The Blonde (14 page)

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 the 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.

The Hot Spot, Near Third and Spring Garden

I
t 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.”

Sheraton, Room 501

J
ack 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.

Sybian Lounge, the Hot Spot

C
an 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.

“You come all the way here. At this time of night. In this kind of place … to talk? Oh, Jack, my man. You could have saved yourself a lot of money and gone to Silk City Diner down the street. There’s always some interesting conversation there.”

Her panties were purple but, like her bra, very basic. No satin, no thongs. Just functional, everyday underwear. The kind Jack’s wife wore, except on their anniversary or for weddings.

“I need a moment to think,” Jack said.

“And I want to get off,” Angela said. “Very badly.” She reached up and grabbed a remote that was hanging by a wire from the ceiling. She pressed a button. The plastic nub hummed to life, and
even though Jack had never seen anything like it before, its design and purpose were suddenly clear. “Don’t you?”

Jack didn’t answer, because as soon as he figured out the saddle, another fact hit him cold. The saddle was across the room. Easily more than ten feet away.

And Angela was getting ready to mount it.

“No!” Jack yelled. “Wait!” He pushed his weight against his arm restraint; it was fiercely strong.

Angela took the remote in her hands and thumbed the button. The humming stopped. She looked wary. Afraid, even.
Fuck
. He couldn’t afford to have her run out of the room. That would be his death sentence. The owners would come back and find a brain-dead white guy bolted to the wall. Explain
that
one.

Explain it to Donovan Piatt.

Or Callie, someday.

Okay, Jack, calm down.
Callllm
down. Ask her for her help with something. Anything.

Then it came to him. His pants.

“I need help with this,” he said, holding his belt buckle in his free hand.

“I can’t touch you…. You know that, right? One of your buddies on the force explained this to you, I hope.”

“Sure.”
Force?

“People can have all kinds of ideas. Like me being a hooker, or something. I don’t play that way.”