“I’m not going to like this news, am I?” Katie asked. She was walking around Rittenhouse Square, sipping a paper cup of decaffeinated tea, trying hard not to lose her cool. It was getting harder and harder every day— emotions, body temperature, everything out of whack. She was tempted to call Michael, but that was weak. She just got here. She could figure this out by herself.
“No. The latest deal fell through.”
She knew the code, but didn’t understand what Henry was saying. The Wachovia bank had been robbed. It was in all of the local papers.
“According to the business section,” she said, “the deal went through.”
“Indeed. Initially. But it fell through during the financing, and someone else stepped in.”
“Someone on the inside?”
“No, an outside company.”
“Who?”
There was a pause. “I don’t know if I should reveal that kind of information, since it hasn’t been reported anywhere. In fact, not even the SEC has receiving filings yet.”
SEC = FBI.
“Fucking tell me,” Katie said.
“Look, let’s have lunch and talk about this in greater detail. There are other options for you. And your family.”
“Who the fuck was it, Henry?”
He sighed. “Your husband wouldn’t like me discussing his business with you like this, but all things considered, maybe it’s better you hear it from me. It was a foreign company, with increasing financial interests in this part of the state.”
“Do you mean the company based in Milan?”
“No. Uh … St. Petersburg.”
Katie was silent. Russians?
What were the Russians doing involved in this? Think, think. The hijacked funding was meant for urban renewal. Maybe the Russian mob had their hand on the building and trades folks, or were on tap to do the demolitions. Shit. Katie knew little about Philadelphia—just the physical layout and a few rudimentary historical facts, such as the fact that the Italian mob had been decimated in this town over the past twenty years. Katie had no idea the Russians were such a force. Think. What was their interest here? How did they find out about the heist?
And what did they do with Patrick?
“Do you have a PR contact for that company?”
“Oh Jesus,” Wilcoxson said. “Katie, no.”
Lennon had to rethink this. There was some other leak—not Katie.
Why, then, did she pop into his head the first moment he realized there’d been a double cross?
Her behavior over the past month. Weird. Katie was not a secretive girl—not to him, anyway. It wasn’t one huge thing, just a series of small, seemingly inconsequential things. Sudden errands to run. Phone calls that suddenly turned polite after he returned home. The “history” on their Internet browser routinely erased.
Stop it, Lennon. Think about who else could have sold you out. Not Bling. Bling was dead.
But you didn’t open the body bag, did you? You don’t even know both body bags went down the pipe. Where were Holden and Bling during the crash? The backseat. Where did the van hit? Pretty much Lennon’s driver’s side door. Did the crash knock Holden and Bling out? Or did Holden and Bling owe the Russian mob money, and decide to cash in their getaway driver to settle the debt?
No, not Bling. Bling was almost as ridiculous as Katie.
Unless it was Bling and Katie.
No.
Think about the bleeding first. How to stop the bleeding. How to get unstrapped from this table. How to get the hell out of this garage.
Then answers.
A door opened behind him. “I can’t believe it,” a voice said. “Pat, are you still awake?”
Lennon stared at the ceiling.
Someone slapped him in the face. “Hey, come on. Don’t be rude. I’ve brought along a friend. Patrick Selway Lennon, bank robber and fugitive, meet the man who’s going to get a few answers out of you.”
The other guy walked around the table, eyeing Lennon up and down. He was a big guy. Not fat or especially strong-looking, just big and wide and tall. He had a thick black moustache tucked under his nose, a sleepy-eyed expression on his face, and a Borsalino hat on his head. The man looked tired, mean, and permanently rumpled.
“Say hi, Pat,” the ex-cop said. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot. Sorry.”
The big guy turned away and started looking around the garage. “You got a drop cloth or something?”
“Hmmm. I don’t know. Wait—I painted the back bedroom a few months ago, and the set came with a plastic drop cloth. Never use ’em, because they’re for shit. Will that do?”
“Yeah. Unfold it and put it over here, to his right, on the floor and over anything you don’t want splattered.”
His captor found the plastic drop cloth and unwrapped it. His big pal unholstered a Sig Sauer pistol from under his right arm and yanked back, popping one into the chamber. His captor dropped out of Lennon’s sight. There was the sound of crinkling plastic.
“Hey, Saugherty.”
The captor’s head popped up. “Huh?”
The big guy aimed and shot Saugherty in the chest. The man’s fingers tensed on the table, scraping at the surface, and then his head flopped forward, as if on a hinge that suddenly decided to unfold the wrong way. Then a gurgle, fingers slipping from the table, then a thud on the floor.
Lennon looked up at the big guy.
The big guy stared back at him. “What, you waiting for an explanation ?”
Lennon stared at him.
“Well, this is gonna be an extremely disappointing day for you.”
The big guy disappeared and walked up the steps. The floorboards above creaked. He started making a phone call.
“
The ex-cop, Saugherty, was still among the living.
“Christ, does this hurt. Least he had the courtesy to have me put down some plastic. That way, my shit won’t get messed up.” He started to chuckle, then groaned. “Ah, don’t make me laugh.”
Lennon listened. Waited.
“You still with me up there? I know you can’t talk or nothing, but how about a little cough? Maybe a grunt? A whistle? You don’t need vocal cords to whistle. Or do you?”
After some consideration, Lennon coughed.
“At long last. Real conversation. I feel like Helen Keller’s teacher.”
Lennon coughed again.
