The Blonde

by Duane Swierczynski

  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” Platt 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.

  “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.

  11:25 p.m.

  Long-Term Parking, Section D, Aisle 22

  The 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 Men’s 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.

  11:54 p.m.

  Sheraton Hotel, Rittenhouse Square East, Room 702

  Nice 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 Platt. 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 tightywhiteys. 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.

  I was in love with a beautiful blonde

  once. She drove me to drink. That’s

  the one thing I’m indebted to her for.

  —W.C. FIELDS

  12:10 a.m.

  Edison Avenue, Somerton

  Kowalski 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.

  12:15 a.m.

  Sheraton, Room 702

  Jack 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 me?”

  “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.”