Sure enough, there she was. Kowalski saw Kelly and that middle-aged guy in a black jacket. They were embracing in front of an open cab door. And inside … oh, another guy in the backseat. Kowalski fixed his eyes on the orange box of an alternative newsweekly across the street, then headed forward as if to retrieve a copy. Meanwhile, he reached into his jacket pocket and sent a text message—“So glad you remembered”—as he memorized the cab’s license plate. The next step was up to his handler.
Kelly and the unidentified male were still going at it. Kowalski wondered, idly, what the deal with the guy in the cab was. He couldn’t see the man’s face. Had Kelly proposed some kind of three-way scenario?
Not that it mattered. He didn’t know why the female subject was wanted. That was the way it was with CI-6. No need to dig up a motive. Just simple, clear objectives. Which made his job quantifiable, if not exactly satisfying.
Which was why he was so eager to return to his current project in Philadelphia. This time, it was personal. He knew the reasons—most of them anyway. He knew the net effect of every action. He had a singular purpose, and it was extremely satisfying when he completed each task he’d designed to achieve that purpose.
Vengeance of Katie.
Katie was a girl he’d met a year ago; she became pregnant with their child. Unfortunately, Katie’s brother was a professional criminal who had embroiled himself with the Philadelphia branch of the Cosa Nostra. After too many double crosses to count, the mob took their payment out on Katie … and, by default, their unborn child.
They killed her.
They smeared her with peanut butter so that rats would destroy the body after they’d dumped her.
Kowalski had been out of town. When he arrived in Philadelphia, he drove straight to the morgue. He identified her naked, chewed, clawed, lacerated body, under the murky pretense of Homeland Security. He read the reports. Once he pieced it together, Kowalski decided to take out the mob, down to the man. He wasn’t in a rush. No need to get sloppy. He’d simply pick away at every cheeseball until there were none left. Simple, clear objectives. But with a motive. Which was incredibly satisfying.
Except when he thought about Katie, or what their child— might have been a son—would have looked like. Sounded like. Smelled like.
This bothered Kowalski, because he was not the kind of man to think about children.
The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. There could be no subterfuge now. Things were moving fast. The organization was reacting, planning.
He pressed the cell phone to his ear and reached down with his free hand to take a copy of the newspaper. The cover story was about beer—apparently, there was a festival in town this week.
“You have her.”
“Looking at her now,” Kowalski said.
“Who is she with?”
“Two men, one middle-aged, another one inside a waiting cab. I can’t see the second guy.”
“Okay.”
“She just finished playing tonsil hockey with the middle-aged male.”
“They were kissing?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Hold please.”
Kowalski watched the pair finally break the embrace. About goddamned time. It was wrong to flaunt that kind of thing in front of a widower, wasn’t it?
But wait. What is this?
Her pale hand on his chest. A shocked look on the guy’s thick face. The girl pushing him away, stepping backward and sliding herself into the cab, slamming the door the shut. The guy pounding on the roof. Looking really pissed. The engine revving.
“We’ve got a situation here,” Kowalski said.
“What’s happening?”
“Kelly White and the second male leaving by car. First guy left behind. He’s standing on the sidewalk. Need some direction here, sugar.”
“Stand by.”
But of course. The cab bucked backward for a moment, then lurched forward. In the meantime, the middle-aged guy was reaching for the door, as if that would do any good. Give it up, buddy. She’s got bigger and better things to do. Namely, the guy sitting next to her.
“You have the cab’s license number?”
“What you think these are, walnuts?”
She didn’t laugh at the in joke. One lazy Sunday morning together, flipping channels, finding Sesame Street. A Cookie Monster skit. Ernie asking a stupid-ass question. Cookie getting indignant, pointing to his googly eyes. What you think these are, walnuts?
“Send a text message, encrypted. Then follow male subject number one.”
“Not Kelly White.”
“Correct. Stick to subject number one as closely as possible.”
There was no point in asking why. Could be one of a thousand possibilities. Girl passing guy drugs, a document, a serum, a weapon. Girl no longer in the game; guy the subject now. That’s what mattered. Now it was time to follow the new guy. Kowalski thought about Professor Manchette. Will I have to decapitate this guy in a couple of hours?
Ah, the job.
11:24 p.m.
1-95 North, Near the Girard Point Bridge
Driver, take us to the nearest police precinct. Immediately.”
Kelly rolled her eyes and eased back into the dark blue vinyl seat. She folded her arms.
“They are not called precincts here,” the driver said. “They are districts.”
“What?”
The driver had curly, thinning black hair. He spoke carefully and clearly. “I do not know the local districts. I operate mainly in the Northeast. I only brought someone down here to catch a late flight. I am working my way back up to the Northeast; that is all.”
“Sir, ignore my husband. Jackie boy had too many Jamesons on the plane.”
“You’re not my wife, and I’m completely sober. I don’t care if they’re districts or what, but I need a police officer. Now.”
Jack knew this was his safest bet. He hadn’t gone to the police before because he thought the blonde had been joking. But he’d vomited enough to know otherwise. The proof was splattered all the hell over 1-95. In fact, they could drive past it, and he could point it out to the police. See that! The contents of my stomach! There’s more of that fucking spinach stromboli! Even if they didn’t believe him at first, they’d hold both of them—he’d make sure of that— until they could pump his stomach (whatever was left of it) or take some blood. Or whatever. Somehow, they’d be able to prove she’d slipped him something. If it took all night, so be it. His 8:00 A.M. appointment with Donovan “the Testicle Hunter” Piatt would have to be rescheduled. No great loss there.
“Watch him, sir. Any minute now, he’ll ask you to pull over so he can vomit.”
“Don’t listen to her.”
“Please do not vomit in my cab.”
“I told you before. Don’t listen to her!”
Then he felt fingers on his chin. Soft, warm. They turned his face to the left. Kelly looked at him.
“You only have eight hours left. I can stonewall anyone for eight hours.”
“But if I die, they’ll know I was telling the truth.”
“And I’m sure that will be a great comfort to you.”
The blonde had a point.
“Tell him where we’re staying. This night doesn’t have to be difficult. You just made it difficult.”
The driver, meanwhile, looked uneasy. He kept stealing glances through the rearview mirror. Worrying about the blue vinyl seats, no doubt. Guess people in the Northeast didn’t puke much.
Oh hell. Jack felt his stomach wrench itself into a knot again. That was the stress talking. Christ, this was unbelievable. Was he actually going to invite a strange woman back to his hotel room? Tonight, of all nights? But he didn’t seem to have a choice.