The Blonde

constructed frames of two tall buildings were bathed in light. The air was heating up considerably. The humidity coaxed beads of sweat on Jack’s forehead.

What would he say to her?

He’d figure it out. The important thing was to move closer to her. Not freak her out, but get closer. A polite distance—little less than ten feet. The length of an SUV.

She saw him out of the corner of her eye and started moving farther away.

Jack didn’t want to die here on this humid El platform.

Angela moved even farther away now.

What could he say to her?

Zero  a.m.

Pennsylvania Hospital

Movement now, in the real world. Doctors trying to hook her to machines, trying to figure out why she wasn’t responding. Sterile needles plunged into her flesh. Maybe they’d hook her up to a smart machine. A machine that would see the Mary Kates in her blood. Probably not, though.

Then her eyes, forced open by fingers. Cold fingers, rough skin. The brightness was an assault, but when her vision cleared, she saw his face.

The Operator, looming over her.

“Oh. You dyed your hair.”

The last natural blondes will die out within 200 years, scientists believe. A study by experts in Germany suggests people with blonde hair are an endangered species and will become extinct by 2202.

        — BBCNEWS.COM

5:05  a.m.

The Hot Spot

Kowalski sat in the mutual-masturbation club, waiting for Jack Eisley’s wallet, and he thought about a Raymond Chandler line he’d read last December: “You know how it is with marriage. Any marriage. After a while, a guy like me, a common no-good guy like me, he wants to feel a leg. Some other leg. Maybe it’s lousy, but that’s the way it is.”

At the time, he’d been holed up with Katie, his dead fiancee, in a bed-and-breakfast in Stockton, New Jersey, about ninety minutes south of New York City. It was a favorite of hers, but it was the first time they’d been there. It was the first time they’d slept in the same room, in fact, since they’d met in Houston a month earlier. Her brother was there to pull a payroll heist, some sports nutrition company fresh off a fund-raiser, and she was sitting in a place called the Saltgrass, sipping a Chivas Regal on ice. A beautiful lady drinking scotch in a Houston bar. And Kowalski had thought he’d seen it all.

Her brother, Patrick, was weird about her dating people, so they’d started seeing each other on the sly. Their weekend in Stockton was their first real date: time alone to pick each other’s brains a bit, and drink Chivas and strip out of their clothes on the pretext of body massages.

So Kowalski had been sitting back, thumbing through a copy of The Lady in the Lake that Katie’d packed, and he read that line aloud, and she said, “You feel some other leg, expect to draw back a bloody stump. And then you’ll be next.”

Kowalski completely agreed. From then on, it was understood that they were going to be together for the long haul.

This club? It was all about the other leg.

But hey, who was he to judge? He’d never ended up getting married. Never had the chance; never even assumed he was the kind of guy who would marry.

But he hated the thought that he would end up in a place like this, doing the five-finger knuckle-shuffle in front of some inner-city burnout whose daddy didn’t hug her enough.

“Here you go.”

Kowalski took the slender black wallet, flipped it open with one hand. Not much in here. Illinois driver’s license, a gasoline credit card, a Capital One Visa card. There was a single photo in the laminate insert: a pretty blond-haired girl, maybe four or five. Kowalski had never been good about guessing children’s ages. He slid it out of the insert. Stamped on the back: Paul Photography. Written in pen: “Callie.”

They’d never gotten as far as baby names. It was too soon. She was barely two months along when she died. But Callie. That was a beautiful name. That might have made it to the short list.

If Katie hadn’t been killed, they’d probably be working on the short list right about now.

Okay, Mr. K, Mr. South Philly Slayer. Enough of that.

Shut that shit down.

Find this Jack guy, make him spill, then prepare your next move. His handler was going to force his hand sooner or later, and it was always better to be prepared.

“When did he leave?”

“Brett threw his ass out of here—when, Gary?”

“About twenty minutes ago. I’m telling you, you just missed him.”

“Guy was an asshole. You should have seen the girl he got paired with. She looked like she couldn’t wait to get rid of him.”

Kowalski couldn’t keep one close-cropped skull distinct from the next. Like it mattered, right?

Jack came here in a cab, left by himself. Let’s assume he needs to stay near other people. Leaving with somebody doesn’t seem likely; he was unceremoniously escorted from the premises. Couple of possibilities: caught another cab, hot-wired a car, carjacked somebody. Wait. Scratch those last two. Jack isn’t up for any hard stuff. Anything else?

“Any public transportation nearby?” Kowalski asked.

“Frankford El’s two blocks down the street.”

“In fact,” somebody else said—Gary? Gerry? Who the fuck knew?—“the first train of the morning is at the Spring Garden station right now.”

Half of the room turned to look at him.

“Oh, fuck you guys. My brother-in-law’s a SEPTA cop. He’s always bitching about his hours. That’s how I know.”

Kowalski processed it. Cab or El. Only one easy way to find out. Scanned the crowd. Yeah, at least one of those neighborhood knuckle-busters had to own a hog.

“Okay, boys,” he said, puffing out his chest and flipping open his Homeland Security badge with his right hand. The movement hurt; his wrist was getting worse. “How would one of you like to do the U.S. government a favor and make five grand in the process?”