“You should run out to the Seven-Eleven, get a Yoo-hoo and a couple doughnuts for your guest. It’s going to be awhile. Our girl’s out of the picture for a bit.”
Kowalski expected a quick rejoinder; that was his handler’s style. Their conversations were like cutthroat racquetball. Bat one right at her head, she’d return the serve and there’d be a hard little explosion in your nuts.
This time, though, nothing.
“You’re there, right?”
“Define ‘out of the picture.’”
“Taken to the hospital. Something was wrong with her—she was bleeding from her nose and mouth. But still breathing.”
Kowalski might have been imagining things—it was late—but he thought he heard his handler gasp. He tried to assure her.
“Give me a few hours, I’ll recover her, dead or alive, and bring the matching set down to you. Okay?”
“That’s not what I had in mind. Hold, please.”
Kowalski held. Holding, no big deal. That was his thing. Hang out, endure the boredom, tempered by the thought that soon, oh so soon, the fun would start. The brief hot burst of joy: the weight of his finger on a trigger, the quick flash of a man’s brains exploding out of an artfully executed shot. Nobody had picked up on the pattern yet, which partially delighted him, partially depressed him. If they were to take X rays of all of the skulls of the wise guys he’d killed over the past months, and laid them all on top of one another, they’d see that the entry holes formed a particular letter of the alphabet. Even the occasional Sesame Street viewer would see it. What starts with the letter K?
Katie.
Kowalski.
She used to joke about keeping her maiden name. Katie Kowalski ? Sounded like a cheerleader. He’d call her “Special K,” and make faces at her and short bus jokes, and she’d slap him—kind of hard, come to think of it—and ...
“Your services are no longer required.”
“Really.”
“Good night.”
“Wait ... you’re serious? Come on. I can still deliver what you want.”
“No, you can’t.”
So true on so many levels.
And that was the end of their relationship.
3:30 a.m.
On the Way to Spring Garden Street
All the way up Eighteenth, speeding past construction sites and office towers and a giant cathedral and more construction sites and an underground expressway and row homes and then a left onto Spring Garden. Jack remembered the name of the street from the foldout map of Philly he’d purchased at O’Hare. Center City’s northernmost boundary was Spring Garden Street. It sounded so pleasant on the map. But it didn’t look like spring up here, and there certainly weren’t any gardens. As the street numbers ticked down, everything looked increasingly industrial, as if civic leaders had simply thrown up their hands and said, “Well, it’s not Center City anymore, build whatever the hell you want.”
Eventually, the cab made its way to Third Street, hung a left, then turned into a shadowy alley. Jack didn’t see a bar or a store or anything.
“What is this?”
“Best Sybian club in town, my friend.”
“Best what?”
“Hang tight. Let me run this package upstairs; then I’ll be back and I can take you down to the airport.”
Alarm bells.
“No. Let me go with you.”
The cabdriver hooked an arm around his seat and looked at Jack. “Best what, huh.”
“I won’t say a word. Let me go up with you.”
“If it were up to me, that’d be fine. But it’s a private club. I can’t take you up there.”
Of all of the random cabs he could have jumped into, Jack had to pick the one with a guy who doubled as a deliveryman for a Sybian club. Whatever the hell that was. Sybia. One of the former Soviet republics, maybe? The driver didn’t have a Russian accent. Was this a Russian mob joint? The driver turned off the ignition, and what little air-conditioning had been circulating in the car stopped.
“Crack open your door for air. I’ll be back in a sec and—”
“No! Please!”
Jack opened his door and scrambled out of the backseat.
“Come on, chief. Don’t make this weird.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“It’s not about the money. The people in this club wouldn’t appreciate it. They wouldn’t even like me talking about it, for Christ’s sake.”
“Name your price.”
Jack meant it. There was enough on the home-equity card to cover whatever this guy had in mind. All for a ride to the airport. He took out his wallet from his back pocket to make sure the driver knew he was serious. There wasn’t much cash left, but they could go to an ATM. A drive-thru. It’d have to be a drive-thru. Get a cash advance from his equity card.
