K
ATIE’S CELL PHONE CHIRPED. SHIT. SHE COULDN’T stop to pick it up now. Not with the business end of a Beretta in this Russian gangster’s mouth.
Wait.
Only two people had this disposable number. One of them was Patrick. Which would make it pointless to continue negotiations with this tight-lipped Russian prick.
“Hold on a second, okay? Of course you will.” Katie fumbled in her bag, found the phone, and flicked it open one-handed, but it was too late. The call was gone. Fuck.
She removed the gun from the guy’s mouth and then proceeded to pistol-whip him into unconsciousness. He wasn’t going to help, anyway. Claimed he knew nothing. Katie dialed in to check her messages, wiping the pistol clean on the guy’s sofa.
The Russian hadn’t been difficult to find. Henry refused to name names, and begged her to come over to his apartment to think things through. But eventually, he relented, and gave her one: Evsei Fieuchevsky. “I don’t know that he’s involved, but he might know some people who might know.”
Fieuchevsky had claimed to know nothing, and it didn’t matter. A search of his desk drawer revealed an old-fashioned address book. Somebody down the line would know what had happened to Patrick.
L
ENNON DIDN ’T LEAVE A MESSAGE. HE NEVER DID—IT wasn’t worth it. He’d just try later. He tried not to read too much into the fact that Katie didn’t pick up their emergency line. He was the only one who had the number. Either she was showering, or temporarily away from her phone. Or she expected him to be dead. And now she knew he was alive.
No time to think about it now.
On to the next item on the agenda.
He was very anxious to leave Philadelphia.
S
AUGHERTY WATCHED LENNON USE THE PHONES. THE guy didn’t move his mouth at all. Was he retrieving a message, or listening to instructions? Saugherty almost wished he were a cop again. He could put someone on the Strawbridge’s phones, try to get a fix on the call. But he was a loner. Working this solo. In a car—a royal blue Kia—borrowed from his neighbor Jimmy.
Calling Mothers had been the mistake of the year. He wasn’t going to repeat that mistake.
He was going to follow Lennon to the money, then pop Lennon and take the money. Call a tip in to the FBI. Let them pick up their man, deal with the mess. Saugherty would still need a story, but that could come later.
Lennon left Strawbridge’s, but didn’t return to his stolen car. He simply strolled the length of the store, on the side away from the main bustle of the mall, and selected another vehicle—some early model Chevy. He was inside within seconds. Saugherty couldn’t even see how he did it. Amazing. It reminded him of a video game his son loved called
Grand Theft Auto III.
“You’ll dig this, Dad,” his kid had said, but the game appalled Saugherty. It was all about a guy who went around carjacking and heisting and killing; your score was measured in dollars you either stole or earned via underworld activity. According to his son, it was also a badge of honor to rack up as many “wanted” stars as you could—the maximum was six—and the easiest way to do that was kill cops. His son loved this game. It apparently didn’t dawn on him that his father used to earn their daily bread putting his life on the line as a cop, facing off against real-life scumbags who also considered it a badge of honor to snuff a pig.
Anyway, the protagonist of the game had no trouble at all stealing cars, parked or otherwise occupied. You simply moved your man close to the car, then pressed the button. This guy, it was like he was pressing that button. Boom. He was in the car.
Saugherty followed him out of the parking lot and back onto Roosevelt Boulevard.
He wished he’d had more time to read up on this guy. Everyone underestimated Saugherty, and Saugherty kept underestimating the fake mute.
What was his story? Where were his two partners, and why weren’t they sitting on the money? Or were they? And Lennon was fighting to collect his third?
No. Something had gone wrong. Pro heisters never hung around the target city. They struck hard, struck fast, and got the hell out. There was a wrinkle somewhere, which kept Lennon here.
But what was the wrinkle?
Damn it, Saugherty. Before you started pickling your brains on a daily basis, you were a pretty good investigator. Figure it out. Keep thinking ahead. This could be the difference between the life you’ve always wanted to lead and life in a (now) burned-up twin over in Pennypack Park.
