The Blonde (5 page)

“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.

“Fine. The Sheraton on Rittenhouse Square.”

Kelly eased back into the seat again and smirked. “Swank.”

“That is on the way to the Northeast,” the driver said happily. Not that anyone was asking.

The knot in Jack’s stomach tightened. Severely. He doubled over, as if his midsection were a giant hinge. He couldn’t help it. His head ended up near Kelly’s lap.

Then she did something strange. She gently eased his head down into her lap and started gently stroking his scalp. “Relax, Jack.”

Her fingers felt surprisingly good. They distracted him from the twisting knife in the middle of his lower intestines.

The cab continued up 1-95, toward Center City.

Long-Term Parking, Section D, Aisle 22

T
he guy lived way out in the Northeast. In Somerton, which was near the edge of the county line. Beyond that, Bucks County, the affluent suburbs populated by Philadelphians, and by New Yorkers who
really
wanted to get away from the city without having to live in New Jersey. Kowalski couldn’t blame them. Much as he disliked Philadelphia, he simply loathed Jersey. Everything was industrial, suburban, or a faded shore town. What was the point of that?

After watching the dumbstruck expression on his subject’s face for a few minutes—What the hell happened? Was I really dumped curbside?—Kowalski had followed him to a shuttle bus waiting area. Strange. The man had seemed to be ready to jump in a cab with Kelly White. Where was he headed now? Kowalski trailed him onto a shuttle bus and knew the answer: long-term parking.
Guy had a car here after all. It was a new Subaru Tribeca—dusky gray exterior, black leather interior, with a built-in booster car seat meant for a child about sixty to ninety pounds. Magazines littered the floor of the backseat. Kowalski saw a
Mens Health
, an
Economist
. Kowalski knew this because he’d slipped inside of it when the man was distracted by a small rock he’d winged at the hood. Enough to chip paint, and cause the man to fuss over it for a minute or two, curse. But not enough to notice his new passenger.

Sure, he could have stolen a long-term car, followed the man wherever he was going. But Kowalski always tried to keep things are simple as possible, with as few tools as possible. Steal a car, you have to dispose of a car. There’s a trail. Forensic evidence. And, of course, the subject to worry about. Why bother? Hiding in the back, Kowalski was able to sink himself into a slightly lower level of consciousness to recharge his batteries. He’d found that fifteen to twenty minutes of downtime left him feeling more refreshed than eight hours in a warm bed. Which was good. He had a feeling this was going to be a long night.

The subject pulled the Tribeca into a two-car garage at the top of a steep hill. The guy stepped out, stretched, glanced at the hood, cursed, grabbed his overnight bag from the passenger seat, and walked through the door that connected to the house. He was immediately greeted by a dog—a golden retriever. Kowalski waited until the lights went out. He used a box cutter he found to jimmy open the connecting door; the set of house keys, predictably, was hooked on a plastic holder affixed by a magnet to the side of a refrigerator. No sign of the dog, which meant he must be upstairs asleep with his master. Still, he didn’t linger. He slipped back to the garage, turned the ignition key enough for the electrical systems to pop on. The Tribeca came with a built-in GPS navigation unit. That’s how he learned where he was in Philadelphia. Somerton. Edison Avenue, to be precise. The Philadelphia International Airport lay just beyond the southwestern extreme of the
city; this was in the northeastern extreme. The subject couldn’t live any farther from the airport and still be within the city limits if he tried. Kowalski turned the car off and waited.

He was very much looking forward to finishing his work, both business and personal, and leaving this city.

Kowalski decided when this was over he’d rent a house near Houston, close to the Gulf. He’d make sure it had a back porch. And an electrical outlet for a blender. Pick up a charcoal grill, then fish and vegetables for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Blend fruit smoothies, catch up on his reading. Get some sun. Enjoy some clean living to get the toxins of the past few months out of his blood. The rage especially. Then figure out the next step.

That next step might be wandering down to the Gulf and eating a bullet. But at least he’d make that decision with a clear mind.

Kowalski sat and tumbled recent events around in his head and felt the rage spike in his blood. He was almost grateful when someone in the house—a woman—started screaming.

Sheraton Hotel,
Rittenhouse Square East, Room 702

N
ice digs, Jack,” Kelly said. “Not sure about the two different levels, though. Makes it look like the beds are in a pit or something. Hey, you okay?”

Jack wanted a bed, in a pit or not. There were two, thank God. Just let me stumble down the stairs, choose the closest, and collapse onto it. He had the chills, bad. A pounding head. He couldn’t see straight, either. Maybe if he was lucky, he’d die soon and it would be over. At least he wouldn’t have to go through with his morning meeting with Donovan Piatt. If he was dead, it wouldn’t matter.

But Kelly held his arm tightly as he tried to make his way to the bed.

“Take it easy, boyo.”

“I need to lie down.”

“Let me help you. It’ll all be over soon.”

Whatever, Jack thought. His stomach was clenched too tightly to care. It was tough enough faking it while walking past the front desk—Kelly had warned him about drawing any more attention to himself than he had to. Again, whatever. His stomach was long emptied, but that didn’t mean it didn’t stop trying.

“Lie back and relax.” She squeezed his left hand reassuringly. “The worst will be over soon. The poison will settle into your blood and your stomach will stop trying to get rid of it.”

“Don’t kill me. I’ve got a family. A little girl.”