The driver waited. He was considering it, obviously, but wanted Jack to throw out the first bid.
His wallet open, Jack looked down and saw her. Behind the laminate: a photo of his girl, Callie, playing inside a giant wooden airplane at their favorite playground. The smile on her face reassured him: Yes, this was all worth it. You want your daughter to grow up knowing a father, don’t you?
Jack threw out a price.
The driver recoiled as if he’d tasted something rotten, so Jack threw out another one. This didn’t offend the driver as much. But it took a third one to seal the deal.
3:31 a.m.
Little Pete’s
Kowalski found everything he needed at Little Pete’s. He’d asked to use the bathroom, knowing it had to be in the back, near the lockers and storage closet.
Changing your appearance doesn’t require Lon Chaney-style theatrics. No hooks and wires, pinning your nose upward. At a distance, people recognize you by identifying characteristics like hair, physique, gait, clothing, and accessories. Facial recognition is secondary, at best. Want make sure someone doesn’t recognize you? Simply change as many identifying characteristics as you can.
Kowalski raided the employee lockers—helping himself to brown-tinted sunglasses, a plaid jeff cap, a white short-sleeve button-down shirt, a beige windbreaker—then slipped into the bathroom. He had to be careful not to antagonize his wrist. He’d sprained it badly when Kelly had kicked him out of the elevator car.
He pushed his hair down on his forehead and thought about the limp he’d use. No, no limp. A smaller step. A mincing step. He left the Dolce & Gabbana on, since no other pants fit. The shirt worked, though, as did the glasses and cap. He looked older and slightly goofier. Outside the bathroom, Kowalski stuffed his black T-shirt in the back of the locker, then transferred the contents of his coat into the windbreaker.
When he left Little Pete’s, no one seemed to notice.
A minute later, someone would ask, “Hey, is that guy in the dark jacket still in the bathroom?”
But by the time this did happen, Kowalski was already back at the Sheraton’s front door, slowly walking backward, as if he were directing some rescue team into the building. A flash of his Homeland Security badge—the one with the embossed foil with the holographic flying eagles—got him into the employee lounge, where Kowalski was told to wait until Charles Lee Vincent got back; he’d want to liaise. Yeah. Okay. Whatever. Kowalski grabbed a server’s jacket, slipped out of the lounge, and used the hotel staff elevator to make his way to the seventh floor. Along the way, he picked up a rolling luggage rack made of shining gold chrome. Rolled it back to 702, mostly using his good wrist. He hoped nobody had taken the bags yet.
In all of the fun and games, he’d forgotten all about them.
Philly PD was still in the room, so he rolled past and broke into another room a few doors down, using a passkey he’d found in the server’s jacket. They had cleared the floor, so there wasn’t a risk of running into a sleepy business traveler. Kowalski took off the jacket, walked back in with his Homeland Security badge. He could see it in the cops’ eyes: Oh, Jesus, one of these assholes. They directed him to t
he lieutenant on the scene, who asked, “Can I help you?”
“Not really.”
“If you need anything, ask. You check in downstairs?”
Kowalski didn’t reply. He strolled around the room, looking bored, spied the luggage—Kelly White’s bag, Jack Eisley’s bag—already sealed in plastic and resting by the front door. Kowalski waited for his moment, then calmly picked up both bags and carried them to the other room. Jacket back on. Found an oversized piece of luggage, cleared out the contents. Ripped away the plastic evidence bags, then shoved the material inside somebody’s trousers. Kelly’s bag and Jack’s bag went into the oversized piece of luggage, which was hunter green. Dropped it on the rack, escorted it outside and to the elevator bank. A member of Philly PD glanced up, didn’t say a word. Even if they saw the evidence bags were missing, they’d assume someone else had carried them downstairs. This was an assault case, not murder. Not yet anyway.