The dash clock in his neighbor’s car read 9:34 A.M. He hadn’t been up this early in years.
Had he been up all night? He had.
Lennon followed Roosevelt Boulevard all the way down, through lower Northeast Philly and past crappy areas like Logan and Hunting Park and Feltonville and other neighborhoods that had been vibrant at some distant point in the past—full of factories and jobs and neighborhood delicatessens and candy shops and people who swept their front stoops every day. Now they rotted. Some people still tried to believe the neighborhoods were worth saving. You could see them every now and again, along the boulevard. A house with a new paint job and crisp awning. But the problem was, it was usually right next to a gaping hole in the row where Licenses & Inspections had finally ordered a home’s destruction. Nobody wanted to move into places like these anymore—certainly not anybody who could potentially save a neighborhood.
Saugherty wondered what Lennon thought of the view—if he noticed it at all. According to the guy’s I.O., he had been born in Listowel, Ireland, but who knows where he had spent his formative years. Maybe it was here. Maybe he grew up in a shithole like Feltonville, and pulled jobs to ensure that he’d never have to live in a shithole ever again.
If so, it was a reason Saugherty could understand. He’d done the same thing. Hell, it was why he was doing this now.
The boulevard trimmed itself down from twelve lanes to four—two in each direction. Lennon kept driving. He passed the sign marked KELLY DRIVE. Up ahead, the boulevard ended and offered two choices: I-76 West, into the suburbs, and I-76 East, which swung past downtown Philly, then South Philly, then finally the Philly International Airport. There was nothing for Lennon out west—unless he had a hankering to see Valley Forge, where George Washington and his posse wrapped their bleeding feet in rags and prepared to duke it out with the British.
No, Lennon headed east. Big surprise. The question now was: downtown Philly, near the scene of the crime, or right to the airport and up and out of here?
Well, Lennon wasn’t headed out of town on what he had on him, unless he had stashed a getaway bag in an airport locker. Saugherty had given him a thorough field stripping, and the guy didn’t have a dime on him. His little convenience store stickup couldn’t have netted him more than fifty dollars. Read the signs on the door. They’re telling the truth. Yeah, the only thing he stole from that 7-Eleven, as far as Saugherty could tell, was a bunch of calling cards and beef jerky.
Breakfast of champions. Although Saugherty wouldn’t have passed up a few sticks of beef right now. He was starving—the last thing he’d eaten were those fucking Memphis Dogs.
As predicted, Lennon took an exit that spat him out downtown. Saugherty almost lost him—Lennon took another sudden exit on the right, to Twenty-third Street.
Damn. The guy
was
returning to the scene of the crime.
E
VSEI FIEUCHEVSKY WAS NOT HAVING A GOOD MORNING. First, the news of his son. Involved with bank robbers, and now dead? How could his son do this? What had Mikal been thinking? Then the embarrassing mistake with the daughter of the fat Italian. Then finally, the arrival of the crazy bitch with a pistol, breaking into his home in Morrell Park and threatening his life unless he told her what they did with the bank robber.
The bank robber who had probably murdered his son.
Thank God his Dimitra wasn’t alive to see his shame.
During the assault, Fieuchevsky had merely held his tongue. He had decided to show patience with the crazy bitch. Let her rant and rave and spit and threaten. It did not matter. Soon, his employees—the ones who found Mikal’s truck—would arrive. Within thirty minutes, the crazy bitch would be dangling from the end of a meat hook in his garage, begging for a merciful conclusion to the proceedings.
But then the bitch actually paused to answer her cell phone, and without warning, beat Fieuchevsky into unconsciousness.
This was madness.
Madness, too, that his tan Naugahyde couch was streaked with his own blood. The crazy bitch had beaten him about the face, then wiped the blood clean on his furniture. His $4,000 set. Like it was Kleenex.
Fieuchevsky couldn’t decide who he’d enjoy seeing tortured more—the bank robber, or his crazy bitch.
He’d savor both.
