this morning, when Wilcoxson had called for him. That was the way it was going to be from now on. Instant respect. Especially with that $650 large all to himself. Maybe he’d buy Wilcoxson’s apartment with some of the money. The old guy sure wasn’t going to be needing it anymore.
Holden took the elevator up. He keyed into Wilcoxson’s apartment and called out. “Yo, Derr.”
Nothing.
He walked into the bedroom and saw his cousin on the floor, dead. The girl was still handcuffed to the pole, but it looked like she was dead, too. Water was all over the floor, like someone had dumped a wash bucket. What the fuck?
Holden kneeled over Derek and felt his neck for a pulse. Not that he’d really know what to check for, but his skin was cold anyway, so there wasn’t any need to get scientific about it. Derek’s neck felt funny—aside from being cold.
Holden turned back around, and just in time.
The bitch was yelling and throwing a knee at his face.
He was proud of what he did. But he wanted better for his daughter. Same old parenting story.
Kotkiewicz was here late on a Saturday night, which was unusual. But this had been an unusual day at the Rittenhouse. A cast of unusual characters had been floating around all day. First, a pretty young redhead, around 7 A.M. She went up to room 910, which belonged to Mr. Henry Wilcoxson, a Center City financial consultant. (At least, that’s what it said in the Rittenhouse security files.) Not unusual in itself. But the redhead left twenty minutes later. Later that morning, a beefy man who looked Slavic—Bosnian, Russian, maybe—also went up to room 910. An hour later, the redhead returned and took the elevator straight up to room 910. Barely twenty minutes later, a guy who looked like that white rapper—Eminem—entered the lobby, along with a doughier white guy. Their destination? Yep, 910. Forty minutes later, Mr. Wilcoxson, the Slavic gentleman, and Eminem left the building together. The doughy guy and the redhead were still upstairs.
It was an odd assortment of people and behaviors, and odd collections made Kotkiewicz nervous. He was familiar with the daily patterns of Rittenhouse residents, as well as their guests, but this was something he’d never seen before.
He made a phone call or two, and had a few things faxed over to him. Following a hunch. Like always.
So Kotkiewicz decided to stick around. Judy wasn’t thrilled; she was looking forward to Johnny bringing home some takeout from Kum-Lin’s and she had rented a movie,
As the evening wore on, Kotkiewicz thought maybe he’d been foolish.
And then another stranger entered the lobby and made a beeline for room 910. Mr. Wilcoxson’s pad again. He was obviously joining the redhead and the doughy boy. But for what?
Five minutes later, the new stranger—a brown-haired, blue-eyed guy with the nastiest set of facial bruises he’d ever seen—stepped off the elevator and walked out of the lobby.
Barely a minute passed. And then:
Eminem walked into the lobby again. Kotkiewicz was prepared. Eminem nodded at him, then Kotkiewicz threw a last look at the I.O. sitting on his desk. He’d been studying it all afternoon, trying to rely on his memory. But this last glance clinched it.
Then he flipped to another I.O. Richards was one of three guys.
Hot damn. The other stranger. Mr. Purple Bruises.
Kotkiewicz picked up the phone. When he looked up, Bruises was walking back into the lobby.
“
“Well, you know, I’m not. Not really.”
Nothing.
“I’m all bidness tonight. You know what I’m saying?”
Nothing.
“Alright, play it hard. I can play it hard, too.” The white guy—the other white guy from this morning, this was—stood up. “Be right back.”
Katie watched him walk out of the bedroom. She looked around the room one last time—was there something she had missed? Something that would get her out of these handcuffs? No, of course there wouldn’t be. She’d been looking all afternoon, all evening, all night. The digital clock on Henry’s dresser was out of view. She could see the imitation wood-grain top, but not the numbers. She had no idea what time it was. And she had no idea how she was going to get out of this one.
Her entire body ached; her shoulder muscles were starting to spasm. She had lost control of her bladder more times than she cared to remember.
The white guy walked back into the bedroom. He was holding a kitchen knife.
Wonderful.
What would Michael say, if he could see her now?
“I know you’re knocked up and all. Wilcoxson told me all about it. And I was there when he told your old man. Boy, did he look surprised.”
Katie didn’t look at him, but her mind was reeling. If this little idiot was telling the truth, it was a cruel disappointment. The news was supposed to have been delivered in the warm breeze, with cold flutes of champagne in hand. Not here in Philadelphia. Not by Henry.
Why did Henry tell Patrick about the baby? Jesus, was he trying to make the Russian feel
She could only imagine what Patrick must be thinking.
“You want me to do you a favor?” the white boy asked, kneeling closer to her, holding the tip of the knife up to her nose. “How about I give you an abortion, solve all your problems?”
Katie looked at the knife handle. It was a Tenmijuraku, one of those high-end Japanese kitchen knives made with a single piece of surgical stainless steel. Henry enjoyed cooking, and insisted on owning the best kitchen tools. The white boy wielding the knife, however, probably didn’t appreciate the difference. Tenmijuraku, Ginsu, whatever. As long as it could slice a tin can in half. Or a woman, handcuffed to a pole in a luxury apartment.
This white boy comes anywhere near my legs with that thing, Katie thought, I’m going to pummel him with my knees. Or try to.
Unfortunately, that’s exactly what seemed to be on the white boy’s mind.