Kowalski found an empty room down on five—hey, stick with what you know, right?—hauled the two bags from the larger one, put them on one of the double beds. He fished around in them, using his good hand.
Nothing terribly exciting in Kelly’s, aside from a bottle of contact lens solution, Imodium wrapped in tinfoil, and a tube marked Tylenol, which was actually full of Antabuse. Did our girl have herself a little drinking problem? A random assortment of clothes and a surprising number of those little white plastic things that stores use to attach price tags to clothes. They were snipped in half and littered the bottom of her bag. Kelly White had done either a lot of buying or a lot of shoplifting.
He picked up a bra and held it to his nose. He didn’t realize what he was doing until he’d already inhaled.
He had done the same thing when the police had brought him Katie’s bag, the one they recovered at the Rittenhouse Square hotel where she had temporarily holed up with her bank robber brother. He had wanted to breathe in every last molecule of her that he could.
He had spent a lot of time with that bag.
Kowalski returned Kelly White’s bra to her bag, feeling vaguely guilty. If she was dead, was she somehow looking at him now? Was Katie?
But it wasn’t Kelly’s bag he was interested in. It was Jack’s. If he had a prayer of finding out what CI-6 wanted with Kelly White—no chance of his handler telling him—then he needed to find her companion: Jack.
He’d never left a mission incomplete before.
His handler’s behavior was troubling.
Had they found out about his extracurricular activities with the Philadelphia branch of the Cosa Nostra?
And where they preparing to punish him for it?
The answers could be his only defense.
3:32 a.m.
The Hot Spot, Near Third and Spring Garden
It was a surprisingly small room—almost a vestibule, in fact—whose main feature was a bunch of curtained doorways that presumably led to other rooms. Could have been the second floor of a warehouse, except for the small bar, the vinyl-covered stools, and the dark red velvet curtains hanging from the ceiling. The scent of burning candles—plain wax, not scented—hung in the air. Before Jack had a chance to ask about the place, his driver had already disappeared through one of the doorways.
Thankfully, the place was small and full of people. This was 3:30 in the morning on a school night, right? Yet it looked like the lunchroom at a suburban corporate park. Suits galore. Hair still neatly parted, or combed forward and razor-cut.
Jack walked to the bar, which was cushioned with black leather and no bigger than the kind you find in somebody’s finished basement. There was no menu, and he didn’t see any beer taps. Or glasses. Or bottles.
A girl approached. She had black lipstick, nose piercings, and perfectly trimmed bangs that ran a disturbingly parallel line with her eyebrows. She cocked an eyebrow, which ruined the effect.
“Hi,” Jack said, not knowing what to say next. Maybe this place had lost its liquor license and the drinks were kept somewhere else.
He looked down at the girl’s chest and realized her torso had been strapped into a black lace corset. Her breasts were large and fat, and threatened to spill out over the top. Especially the right one. The father in Jack wanted to reach out and tuck it back into place, maybe straighten out her bangs while he was at it.
And by then, he knew what this place was, and why there was no booze at the bar.
He was about to laugh or panic, or maybe a little of both. But mostly laugh. Because he had lucked into the best-possible place for a man in his predicament, as unusual as it might be.
When you absolutely, positively, can’t risk being alone? Visit an after-hours whorehouse in downtown Philly. It’s the right choice, no matter how you look at it.
He needed to tip that cabdriver huge.
Morals aside—and let’s face it, Theresa couldn’t say a damn thing about his morals, not if what he’d suspected about her post-separation activities was true—this was what he needed. Somewhere he could think for a few minutes, or even an hour. He’d ask for a girl, pay her whatever she wanted, then ask her to sit with him for a while. She could stay dressed. She didn’t have to say a word. Why hadn’t Kelly thought of this?
The girl with the corset and bangs cleared her throat. Cocked that eyebrow again.
“I’d like some company,” Jack said.
Some of the other guys turned to look at him. Had he said something wrong? Was there a code word?
The girl held out her hand.
