The Blonde

2:52 a.m.

Sheraton, Room 702

Jack was amazed at how easily the lies slipped out of his mouth. He knew Mr. Charles Lee Vincent—that was the guard’s name; another mystery solved—wouldn’t believe the crap about the Mary Kates and nanomachines and Ireland and San Diego. Jack still hardly believed it, and he’d almost had his brain explode inside his skull.

So he needed to tell Mr. Charles Lee Vincent something he’d believe. Something that would keep him around.

“Listen, I have an extreme anxiety disorder. You saw an example of it a few minutes ago.”

Ah, you silver-tongued devil, you. Pile it on thicker.

“My psychotherapist told me that being alone for more than a few seconds could lead to stroke.”

Charles Lee Vincent’s brow furrowed. “Okay, sir. I hear you.”

“You have to understand. You can’t leave me alone. Not for a second.”

“I understand. But you need to understand that I have a job to do. And that includes calling the police, so we can catch the guy who did this.”

The police. A few hours ago, Jack would have thrown his arms around the idea, French-kissed it. But now he followed it through to its natural conclusion. Jack in an interrogation room. Jack being offered a cup of station house coffee. Jack saying, “Officer, I’d like to report a murder.” Officer saying, “Whose?” Jack saying, “My own.” Jack watching the detective leave the room, close the door. Jack counting ten seconds before his brain exploded like a pinata.

And even if he were able to keep detectives in the interrogation room with him, what could he say to them? He had no proof that Kelly White existed. Wherever she’d gone, or had been taken, her bag was along for the ride.

“Okay, buddy, we believe you. We’ll be right back with that coffee,” the cops saying.

The door of the interrogation room closing.

Ker-bloooie.

“Just take me downstairs,” Jack pleaded. “Let me sit with the guy at the front desk, and you can do what you have to.”

That was his only chance. And from there, find a place with a lot of people. A crowded bar. Wait—it was close to three in the morning. Bars were closed. So were coffee shops and malls and post offices and food courts…. Oh Christ. This was Philadelphia in the middle of the night. A town where they reportedly rolled up the sidewalks after 6:00 P.M.

“Okay I can do that. Come on. Let’s get down there. That son of bitch took my cell—wait. Give me a sec to use the room phone, okay?”

Jack nodded, but then he realized what he was doing. The nightstand with the phone was on the other side of the room. Oh fuck. Was that more than ten feet away?