The plan became trickier when Lennon overheard someone say, “Hey, chief. What’s with the lights outside?”
Fucking hell.
“Seems we have some escaped bank robbers in the building,” the chief said.
This was un-fucking-believable. About as un-fucking-believable as the rest of Lennon’s weekend. This shit did not happen to professionals—this was fodder for those America’s Dumbest Criminals books.
“Say what?”
“Yo—somebody get Will. We’ve got his next crime box, right here.”
“Yes,” the chief continued. “I got a call twenty minutes ago—one of our retired badges works the security detail downstairs. He thinks he spotted two of the guys who pulled that 211 at Wachovia yesterday.”
“That two-what?” someone asked.
This was really un-fucking-believable.
“Police code for bank robbery, Ben.”
“Yo, Will! Come on, man, get out here!”
Will.
Will was the drunk guy Katie was trying to sauce up. Their escape hatch. The compiler of a “crime box.”
“What did the robbers get away with yesterday, anyway?”
“The bank president told me himself that it was $650,000. Probably the biggest pinch around here in a while. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Shit. That’s almost as much as Feldman paid for this place.”
There were nervous titters of laughter.
“Fuck that—you know how much these Rittenhouse condos run? Don’t you keep up with Metropolitan magazine? You’d have to pull two of those Wachovia jobs to snag a pad like this.”
Lennon walked by Katie close enough to whisper one word.
Gardai.
Police.
Fugitive or Prisoner
NO ONE NOTICED THEM LEAVE—THE PARTY WAS ALL the hell over the place, especially after the news spread that the John Dillinger gang was loose in the building. The elevator ride down was uneventful, too. There were uniforms everywhere, but no one seemed to want to bother with a man dressed in a clearly expensive Italian suit and a woman in a Vera Wang dress.
Two cops did, however, want to check the identity of the man slumped between them. Yeah, him. The unconscious one.
“We found this boy in the elevator,” Katie said, her eyes crinkled up. “I didn’t know that our building hosted frat parties from time to time.”
“What’s his name?”
“His name?” asked Katie. “Officer, I don’t even know his eye color—he’s out cold.”
Will was out cold because after Katie had lured him into the hallway, Lennon had punched him twice in the head.
“Okay, ma’am, relax.”
“Jesus—what happened to your face?” asked the other cop, who was staring at Lennon.
Lennon ignored him.
“Sarkissian—check the kid’s ID.”
One of the two uniforms reached around and fished a wallet out of Will’s back pocket. He flipped it open, rolled his eyes, and whistled. “Shit. You’re not going to believe this.”
“What, already?”
“This frat boy is Will Issenberg.”
“The crime box guy? The asshole who wrote about Murph—”
The first uniform—Sarkissian—turned back to Lennon and Katie. “Ma’am, we’re sorry for the inconvenience. We’ll take care of Mr. Issenberg from here. Just check in with Mr. Kotkiewicz at the front desk before you go, okay?”
Mr. Kotkiewicz at the front desk was a kindly-looking guy in his fifties. “I’m really sorry about all of this,” he said, sliding a piece of paper and a pen toward them. “I just need you to write your names and apartment number on this log sheet.”
“This really is turning into a terrorist state, isn’t it?” Katie asked.
“I’ll also need you both to put your hands flat on the counter and spread your legs.”
Mr. Kotkiewicz was leveling a pistol at them.
“What is this?” Katie asked. She was also reaching up under Lennon’s jacket to grab his Sig Sauer.
“Now!” Kotkiewicz shouted, stepping back. “Hands on the counter!”
The entire lobby—about a half-dozen cops, and a half-dozen citizens—jolted. Guns were drawn, safeties clicked off. A uniform ran up behind Katie, hand on his holster.
But he was too slow.
Katie reached back and shoved the Sig Sauer up under his chin. He didn’t look surprised, more resigned.
“We’re walking out of here,” Katie said. “You’re going to let us go, and then we’re going to let him go.” With the word “him,” she poked her hostage with the gun.
“No,” said Kotkiewicz. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“I think this man here would disagree with you.”
Lennon tried to process everything at once. The variables, the possible outcomes. Katie had done the right thing. If Lennon had reached for the gun, Kotkiewicz would have blasted first. But taking another cop hostage had taken things up a notch. Granted, it was a sound strategic move. That was Katie’s strength—planning—but in the abstract. Never in the moment. She’d never been along for any jobs. She’d never been tagged for a crime. Ever. They’d had two very different childhoods.
Five seconds, and already she was staring at only two possible outcomes: fugitive or prisoner.
His sister. Mother of his unborn nephew/niece.
Push that shite away, Lennon thought. There were piles of problems in the world, but they could only be dealt with one at a time. Solve this one now.
Getting out the door wasn’t the problem. The cops knew to stand down in a hostage situation—or at the very least, wait for a clean shot. Well, Lennon would be fucked if he was going to give them one. He walked behind Katie, reached around, and grabbed the hostage cop’s gun. The two men formed a Katie sandwich, one in front, one behind. They slowly moved toward the front doors.
Revolving.
Fuck.
Move to the side. Hit the handicapped exit doors.
“Don’t make a move, Patrick,” Kotkiewicz said.
Fucker knew his name.
Probably tagged him from his I.O. on the way in here.
Think. Solve.
I just need a car, Lennon thought. I’m not good with armed stickups, or note jobs, or escapes from banks, or pipes, or with hostages, or any of that shite. I’m good with a car. If I can just get Katie into a car, and me behind the wheel, we have a chance.
The car was around the block.
Crime Box Guy
WILL ISSENBERG WAS NEVER RENDERED COMPLETELY unconscious. Shock had put him into a slightly vegetative state. With the first blow to the head, everything took on a numb, dreamlike quality, which reminded him of the first time he smoked pot. His IQ instantly lowered at least twenty-five points. And then with the second blow, another twenty-five points.
But he never lost consciousness.
So he heard everything, felt everything, and tried to keep reminding himself: remember this stuff. This is going to be great for the crime box. Remember what was said, and how it was said. Who did what and when.
Who, what, when, where, why. The basics.
This was going to be great. Just stay awake, and keep recording.
The only problem was that, lying there on the carpet in the moments after the shooting, Will couldn’t remember one key detaiclass="underline"
Who fired first?
When the shooting started, Will’s eyes snapped open. Ostensibly, he saw the whole thing. But he couldn’t get the action straight in his head. In the moment, the sound of bullets and snicks and pops and shattering glass and nicks seemed to fill the lobby, immediately followed by screams and a lone, hollow moan. Who fired at whom? In what order? Who was struck first? When did the windows shatter?