God, if Theresa and Callie could see him now. In a hotel room, holding hands with a strange woman. Never mind what it actually was. It was all about how it looked. On top of everything else that had happened over the past few months.

I can’t stand that when you ‘re here, you’re not really here
, Theresa had said.
Don’t you want to read to your daughter? Or are you still too busy thinking about work?

“Shhhhh. It won’t be so bad. You seem like the kind of guy who knows how to show a lady a good time in a hotel room. Am I right or am I right? A real lady-killer.”

Jack closed his eyes, and drifted away a bit. Yeah, lady-killer, that was him. He tuned back in when he heard her rooting through his overnight bag with her free hand—the one not holding his hand. The bag he’d placed on the floor next to the bed.

“What are you doing?”

He pulled his hand free of hers.

“I thought you’d be a boxer briefs kind of guy. Can’t quite commit to the idea of boxers, can’t go commando, can’t do tighty-whiteys. An excellent compromise all around. But what’s this? All
black and gray? Where’s your imagination, Jackie boy? No reds or purples? Not even a safe, conservative blue?”

Jack closed his eyes.

Maybe when he opened his eyes, this would all be gone.

One way or the other.

Edison Avenue, Somerton

K
owalski made his way into the house and pinpointed the source of the screams. Upstairs. Female. Older woman. Sobbing and wailing between the screams, like a car alarm cycling through its various sounds.

There wasn’t much time now. Even though this was a single house, there were still two houses in shouting range, and in such a quiet neighborhood as this, they would not go unnoticed.

The living room was up the hallway and to the left. Kowalski checked the walls: framed photos of his subject, a woman, presumably his wife, and two females, presumably daughters. They looked old enough to be at least college age. They might not be home. The fact that there was only one voice screaming led him to believe this. Otherwise, he was going to have a royal mess on his hands.

Upstairs, a door slammed shut.

The staircase was situated in the middle of the house. Kowalski bounded up them, and saw one source of light: through the cracks in the bathroom door. A woman leaning against the doorway, clutching the doorknob as if for support. She had stopped screaming and stared into space instead, her face ashen.

“Ma’am, I’m here to help.” Kowalski showed her his palms.

The woman’s eyes focused and she let out a sharp shriek, then slid off the door, collapsing to the carpet.

“Relax, ma’am. I’m with the police.”

He knelt down next to her.

“How did you know? I just found him. How did you know to come?”

Quick, Kowalski. Remember, you’re not wearing a uniform. Nor do you have a badge or gun.

“Plainclothes. I was driving home from a late shift when I heard screaming coming from your house. Your garage door was open; I thought you had an intruder. Is there someone in your bathroom?

“My h-husband. Ed. Oh God. Ed.”

“Is Ed okay?” Always use first names. Puts people at ease.

“No … no he’s
not
. …”

“What’s wrong? Does he need an ambulance?”

The woman showed him her fingers. Even in the dark hallway, Kowalski could tell they were slick with blood.

“Stay here.”

Kowalski stood up and opened the bathroom door. There were four oversized bulbs mounted above the medicine cabinet, and they bathed the room in an ultraharsh white light. Someone really liked their light in here.

But that made it all the worse. There was no hiding Ed, who was sitting on the toilet, fully clothed.

Or his blood, which was
everywhere
.

It was as if someone had reached inside his skull, grabbed his brain, and squeezed—hard. The blood ran down his cheeks, from his eyes. The sides of his neck. His chin. His shirt. His hands. Whatever his hands had touched.

Ed was real dead.

Kowalski reached for his cell phone.

Sheraton, Room 702

J
ack jolted. Sat up. He must have dozed off for a few moments.

“Morning, sunshine.”

He nodded dully, somewhat startled by the peace he felt. It was like the euphoric calm after violent vomiting. Your body realizes that it isn’t about to die and then releases soothing endorphins into the bloodstream. It was as if his body had crawled up from the inner circles of Hell, and was surprised to have survived the trip.

Of course, his body had been fooled. The poison was still running through his veins.

“You look a little better. I didn’t like seeing you in pain.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have fucking poisoned me.”

“So bitter.”

“Seriously. Why
met
”

“There’s something about your face that makes people trust you. I’ll bet you’re always the guy people are stopping to ask for directions.”

Jack looked at least a few years younger than his true age. He didn’t follow fads in hairstyle or dress, which kind of lent him a clueless, midwestern timelessness. He looked like a Boy Scout or an altar boy who’d somehow managed to make it to adulthood without being molested. People
did
seem to trust him.

“It was the same with me,” the blonde said. “I saw you and knew I could trust you. And once I tell you why, I think you’ll understand. Maybe even forgive me.”

Kelly opened her mouth, then slowly closed it again. She swept some of the hair from her forehead, looked around the room.

“I have one last favor to ask first. Please bear with me.”

“Sure. Whatever. You poisoned me, you call the shots.”

“I need to use the bathroom. Badly.”

“Try the room with the white seat.”

“Very funny, Jack. But I need you in there with me.”

“Look, I promise I won’t leave. At the very least, I have to find out why you’ve poisoned me. And frankly, I may decide to keep you here for the police.”

“It’s not that. I can’t go alone.”

“What, are you scared? I told you: I’ll be right here.”

“You
have
to be in there with me.”

“You’re seriously insane, aren’t you?”

“Jack, you’ve only known me a few hours. But by now, you should know I mean what I say.”

I poisoned your drink
. Definitely true.