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.