Do I look like a bank robber to you?
—WILLIE SUTTON
At 6:10, Katie’s flight from San Juan landed at Philadelphia International Airport. By 6:40, she was in a rented car, a black Buick Regal, her one piece of luggage stowed in the trunk. By 7:05, she was at Rittenhouse Square. By 7:08, she was knocking on the door of room 910 in the Rittenhouse Towers, a combination luxury hotel/condominium complex. At 7:10, the door opened.
“Katie?”
“Morning, Henry.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”
Katie pushed past him. The door led to a $1,275,000 three-bedroom apartment: ceiling-to-floor windows, revealing views of both rivers, parquet floors. Nice, but by no means the best apartment in the building. Henry Wilcoxson didn’t like to live too ostentatiously. He was a semiretired jugmarker, a man who plotted bank robberies for other teams in exchange for a percentage of the profits. Wilcoxson had worked with Lennon years ago, which was how Katie had met him. The man had taught them both a great deal; he was the closest thing either of them had to a mentor.
Wilcoxson had settled in Philadelphia, despite the fact that he had once escaped two different prisons here —Eastern State and Holmesburg—back in the 1950s under a different name. Now he owned a number of restaurants and coffee shops in the city and suburbs, and except for rare occasions, was out of the business. Wilcoxson liked to dabble, offer advice, but not much else.
“Coffee? I was just making a pot.”
“No you weren’t. There’s still sleep in your eyes. Have you heard anything?”
“No,” Wilcoxson said. “Nothing that wasn’t in the news. All signs of a successful conclusion. But I take it that Patrick didn’t make it to your predetermined meeting place.”
Katie didn’t seem to hear him. She put down her luggage, then paced, gray-faced, around the apartment, idly looking out the window at the two gleaming blue Liberty Place towers. “Can I use your bathroom?”
Wilcoxson smiled confusedly at first, then looked at Katie again and remembered. “Of course.”
He was strapped down by chains and thick elastic bungee-type bands, the kind you use to strap furniture to a roof. The ex-cop was careful to steer clear of Lennon’s shoulder and lower right arm, but managed to strap him down every other way.
He had no idea where in the city he was—if he was even in the city. Or who this guy really was, and what was next.
Lennon did know one thing: this fucker was not getting the money. If he was going to die, it would be with $650,000 to his name.
“You know, I was just standing here all worried about trying to find a gag for you,” said the ex-cop. “But that’s not really a worry now, is it?”
The garage was a two-car model. The stolen Chevy Cavalier sat in one slot; Lennon was strapped to the table in the other. This guy—if he even lived here—used the garage as storage for tools and random junk. An ergonomic shovel. A wet/dry vac. A bike frame. A rusted gas grill with tank. Shelves lined every available wall, and they were packed to the point of being swaybacked.
“We’ve got a ticking clock here. If you don’t see a doctor soon, you’re going to bleed to death. Believe me, I know. I’ve seen guys take a dozen slugs and live. But just one GSW, left untreated, will kill you. Even if the bullet passed all the way through—which I think it did, because there’s a nice hole in the backseat. Still, that shoulder of yours is going to be trouble in a couple of hours. And let me say, it doesn’t look all that great now. It’s starting to stink.”
His captor placed a Bic ballpoint pen in Lennon’s right hand and slid a legal pad beneath it.
“Just write down where I can find the money. I go check it out and make sure, then come back with a doctor.”
Lennon just stared at him.
“Now I’ve got to come clean with you—there’s no deal to be made. That was just some shit I said to get you to cooperate. Now you’ve got a stronger incentive: staying alive. You do want to stay alive, don’t you?”
Honestly, at this point, Lennon wasn’t exactly sure.
“Of course you do. And being alive in federal custody is a lot better than being buried in the middle of Pennypack Park.” The guy wrapped his meaty hand around Lennon’s writing hand and squeezed. “Do you know what ‘Pennypack’ means? ‘Deep dead water.’ I never knew that until recently, and I’ve lived up here my whole life.”
A pause.
Lennon started scribbling on the legal pad.
“There we go,” the guy said, leaning over to take a look.
He frowned.
“Oh. Fuck me, is that it? Okay, pal. Have it your way.” He disappeared, and Lennon heard a door slam.
Immediately Lennon knew he’d made a mistake. He should have swallowed his rage and scribbled down a plausible location—hell, point him to any parking lot downtown and give him a phony make, model, and license number. That would at least take him out of the picture for a while; from his guesstimates, it was about a thirty- minute drive between where he was now and downtown Philly.
Lennon thought about that name—Pennypack Park. That rang a bell. Lennon consulted the map of Philly he’d stored in his brain for the job. Nothing downtown. Nothing in South or West Philly, either; he’d scoped those areas for possible getaway routes. Maybe it was near suburbs.
Pennypack, Pennypack. The name bugged him. In for over six hundred thousand, out for a pennypack. But where did that fit into the map of Philly? The biggest park in the city was Fairmount, and Kelly Drive shot up right through the middle of that. The guy had driven too far to be near Center City still, unless he had doubled back to be clever.
Lennon heard the guy’s weight creaking on the floorboards above. Probably his kitchen, right above the garage. Water and gas pipes snaked around and up into the ceiling. He could hear his voice above, murmuring. Talking on the phone to somebody.
A short while later, Lennon found out who.
“
