T
HE CLOTHES WERE SNUG ON LENNON. ANDY HAD APPROXIMATELY the same height and build, but not quite the same muscle development. But it was better than being naked. Or wearing those ridiculous Cavariccis.
If Lennon had been thinking clearly, he would have stripped Fieuchevsky of his clothes first. Because even though Lennon had the guy’s wallet, he didn’t have his truck keys. They were most likely in the front pocket of the dead guy’s dress pants. And Lennon wasn’t one of those criminal types who knew how to hotwire any car—just a few select makes and models. This wasn’t one of them. Besides, he usually stuck to bank stuff, and the cars he used in getaways always had keys. So now he had to walk back into Philadelphia.
The only visible option was the big blue bridge: the Benjamin Franklin, built in 1926 to connect Camden with Philadelphia. Why they wanted to do that in the first place remained a mystery to Lennon. Camden was a bigger shithole than Philadelphia.
Lennon pressed two fingers to his neck. Not good.
He spat in the right-hand lane and walked across the bridge. Halfway across, he noticed how much the bridge swayed and bucked. He never knew bridges did that. He’d never had to walk across them before. The jittering under his feet pissed him off.
Now that he’d had some cold air in his lungs and time to think, the real pain set in. Clearly, today’s job had been sold to somebody. Guessing from the appearance of Mr. Fieuchevsky, it was Russian mob. Somebody had told them what they’d be hitting, how much, and plotted the exact getaway route. Which enabled them to stash a ram van along Kelly Drive, then rob the robbers, dispose of the bodies, and move on with life. Somebody had told them all of this.
The problem was that somebody.
Bling knew the heist details, and knew a bit of the getaway strategy. But nothing exact. No schedules, no maps, nothing.
Holden didn’t know shit. Lennon had insisted on that.
So even if Bling and/or Holden had gotten hopped up on H one night and decided to spill their guts to a hooker, they wouldn’t have been able to tell anybody shit about the Kelly Drive portion of the getaway plan. That, Lennon had kept to himself. He had told nobody else about it, not about his timing, his mapping, and his practicing.
Except for one person.
Katie.
And Lennon didn’t want to think about that.
He didn’t want to think about how weird she’d been acting lately.
Secretive.
Quiet.
No.
Rest first. Then thinking and planning. It pained him not to be able to call Katie right away, give her the code, let her know what had happened. Ordinarily, Lennon would be sick that she’d be worried sick. But he couldn’t do that now. He had to rest and heal. Then think.
The Benjamin Franklin Bridge spat Lennon out just above Old City Philadelphia, a former slum that had been rehabbed in time for the 1976 bicentennial celebrations and was now enjoying a turn-of-the-century renaissance of hip restaurants, bars, coffee shops, and art galleries. Lennon didn’t care about any of that right now. He was consulting the Philly map he’d stored in his brain. There was supposed to be a subway terminus at Second and Market, which he could take to City Hall and transfer to another subway line, which in turn would spit him out in the north part of the city, near La Salle University.
Once he found Second Street, the rest was easy. Lennon hopped the turnstile just as a steel train rocketed into the station. The Market-Frankford El. He boarded it, avoided all stares, and rode it thirteen blocks to City Hall, where there was the free transfer—exactly as the maps had said—into an even grimier subway line. The printed map on the train wall told him that the correct stop for La Salle was Olney, just a few stops from the end of the line.
He emerged from the station and saw a white and blue painted bus with a thick “L” painted on the side. Campus bus. Lennon showed Andy’s ID card to the driver, who gave him a funny look but didn’t say anything. Like he gave a shit. The bus wound its way around rough-looking streets, which quickly turned into trees and dark fields. A passing sign read ST. NEUMANN. Lennon stood up and the bus driver let him off in front of a three-story gray slab of a building.
The front entrance was guarded by two turnstiles and a sleepy-eyed student hunched over a thick literature anthology. No campus guards anywhere. Lennon slid the ID card through the turnstile; it clicked. The student didn’t look up. Past the lobby was a main hallway, and tacked to one of the bulletin boards was a directory.
A. Whalen was in Room 119. The hallways were deserted. After all, it was a Friday night in March. School was more than two months under way, and so were the parties. The room Lennon wanted had a push-button combination lock on it. Lennon lifted his foot—clad in one of Andy’s Sketcher boots—and pounded the door to the right of the lock. The door opened. Lennon didn’t bother to turn on the lights, or check the phone machine, or undress. He flopped onto the bed and closed his eyes.
