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 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.