Again, Jack was confused. Did she want to hold his hand? Or was she looking for payment in advance? Payment, most likely. He unbuttoned his back pocket and took out his wallet. Asked how much.
Wordlessly, the girl in the corset took the wallet from his hands and squeezed it into one of the tiny cubbyholes, which were in a row, built right into the wall. His wallet went in deep, then disappeared. Someone on the other side of the wall had taken it.
Maybe the wallet thing was a security issue; they’d hold on to it until business was done, so the working girls wouldn’t be tempted to steal a little extra. Of course, the person behind the wall could be the one doing the stealing.
“Ready?” a voice behind him asked.
Jack turned around and saw his high school girlfriend, who was wearing a white tuxedo shirt, black slacks, and black boots. It wasn’t his girlfriend, of course, but the resemblance was freaky. Same thin lips, long chestnut hair. She took him by the hand and led him through one of the curtained doorways and down a hallway to another room. He had seen enough movies to know what to expect: a Spartan bed, a nightstand, maybe a cheap piece of art on a wall.
But that wasn’t what he got.
Inside the room was a short wooden table, and on top of that was a machine that looked like a saddle. Sticking out of the top of the saddle was a rubber nub a few inches tall. The saddle was electric. A cord ran down the side to an extension cord, which was taped along the floor.
The question had barely formed in his mind before the girl gently pushed him back against the wall and held both of his hands.
“Left or right?”
“What is that thing?” Jack asked.
“You’ll see,” she said. “Left or right?” After seeing the dumbstruck look on his face, she clarified: “Left- or right-handed?”
“Right.”
The girl gently guided Jack’s left hand to his heart, as if he were about to make the pledge of allegiance. Something clicked, and he felt cold steel against his wrist. Then another click, and a tightness around his bicep. His left arm was immobilized against his body and he was fastened to the wall.
The girl took a step back and smiled. “I’ve been waiting for you all day.”
3:50 a.m.
Sheraton, Room 501
Jack Eisley’s bag didn’t yield dick, except for the fact that Jack was a boxer briefs kind of guy. And these days, who wasn’t? There was also a piece of Sheraton stationery with “MK WHP SD” scribbled on it. Which could mean anything. Mr.
Kent Whupped South Dakota. Make Whipped Sundae. Make White House President Sign Decree. Kowalski folded and pocketed it anyway.
No wallet or ID. Guy must have it with him. But the luggage tag bore the surname Eisley and a Gurnee, Illinois, address.
Okay, that waste of time was over. Next: Try another disguise, and play buddy-buddy with the man you nearly choked to death a short time ago. Mr. Vincent. He’d know where the cops were keeping Jack Eisley. A flash of his trusty Homeland Security badge, and he’d be in the room with him alone, piecing together the night’s events. He could tell him what Kelly White was doing, flying around the country and generally causing trouble for married men and university professors alike.
Of course, Kowalski realized, he was making a big assumption.
Eisley might not still be alive.
That seemed to be the pattern for Kelly White’s other male companions.
4:05 a.m.
Sybian Lounge, the Hot Spot
Can I ask your name?” “Call me Angela,” she said, unbuttoning her tuxedo shirt to reveal a plain white bra beneath. The shirt was heavily wrinkled in places, and one of the cuffs looked like it had a splotch of tomato sauce on it. “What’s yours?”
“Jack. So Angela isn’t your real name?”
The girl looked scandalized. “My real name? Sorry. I don’t do that. True names are powerful totems. Revealing my true name, without knowing yours, would lead to an imbalance of power. Do you want me to unbuckle your belt for you? Or can you do it with one hand?”
“I didn’t realize you were going to fasten me to a wall; otherwise, I might have taken care of that ahead of time. Look, can we talk for a minute?”
Angela took another two steps backward and kicked off her boots, peeled off her black socks. The black slacks slid down her legs and bunched up on the floor. She stepped out of them. The floor was concrete. It looked cold to Jack.
The Blonde Page 11