The Blonde

If I’ve only one life, let me live it as a blonde!

        — CLAIROL ADVERTISEMENT

2:50  a.m.

Sheraton Lobby

For the last time, Kowalski reassured the desk clerk that he was fine. “It’s just a sprain. Feeling a little tipsy. You know how it is.” All the while, he was scanning the elevator car to see where it stopped. He already had an idea of where that would be. Floor five. Diet Coke dork with the ice bucket.

You need to keep her within ten feet of you at all times, but do not allow her to get too close.

It was coming together for him: All night, she had been in the company of others. Made a point of it. Pick up one guy at the airport, ditch him for another. A new guy with a hotel room to himself. She needed someone close.

I don’t want to die, but if I have to …

She gets alone, she dies.

Never mind how. Figure that shit out later.

She’d kicked him out of the elevator, made a suicide run back up the shaft.

But maybe it wasn’t suicide. Maybe she was going for that Diet Coke dude on five. Hoping he’d still be there. Keep the company of another man. Stay alive another couple of hours.

“Sir, I’d feel a lot better if you sat down here and let me call someone to take a look at your wrist.”

But that made no fucking sense. What kind of government-created disease, plague, or virus—and it had to be one of the above; otherwise, CI-6 wouldn’t be having him traipse around Philadelphia with a severed head in a gym bag for shits and giggles— worked only when the victim was alone?

No wonder the handler wouldn’t tell him anything. This kind of thing went beyond spurned ex-lover territory.

What was CI-6 messing around with now?

Kowalski ignored the desk clerk and walked over and punched the up button. He knew he’d probably find a dead body up on five, if she’d made it that far. Which, okay, was not a great situation. He’d rather have Kelly tell him more. But if need be, he could liberate her pretty head from the rest of her body, give her a little reunion with Ed in the Adidas gym bag, and search for answers elsewhere. His handler and CI-6 weren’t the only people in the United States with access to a laboratory.

“Sir?”

Kowalski turned, smiled, and waved at the desk clerk with his bad wrist. It hurt like fuck; he’d really torn something in there.

But given the circumstances, it was simply the badass thing to do.

2:52  a.m.

Sheraton, Room 702

Jack was amazed at how easily the lies slipped out of his mouth. He knew Mr. Charles Lee Vincent—that was the guard’s name; another mystery solved—wouldn’t believe the crap about the Mary Kates and nanomachines and Ireland and San Diego. Jack still hardly believed it, and he’d almost had his brain explode inside his skull.

So he needed to tell Mr. Charles Lee Vincent something he’d believe. Something that would keep him around.

“Listen, I have an extreme anxiety disorder. You saw an example of it a few minutes ago.”

Ah, you silver-tongued devil, you. Pile it on thicker.

“My psychotherapist told me that being alone for more than a few seconds could lead to stroke.”

Charles Lee Vincent’s brow furrowed. “Okay, sir. I hear you.”

“You have to understand. You can’t leave me alone. Not for a second.”

“I understand. But you need to understand that I have a job to do. And that includes calling the police, so we can catch the guy who did this.”

The police. A few hours ago, Jack would have thrown his arms around the idea, French-kissed it. But now he followed it through to its natural conclusion. Jack in an interrogation room. Jack being offered a cup of station house coffee. Jack saying, “Officer, I’d like to report a murder.” Officer saying, “Whose?” Jack saying, “My own.” Jack watching the detective leave the room, close the door. Jack counting ten seconds before his brain exploded like a pinata.

And even if he were able to keep detectives in the interrogation room with him, what could he say to them? He had no proof that Kelly White existed. Wherever she’d gone, or had been taken, her bag was along for the ride.

“Okay, buddy, we believe you. We’ll be right back with that coffee,” the cops saying.

The door of the interrogation room closing.

Ker-bloooie.

“Just take me downstairs,” Jack pleaded. “Let me sit with the guy at the front desk, and you can do what you have to.”

That was his only chance. And from there, find a place with a lot of people. A crowded bar. Wait—it was close to three in the morning. Bars were closed. So were coffee shops and malls and post offices and food courts…. Oh Christ. This was Philadelphia in the middle of the night. A town where they reportedly rolled up the sidewalks after 6:00 P.M.

“Okay I can do that. Come on. Let’s get down there. That son of bitch took my cell—wait. Give me a sec to use the room phone, okay?”

Jack nodded, but then he realized what he was doing. The nightstand with the phone was on the other side of the room. Oh fuck. Was that more than ten feet away?

2:53  a.m.

For the past hour, nothing in Charles Lee Vincent’s world had made a goddamned bit of sense. From Tokyopop and backward comics to tough guys who liked to choke people to this guy now … following him across the room, sitting close to him. Extreme anxiety disorder? Yeah, extreme anxiety that your wife is going to find out you had a hot blond hooker up here in your room. Tough titty said the kitty. It wasn’t Charlie’s problem. This guy had the bad luck to be in the wrong room at the wrong time. That’s all.

Charlie told the front desk what he knew, rattled off a quick description, told them to seal the front doors until he got down there. He’d get the police over here now, and they’d go room to room if they had to.

Until they found the guy who liked to choke the air out of people. Charlie hoped he’d be with one of his ex- brothers on the force when they found this guy. They’d let him alone in a room with the fucker for a few minutes. Let him see what oxygen deprivation feels like. He also asked the details of the occupant