The Blonde

11:25 p.m.

Long-Term Parking, Section D, Aisle 22

The guy lived way out in the Northeast. In Somerton, which was near the edge of the county line. Beyond that, Bucks County, the affluent suburbs populated by Philadelphians, and by New Yorkers who really wanted to get away from the city without having to live in New Jersey. Kowalski couldn’t blame them. Much as he disliked Philadelphia, he simply loathed Jersey. Everything was industrial, suburban, or a faded shore town. What was the point of that?

After watching the dumbstruck expression on his subject’s face for a few minutes—What the hell happened? Was I really dumped curbside?—Kowalski had followed him to a shuttle bus waiting area. Strange. The man had seemed to be ready to jump in a cab with Kelly White. Where was he headed now? Kowalski trailed him onto a shuttle bus and knew the answer: long-term parking. Guy had a car here after all. It was a new Subaru Tribeca—dusky gray exterior, black leather interior, with a built-in booster car seat meant for a child about sixty to ninety pounds. Magazines littered the floor of the backseat. Kowalski saw a Mens Health, an Economist. Kowalski knew this because he’d slipped inside of it when the man was distracted by a small rock he’d winged at the hood. Enough to chip paint, and cause the man to fuss over it for a minute or two, curse. But not enough to notice his new passenger.

Sure, he could have stolen a long-term car, followed the man wherever he was going. But Kowalski always tried to keep things are simple as possible, with as few tools as possible. Steal a car, you have to dispose of a car. There’s a trail. Forensic evidence. And, of course, the subject to worry about. Why bother? Hiding in the back, Kowalski was able to sink himself into a slightly lower level of consciousness to recharge his batteries. He’d found that fifteen to twenty minutes of downtime left him feeling more refreshed than eight hours in a warm bed. Which was good. He had a feeling this was going to be a long night.

The subject pulled the Tribeca into a two-car garage at the top of a steep hill. The guy stepped out, stretched, glanced at the hood, cursed, grabbed his overnight bag from the passenger seat, and walked through the door that connected to the house. He was immediately greeted by a dog—a golden retriever. Kowalski waited until the lights went out. He used a box cutter he found to jimmy open the connecting door; the set of house keys, predictably, was hooked on a plastic holder affixed by a magnet to the side of a refrigerator. No sign of the dog, which meant he must be upstairs asleep with his master. Still, he didn’t linger. He slipped back to the garage, turned the ignition key enough for the electrical systems to pop on. The Tribeca came with a built-in GPS navigation unit. That’s how he learned where he was in Philadelphia. Somerton. Edison Avenue, to be precise. The Philadelphia International Airport lay just beyond the southwestern extreme of the city; this was in the northeastern extreme. The subject couldn’t live any farther from the airport and still be within the city limits if he tried. Kowalski turned the car off and waited.

He was very much looking forward to finishing his work, both business and personal, and leaving this city.

Kowalski decided when this was over he’d rent a house near Houston, close to the Gulf. He’d make sure it had a back porch. And an electrical outlet for a blender. Pick up a charcoal grill, then fish and vegetables for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Blend fruit smoothies, catch up on his reading. Get some sun. Enjoy some clean living to get the toxins of the past few months out of his blood. The rage especially. Then figure out the next step.

That next step might be wandering down to the Gulf and eating a bullet. But at least he’d make that decision with a clear mind.

Kowalski sat and tumbled recent events around in his head and felt the rage spike in his blood. He was almost grateful when someone in the house—a woman—started screaming.