the task at hand: pinning down Sarie’s location ASAP.
“She’s not answering. Or texting back. Maybe she lost her phone.”
“What about Tammy?”
Truth was, Kevin has considered calling the Pleece home, but it was—Christ, after midnight. It was late, but not obscenely late. He could make that call later if it came to it. But there was somebody Kevin could call now. Someone who’d probably be awake. Kevin thumbed his phone until he found the contact, hit send. Two rings and he was connected.
“George—you up?”
“You know I’mmm always up. What up, golden boy?”
Kevin’s high school friend George Ponus is a cop. Not a real cop, as Kevin likes to tease. George works in organizational administration or some such shit and hasn’t strapped on a gun in fifteen years. Still, Ponus can get cop answers. He’s also kind of a drunk and an insomniac. George tried AA but found himself preferring the counsel of the crowd at the Grey Lodge or the original Chickie’s & Pete’s instead.
Kev doesn’t judge, doesn’t try to convert him; Kev and Ponus go way way back. If you’re lucky, you find the kind of friend who keeps you from death. And likewise, at odd times—an unspoken agreement that, yeah, sure, I’ve got your back. Kev and Ponus had shared this since they were both fifteen doing really stupid shit. Funny how Kev relied on his oldest friends when life made a hairpin turn into darkness. Funny how Kev is suddenly referring to himself as “Kev.” He hasn’t done that in twenty years.
Kevin can hear the din of the bar in the background. Which one was it? Grey Lodge or Chickie’s? Both on the same block. Both within walking distance of Ponus’s house.
“Okay, you’re going to think this is crazy, but—”
Marty reaches over and hits the end button on his phone.
“Marty, what the hell?”
“No, dad,” he says.
“No police. We can’t.”
I am playing dead.
My would-be killers were in a hurry, tossing my barely breathing body next to Richie’s in the back of the flatbed, quickly covering both of us with a waterproof tarp before peeling away from the scene and a group of stunned diners with half-chewed food in their mouths.
The ride is violent and bumpy. I try hard not to think about the corpse pressing up against my left arm. The corpse who didn’t like to be called Ringo. The corpse who was my only friend left in this city. I try not to focus on the fact that just a few minutes ago he was smiling, joking with me, eating a meal, talking about the Baldwin brothers.
I try to block out the noxious chemicals in plastic barrels back here that smell like the world’s worst blend of ammonia and vinegar salad dressing.
Mostly, though, I try to block out the fact that I’ve been shot and am, for all I know, slowly bleeding to death.
The pain in my right bicep is agonizing. I swear I can feel the bullet worming around in there close to the bone. And every road bump and jolt drives it closer still. What’s it going to feel like when it completes the journey?
I bite down on my lower lip and try to do something. Such as: figuring out where they might be taking us. The tarp ten inches above my face flaps violently in the cold night air. Truck tires whine on asphalt. That means I’m on a major road. Maybe I-95? That means we could be headed somewhere in Jersey, like the
Pine Barrens. Or all the way up to Bucks County.
Violent shivers now begin to rack my body, and I order myself to pull my shit together. One stray elbow knocking the metal floor of the truck would make them pull over, peel back the tarp for a closer look. And maybe then I won’t be so lucky holding my breath. There was so much blood splattered on me they didn’t bother checking back at the diner, but they might now. Another bullet and I’d be done.
I tell myself: Focus. Listen for clues. You can figure your way out of this. You always do.
There are police sirens. Distant shouts. The hum of engines, wheels on asphalt. For a second I consider sticking my hand up out of the tarp and waving for help. But what good would that do? Chances are my would-be killers in the front of the truck would see it long before any other driver on the road.
Without warning my body does an involuntary jolt, my right elbow knocking metal with a deafening CLUNK.
Did I just fall asleep for a second? Or longer? Did they hear that knock?
The tires hum, the tarp flaps.
I squeeze my eyes tight and wait.
Wait …
Nothing. Then the biggest clue of all comes from about five thousand feet above the tarp—the high/low scream of a jet engine, cutting through the air before quickly receding. Maybe we’re near the airport? If I can figure out where we’re going, there’s a chance I can steel myself ahead of time, then jackrabbit away, maybe outrun their bullets …
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