Severance Package

Chestnut, then hung a right on Sansom. There were no available spots on the 1900 block, or the next. Didn’t look like much farther down, either.

He flipped open the ashtray. One quarter, a few nickels, many pennies.

“Man.”

But then, movement. The red taillights of a Lexus. Pulling back. McCrane pressed his brakes. Slowed to a stop. Watched the Lexus maneuver out of the space.

Even better, it was a Monday-through-Friday loading space. Weekends, it was fair game.

“Yes,” Stuart said.

Her name was Molly Lewis …

… and she eased the Tribeca into a spot on an empty level in the 1919 Market Street Building’s garage. The nearest car was at least ten spots away. She turned off the engine, then opened the suitcase on the passenger seat. Inside, on top of a yellow legal pad, was David’s package.

Molly’s cell phone played the guitar riff from “Boys Don’t Cry.” She put in the earpiece and pressed ANSWER. A voice spoke to her.

She said: “Yes, I remembered.”

And a few seconds later: “I know. I followed the protocols.”

The packages had arrived last night. Paul had asked what she’d ordered now— smiling as he said it—and Molly truthfully replied that it was something for David. She had carried them to the glassed-in patio and sat down on a white metal garden chair. Then she carefully clipped away the masking tape with a pair of blue-handled scissors and then opened the flaps of the first box.

She had put the contents—David’s delivery—into her own briefcase, then gone back to order dinner from the gourmet Chinese place a few blocks away. Paul hated calling it in, and always complained until Molly did it.

Then she went back out to the patio to open the second box. She was staring at the contents now:

A Beretta .22 Neo.

Ammo—a box of fifty, target practice, 29 gr.

“I am,” she said now. “See you soon.”

Molly opened a white cardboard box, dumped most of the doughnuts and cannoli out onto the concrete floor of the parking garage. Let the pigeons enjoy them. She quickly assembled and loaded the pistol, then nestled it between the two remaining doughnuts. Sugar jelly.

Paul used to love sugar jelly.

Her name was Roxanne Kurtwood …

… and they were driving toward downtown Philadelphia.

“We’re closing,” Roxanne said.

She’d been waiting all morning to say that.

“We’re not closing,” Nichole said. “Our kind of business doesn’t close. Not in this market.”

“Then why a Saturday meeting?”

“Whatever, but we’re not closing.”

Nichole and Roxanne had become fast friends three months ago, ever since Roxanne was promoted from her internship. Before that Nichole hadn’t said much to Roxanne, other than to chastise her for forgetting to return the shared key to the ladies’ room. The day the promotion memo made the rounds, though, Nichole sidled up to Roxanne’s cubicle, asked her to go to Marathon for lunch. Since then they’d had lunch together every day.

Roxanne appreciated the friendship, but it was also frustrating. Nichole was like most Philadelphians: cold and standoffish, right up until the moment they’re not.

Even after their friendship suddenly and miraculously bloomed, the office was so secretive. How many times had she walked into Nichole’s office, only to find her quickly hit a key sequence that blanked her screen and brought up a fake spreadsheet? Like Roxanne wasn’t supposed to notice?

“We’re not closing,” Nichole repeated, “but I saw the reports.”

“And?” Rox asked.

“Top line revenue is just awful. Even considering we budgeted under. It’s bad.”

“That bad?”

“Bad.”

“How bad?”

“Rox, you know I can’t tell you.”

“Nondisclosure.”

This was Nichole’s excuse for everything. I signed a nondisclosure. Sorry, Rox, it’s not you, it’s the nondisclosure. I’d tell you who I went home with last night after the Khyber, but you know … nondisclosure. And it wasn’t just Nichole. It was the whole office. The whole city, for that matter.

Roxanne kept her focus on the road. Tried to keep her left wheels the exact same distance from the median marker. Tried not to lose it.

“But I can tell you,” Nichole said. “Without getting into numbers.”

“And?”

“We’re at least 850,000 below projections.”

Roxanne’s Chevy HHR glided down the Schuylkill Expressway. Couldn’t do that any other day of the week, save Sunday. She looked out on the hills of Manayunk, and it looked like the neighborhood was roasting alive in its own haze.

Frustrated as she was, Roxanne was glad to be in one air-conditioned environment and headed to another. Her apartment in Bryn Mawr didn’t have air. After a night of drinking with Amy, Nichole, and Ethan, she gladly took Nichole up on the offer of her couch. She showered and changed at Nichole’s, and was thankful for the AC. Roxanne had grown up in Vermont, where the humidity wasn’t often a factor.

How did Philadelphians live like this all summer long? Maybe that was their problem.

Her name was Nichole Wise …

… and she hated lying to Roxanne, feeding her that crap about “top line revenue.” If Roxanne had paid closer attention to things around the office, she might have seen through it.

But Nichole couldn’t let that bother her. If this morning went as expected, she could be looking at a promotion.

Something big was going down.

Murphy wouldn’t have called this Saturday-morning meeting otherwise.

She wondered if she’d have the chance to deliver a verbal coup de grace and relish the expression on his stupid face.

You? he’d say, all shocked.

Yeah, she’d say. Me.

Maybe—just maybe—her long nightmare assignment would be over.

And if that were to happen, she’d bring Roxanne back with her.

The United States of America needed bright young women like Roxanne Kurtwood.

Her name was Amy Felton …