I. O. You - The Wheelman

BEFORE JOHNNY KOTKIEWICZ TOOK A JOB AS HEAD OF security for the Rittenhouse Towers, he worked as a Philly cop, and eventually ended up in the Robbery/Homicide Division. He put in his twenty, then retired to the private sector. The Rittenhouse made him a nice offer; he accepted it. The money came in handy for his daughter, who was attending Villanova Law School. Maybe someday she would work for one of those hightoned Center City firms—Schnaeder Harrison, Soliss-Cohen—and afford to buy into this condominium, instead of working the entrance like her old man.

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, Road to Perdition. This was the same old story, too; Kotkiewicz torn between the work, and the wife.

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. Bingo. Holden Richards. Suspect in the Wachovia bank heist the day before.

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.