The Blonde

2:45 a.m.

Sheraton Elevators, Right Bank, North Side

Kowalski and Kelly held hands. He was still in the same outfit he’d worn all day: Dolce & Gabbana suit and dress shirt, Ferragamo shoes; she had slipped into a pair of Citizens of Humanity jeans, Pumas, and a white tank. It didn’t look like a date. It looked like the aftermath of a date. As if they’d met at Bar Noir, walked down the street for a hookup at the hotel, and now were headed back downstairs for the courtesy cab hail for her. Their eyes were puffy enough for that.

The doors closed. Kowalski tightened his grip on her hand. Specifically, her middle finger.

He’d taken her hand back in the room, even before he opened the cuffs, and warned her, “I can snap your middle finger in a such a hideously painful way, you’ll instantly lose consciousness. I’d prefer not to have to carry you out of here, but it’s easy enough to explain. My girlfriend here sure loves her apple martinis!”

Kowalski had pulled back her finger, just as his own mentor had taught him in the early days of his CI-6 training. It required two simple actions, carried out at the same time.

“Feel that?”

She’d turned to him, God love her, and asked, “Can you do the same thing with a nipple?”

Kowalski had applied more pressure to let her know he was serious. She’d grunted. Her jaw had snapped shut instantly. She’d teared up. Kelly had gotten the point. But inside, he’d smiled. She was good.

The car began to descend, then stopped one floor below. Six.

Great.

The doors opened, and a guy in black running shorts, ankle-cut socks, and T-shirt emblazoned with the words TWO-WAY SPLIT stepped into the car. He was startled to discover he had company. He was holding an ice bucket. He pressed the button for five.

“Machine’s broken on my floor.”

“See, hon? Philly’s not a dead town. Everybody’s up partying.”

Kelly said nothing. She looked at the guy in the shorts with those piercing eyes, as if passing along a telepathic message.

The guy, probably self-conscious about locking eyes with someone else’s woman, broke the transmission.

The doors closed.

“I need some ice for my Diet Coke. Packed my own, but it’s warm. Need to chill it for first thing tomorrow.”

“Diet Coke for breakfast?”

“Can’t take coffee. Too much caffeine. Makes me jittery.”

“Do what I do. Cut it with bourbon.”

Kowalski looked at Kelly and gave her the slightest squeeze on her hand.

“Right, hon?”

She was still staring at the Diet Coke guy.

The elevator car stopped at five. The doors opened. He nodded at both of them and stepped out of the car, ice bucket in hand. The car continued its descent. Kelly looked up at Kowalski.

“I don’t want to die.”

“I didn’t say anything about dying. If death had been on the menu, it would have already been ordered.”

The car reached the ground floor.

“You don’t understand.”

The doors opened. She leaned closer to him.

“I don’t want to die. But if I have to …”

Kowalski felt Kelly’s hand slip away from his. He snatched at her, but she’d already stepped back, grabbed the rail of the elevator car with both hands, and rabbit-kicked him. The blow knocked the wind out of him. He was airborne. Kowalski spun in midair, flinging his hands out behind himself to break his fall, at which he half-succeeded. The palm of his left hand caught the carpeted ground cleanly, but his right wrist twisted awkwardly. By the time he’d staggered to his feet, the pain in his wrist was sharp and real, the doors were already closing, and she was saying, “Tell the Operator I fucking won.”