Then, a name popped into his head. An outsider, who knew this sort of thing. A friend his son had once mentioned. “This finance guy I met, Dad? He used to rob banks. Just keep that bit on the Q.T.—he don’t like anybody knowing.”
Fieuchevsky picked up the phone.
L
ENNON PARKED ON ARCH STREET, TWO BLOCKS AWAY from the lot. This Chevy sucked—he was glad to be ditching it. It could stay in Philadelphia and the two could rot together. From what he’d seen on the drive down, the city was already halfway there.
Call him bitter.
The moment he saw the Honda Prelude he could breathe again. Not that he was worried he wouldn’t—the only other two people who knew about the location and make and model of the car were both dead, decomposing in a tube down by the river. No, it was about reassurance on a cosmic level. That everything he touched didn’t necessarily have to turn to shit.
His shoulder was really worrying him now. It smelled funny, like Chinese food left on a kitchen counter too long. That meant infection. That meant trouble, unless he found a doctor who could prescribe antibiotics soon. The wound had pretty much closed and caked on itself; his shoulder would never be perfect, but at least he wasn’t bleeding out. On his personal pyramid of woes, the shoulder was the apex. That was followed by existential worries, of double crosses and bad luck and everything else mental. Below that was a thick base of bruises and contusions and cuts and sprains and everything else. Lennon had a feeling that if you were to remove every broken/ailing part of his body, all he’d have left would be two eyeballs and a spleen. Maybe not even the spleen.
But everything would heal. Money would help. Money and a plane ticket and a room at a resort hotel and a friendly doctor and good food and rest and music. That was it. And still a half a million left to live on. Spent frugally, that money could last Lennon until he was forty years old. Katie, too.
If Katie was still in the picture.
Lennon turned the corner, spied the lot. There was an attendant in the booth, but he was too engrossed in something perched in his lap. Not many cars were parked here on a Saturday morning, despite this being a long-term lot. This vaguely worried Lennon. He’d imagined more cars, burying the Prelude in a sea of pricier, sleeker cars with a higher street value.
He walked down the second row, where they’d left it. Nothing yet. It was probably down farther.
The row ended. Nothing.
Had to be the third row.
Halfway down the third row, the attendant took an interest in Lennon.
Lennon pressed two fingers to his neck, feeling for the carotid artery.
Steady now.
Steady.
On.
K
ATIE THOUGHT BACK ON HER VISIT TO MORRELL PARK. It could have been handled better. Michael would definitely
not
have approved. Neither would Patrick.
Then again, Patrick was probably no longer alive, so what did it matter?
Unless that was him calling. And he was hiding out somewhere.
There was only one way to find out. Katie pulled her rented car over to the side of Grant Avenue and dialed Henry. On her public cell, not the emergency one. Her stomach did flip-flops, but she kept it together by breathing oxygen. Oxygen dispelled the nausea, if she tried hard enough.
“Hello?”
“Did you call me about twenty minutes ago?”
“No. But wait—don’t go. Let me get rid of this other line.”
Click.
Shit. Katie didn’t know what she was hoping to hear. That Henry had called, or that he hadn’t. If he really hadn’t, Patrick was somewhere. But then why didn’t he leave a message?
Because the stubborn bastard never left a message. It was against his religion.
Katie felt her stomach roil again, and she concentrated on breathing.
The line clicked back.
“Katie, where are you?”
She ignored the question. “Someone called me twenty minutes ago. On the other line. Only two people have that number. You and Patrick.”
“So then he’s fine. Tell me where you are, and I’ll send a car for you.”
“No. Help me think. Where would Patrick be?”
“I’m no good thinking over the phone,” he said. “You know that.”
“What good are you at all?”
Damnit, Patrick. Call again. Let me know what’s going on. Tell me I just didn’t pistol-whip a Russian gangster for no good reason.
“Look, girlie. I’ve had enough abuse for one morning. You know where I am. You want me to help you figure this out, stop by. And let me just add that since you’ve gotten knocked up, you’ve been nothing but moody.”
“Fuck you,” Katie said.
The line was silent.
“I’ll see you in twenty minutes,” she added.