M
CGLINCHEY’S WAS DRAPED IN HUGE PLUMES OF gray-tinged smoke, which was to be expected. It was 10 P.M. on a Friday.
“What’s this?”
“Take a look.” Mothers slid a sheet across the black Formica table.
Identification Order No. 744 565 D
With aliases: P.S. Lennon, Pat Lenin, Pete Thompson, Lawson Sel-way, Charles Banks, Ray Williams, “Len.”
Born August 22, 1972, in Listowel, Ireland. Five feet eight inches tall, 170 pounds, with dark brown hair and blue eyes. Occupations: cook, laborer, clerk, writer. Scars and marks: one and half-inch horizontal scar on back of left hand, three-inch scar on throat, brown birthmark on right hip. Due to a throat wound suffered during a previous bank robbery attempt, Lennon is unable to speak.
Lennon is probably armed and should be considered extremely dangerous.
It was an FBI Wanted poster, freshly printed from the Internet, and Saugherty noticed that the date on it was tomorrow. The lieutenant was giving him advance copy. Saugherty read it. “This is the guy from the bank heist this morning?”
“One of them, yeah.” Mothers had a swallow of porter beer.
“I thought they were all black guys.”
“No, just one of them—Harrison Crosby. His partner was one of those Eminem wannabes, name of Holden Richards. And the getaway driver was this mick—Lennon.”
“Well, I hope the FBI catches them soon,” Saugherty said. “Golly, do I miss police work. Frankly, I don’t know how you can stand it. You want another beer? I’m thinking about one of those Memphis Dogs, too.”
“Yeah, I’ll have another. Stay away from those dogs, though. I’ve been coming here since those little colon bombs were only a quarter a piece, and I still regret every single one I ever ate. There’s something else about this guy Lennon.”
“What’s that?”
“You know that girl who got smacked by the getaway car?”
“Yeah. She okay?”
“She’ll recover.”
“And the baby?”
“Not a scratch. But the girl is somebody important.”
“To who?”
“To the mayor.”
“Who is she?”
“A political operative. Lives in Holmesburg, over on Leon Street.”
“I’m guessing he values her oral presentations.”
“To the tune of $20,000. Just for bringing this asshole down. Word went out this evening at the roundhouse. I thought you might be interested, seeing how you were looking to put a deck on the back of your house.”
“Nah, I’m past the deck thing. Now I’m thinking, feng shui. My whole house is out of spiritual alignment.”
“Costs a lot of money to realign your spirit.”
“Wait. It’s not called spirit; some other word.
Chi.
That’s it. My chi.”
“Chi whiz,” Mothers said. “So, Paul—can I tell the mayor you’ll be investigating this case on a freelance basis?”
“You can tell the mayor that I’m a big fan of Holmesburg, and that I’m always looking out for its residents.”
“The mayor will be pleased.”
“Patrick Lennon will not,” Saugherty said.
A swallow later: “The mayor doesn’t want him alive, does he?”
T
HE CONQUISTADOR’S INTERNET ACCESS WAS DOWN. Katie had to hire a driver to take her to a nearby Internet café to check the Philly news—no mean feat. It wasn’t until late before the
Inquirer
posted the story. Bank robbery. Suspects still at large. $650,000 stolen. Promising leads, and the FBI promising a swift resolution. Which was complete bullshit. The FBI had no idea.
But then again, where was Patrick?
He hadn’t told her the exact flight number into Puerto Rico; instead, he said, she should enjoy the resort and casino and the swimming pool and room service until he got there. Warm sun, instead of crisp Pocono mountain air. Katie had rented one of the exclusive guest cottages down the mountain from the main hotel and casino. To get to your room, you had to ride a cable car the resort called a
funicular.
She must have ridden the funicular a dozen times, up and down, up and down, admiring the clear blue ocean views and lush foliage that draped the mountains, and then in the dark, the boat lights that shimmered in the distance. She kept hoping she’d see Patrick walk across the casino floor and smile at her, and she’d know everything had gone okay. And then she’d take Patrick’s hand and lead him back down the funicular—she’d probably joke about how many times she had ridden the fucking thing, and that it almost made her queasy, but that of course,
hah hah hah,
wasn’t the only reason she was queasy. She’d lead him into their guest cottage, then uncork the bottle of Vueve Clicquot she’d prepared for the occasion, and then when he was relaxed enough …
… and then what?
