nice, helped him fill up his tumbler with ice cubes—slippery little suckers were sliding all over the place. Then she located an elusive bottle of Johnnie Walker Black that was tucked away, deep in a cabinet, where the party’s hosts assumed the guests wouldn’t dare venture. The kid, a real boyish-looking guy with curly black hair and delicate features, wore a wrinkled seersucker suit, and kept his line of sight on Katie’s breasts, then hips, then eyes, thinking all the time that he was artfully stealing glances at the first two. His name was Will.
“What d’you do?” Will asked.
“You, later,” Katie whispered, pouring more Johnnie Walker into his glass.
“No, I meant for a liv—,” he started, then stopped himself. “Come again?”
Good God. This was going to take all night.
The plan: find some drunk blaggard, get him drunker, then usher him out, draped over their shoulders. The cops were looking for one or two male bandits, not a threesome.
The plan became trickier when Lennon overheard someone say, “Hey, chief. What’s with the lights outside?”
Fucking hell.
“Seems we have some escaped bank robbers in the building,” the chief said.
This was un-fucking-believable. About as un-fucking-believable as the rest of Lennon’s weekend. This shit did not happen to professionals—this was fodder for those
“Say what?”
“Yo—somebody get Will. We’ve got his next crime box, right here.”
“Yes,” the chief continued. “I got a call twenty minutes ago—one of our retired badges works the security detail downstairs. He thinks he spotted two of the guys who pulled that 211 at Wachovia yesterday.”
“That two-what?” someone asked.
This was really un-fucking-believable.
“Police code for bank robbery, Ben.”
“Yo, Will! Come on, man, get out here!”
Will.
Will was the drunk guy Katie was trying to sauce up. Their escape hatch. The compiler of a “crime box.”
“What did the robbers get away with yesterday, anyway?”
“The bank president told me himself that it was $650,000. Probably the biggest pinch around here in a while. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Shit. That’s almost as much as Feldman paid for this place.”
There were nervous titters of laughter.
“Fuck that—you know how much these Rittenhouse condos run? Don’t you keep up with
Lennon walked by Katie close enough to whisper one word.
Police.
Two cops did, however, want to check the identity of the man slumped between them. Yeah, him. The unconscious one.
“We found this
“What’s his name?”
“His name?” asked Katie. “Officer, I don’t even know his eye color—he’s out cold.”
Will was out cold because after Katie had lured him into the hallway, Lennon had punched him twice in the head.
“Okay, ma’am, relax.”
“Jesus—what happened to your face?” asked the other cop, who was staring at Lennon.
Lennon ignored him.
“Sarkissian—check the kid’s ID.”
One of the two uniforms reached around and fished a wallet out of Will’s back pocket. He flipped it open, rolled his eyes, and whistled. “Shit. You’re not going to believe this.”
“What, already?”
“This frat boy is Will Issenberg.”
“The crime box guy? The asshole who wrote about Murph—”
The first uniform—Sarkissian—turned back to Lennon and Katie. “Ma’am, we’re sorry for the inconvenience. We’ll take care of Mr. Issenberg from here. Just check in with Mr. Kotkiewicz at the front desk before you go, okay?”
Mr. Kotkiewicz at the front desk was a kindly-looking guy in his fifties. “I’m really sorry about all of this,” he said, sliding a piece of paper and a pen toward them. “I just need you to write your names and apartment number on this log sheet.”
“This really is turning into a terrorist state, isn’t it?” Katie asked.
“I’ll also need you both to put your hands flat on the counter and spread your legs.”
Mr. Kotkiewicz was leveling a pistol at them.
“What is this?” Katie asked. She was also reaching up under Lennon’s jacket to grab his Sig Sauer.
“Now!” Kotkiewicz shouted, stepping back. “Hands on the counter!”
The entire lobby—about a half-dozen cops, and a half-dozen citizens—jolted. Guns were drawn, safeties clicked off. A uniform ran up behind Katie, hand on his holster.
But he was too slow.
Katie reached back and shoved the Sig Sauer up under his chin. He didn’t look surprised, more resigned.
“We’re walking out of here,” Katie said. “You’re going to let us go, and then we’re going to let him go.” With the word “him,” she poked her hostage with the gun.
“No,” said Kotkiewicz. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“I think this man here would disagree with you.”
Lennon tried to process everything at once. The variables, the possible outcomes. Katie had done the right thing. If Lennon had reached for the gun, Kotkiewicz would have blasted first. But taking another cop hostage had taken things up a notch. Granted, it was a sound strategic move. That was Katie’s strength—planning—but in the abstract. Never in the moment. She’d never been along for any jobs. She’d never been tagged for a crime. Ever. They’d had two very different childhoods.
Five seconds, and already she was staring at only two possible outcomes: fugitive or prisoner.
His sister. Mother of his unborn nephew/niece.
Push that shite away, Lennon thought. There were piles of problems in the world, but they could only be dealt with one at a time. Solve this one
Getting out the door wasn’t the problem. The cops knew to stand down in a hostage situation—or at the very least, wait for a clean shot. Well, Lennon would be fucked if he was going to give them one. He walked behind Katie, reached around, and grabbed the hostage cop’s gun. The two men formed a Katie sandwich, one in front, one behind. They slowly moved toward the front doors.
Revolving.
Fuck.
Move to the side. Hit the handicapped exit doors.
“Don’t make a move, Patrick,” Kotkiewicz said.