Katie didn’t know.
How do you put something like this?
She couldn’t read the novel she’d packed—some Lorene Cary book about Philadelphia during the Civil War. It was the book that the whole city of Philadelphia was supposed to be reading at the same time. But she couldn’t keep her mind on it. And she couldn’t check the Internet without having to hire a cab, and she’d already done that in the past forty-five minutes.
So instead Katie stood on a chair and reached for the leather zip pouch she’d stashed up in the room’s curtains, up out of sight, between the folds of the shears and the main curtain, tucked away in a Ziploc freezer bag and secured to the fabric with safety pins. Inside the leather pouch was her gun, a Beretta. She stripped it, cleaned it, reassembled it, re-hid it.
That didn’t help, either.
There was a knock at the door. Katie made sure the gun pouch was out of sight and then looked through the keyhole.
Michael. A day early.
Jesus, if Patrick had shown up on time …
She opened the door, and couldn’t help herself.
“I know, I know, I’m early, but—”
Katie didn’t let him finish. She slid her hands under his arms and cupped his shoulders, then leaned forward, pressing her lips to his.
L
ISA DIALED ANDREW’S CELL ONE LAST TIME, THEN GAVE up and called his dorm room number. Oh, God help that bastard if he is in his dorm room. She had driven two and a half hours all the way down to Wildwood to see Space Fucking Mafia at the Thunderbird Lounge, and guess what? No Andrew. No Fury, either—his thick-necked Russian partner-in-crime. That was half the band. The good half.
All that remained was the guitar player and the drummer, and neither of them sang. The pair joked about their bandmates finishing up on the Ozzfest tour, that they should be onstage any second. To fill the time, they played Ventures guitar-rock songs—“Walk, Don’t Run,” “Slaughter on Tenth Avenue”—pretty much the only thing you can do with just a guitar and drums and no vocals. By the end of the set, the lesser half of Space Fucking Mafia was desperate enough to play Christmas songs, Ventures guitar-surf style.
What the hell was Andrew thinking?
There she was, down there with her townhouse roommate Karyn—who she really didn’t like all that much, but couldn’t avoid inviting—and her best friend Cynthia, who had never seen the band but heard Lisa’s endless bragging. Which made it all the worse. Lisa looked like a real asshole. Add the fact that Thunderbird Lounge was a bit of a dive, full of cheap white trash who took advantage of the spring rates and took their shore vacations early. Cynthia rolled her eyes every ten minutes; Lisa could time it.
Karyn, meanwhile, had found some loser with a goatee and a Weezer T-shirt and was huddled in a corner, tongue wrestling. The loser probably didn’t know that just twenty minutes before, Karyn, a world-class bulimic, had power-vaulted her fast food drive-thru dinner into the third stall of the ladies’ room. Karyn was now drinking a vodka and cranberry, but even that didn’t have a prayer of killing the taste of vomit. Maybe the loser was too drunk to notice. Or the film of Coors Light in his own mouth canceled out the taste. Lisa shuddered.
Lisa gave it another hour, then decided to drive home, speed dialing Andrew’s cell every fifteen minutes the entire ride home. Karyn had begged them to stay longer, but nothing doing. Halfway through the trip, Lisa wished she’d left Karyn behind. She kept dialing. Nothing. Just the voice message. The fucking bastard.
Dropped Cynthia home with a lame apology, then back to the townhouse with puke breath. Tried the cell one last time, then the land line. Got his answering machine. Nothing.
This wasn’t the first time with Andrew. Just this summer, Fury had taken Andrew to an all-day drinking party with some Thunderbird waitresses they’d met—boy, don’t even get her started on that one—and they’d somehow driven back to Fury’s dad’s condo up in Egg Harbor Township, a full hour away, to crash for a couple of hours. The problem was, they were due back down in Wildwood to play a Thunderbird gig that night. Oh, Andrew and Fury showed up, but two hours late, sleepy-eyed and still reeking of Jack Daniel’s. That was the night Lisa had brought her mom down to hear the band. She swore then it was the last time.
So no, she wasn’t thinking about Andrew being in a car accident, or some other tragic situation. Because she knew better. Fury had driven him off on some side adventure, and she was done waiting. Let Andrew fuck the Russian asshole, he prefers his company to mine.
“Andrew, if you’re there, you’d better pick up the fucking phone, and while you’re doing that, you’d better be thinking up one hell of a fucking excuse.”
There was a long beep.