The Givenchy Code (23 page)

“T
hat son of a bitch,” Stryker said slowly, knowing he should be furious, but somehow only able to feel relief.

“Stryker?” Mel had pulled her arm away, and now she was studying him from the other side of the cab. “Are you okay?”

“He was tracking us, all right,” he said. He picked the chip up carefully, then laughed. “This is a GPS device. Tiny little thing, isn’t it?”

Mel looked wary, but nodded. “And this is amusing because—”

“Because we found it before he found us.”

“That’s true,” she said. Her forehead creased. “Um, shouldn’t we get rid of it, though? I mean, is it still transmitting?”

“I sure as hell hope so,” he said. “And I know just what to do with it.”

He leaned forward to give the driver a new address, then settled back in the cab. “Time to send our friend Lynx on a bit of a goose chase.”

Beside him, Mel smiled, clearly enjoying the joke as much as he did.

“It’s too bad we didn’t find it earlier, though. Now Lynx has the clue,” he said.

“Maybe. But it only matters if he solves it.”

“And you don’t think he will.”

“Not fast enough anyway.”

“Have you solved it?” he asked.

“Almost,” she said.

“Then don’t let me keep you from finishing,” he said. “We may have just won a battle, but I still have a feeling we’re running out of time.”

>http://www.playsurvivewin.com<<<

PLAY.SURVIVE.WIN

WELCOME TO REPORTING CENTER

PLAYER REPORT:

REPORT NO. A-0004

Filed By: Lynx

Subject: Game progression.

Report:

• Target tracked to Fifth Avenue area. Unable to fix location.
  
• Target departed without incident.
  
• Clue located, but uninterpretable.
  
• Tracking device too sporadic to be truly effective. A disadvantage, but not an insurmountable one.
  
• Assistance necessary; possible source of aid located. Persuasive tactics will be applied.
  

>End Report<<<

Send Report to Opponent?>>Yes<< >>
No
<<

The apartment lacked a quality. Walls that smelled of mildew. Laundry on the floor. Absolutely no window coverings. And the subtle stink of dishes left too long in the sink.

A lack of self-respect, Lynx thought. That’s what it came down to. Warren Voight lacked class. He had brains, maybe. That remained to be seen. But class? Self-respect?

No.

Good.
A man who lived like this—who didn’t respect his apartment, his belongings or his surroundings—well, a man like that was easy to control.

All Lynx had to do was wait.

He dusted the couch with his hand, scattering a flurry of cracker crumbs. This wouldn’t do. He picked his way to the linen closet, found one clean towel, then went back and draped it over the couch. He sat on it, settling in to wait.

He was prepared to wait all night, on that couch, facing the door. He had no choice, after all. No other options.

He’d tracked his quarry to the cathedral, but the sporadic nature of the GPS meant he’d gotten there just a bit too late. No matter. He’d used his own skills and followed the path cut by Stryker and the bitch. Right down the avenue to Tiffany’s.

Yes, he’d simply done what he did best. Played the game. Played the charming friend. Pulled the information slowly and completely from that old hag at the church and the ripe little bitch at Tiffany’s.

So easy.

The clue itself, however…

He opened the paper on which he’d written his notes, spreading it open on his knees. Secret roi urn? Rebecca? The series of numbers?

The references meant nothing to him, and as soon as he was back on Fifth Avenue he’d known that he had only one option. He was going to have to wait until the GPS system went back online. Unfortunate, and he might lose precious hours, but he had no choice. He’d mark her location, move in, and make the kill. He’d come too close too often not to succeed this time. In his heart, he’d already won this game. All he had to do was make it so in reality.

Fate, however, was not cooperating.

The system had come online. He’d pinpointed the location, rushed to the site, checking his laptop from the back of the taxi as he’d moved through the city. His quarry had never moved.

He wasn’t familiar with the location. A hotel? A restaurant?

Neither.

The software hadn’t shown a pinpoint location, of course. That would have made the game too easy. But he’d known the vicinity, and he’d scoured the entire block.

Nothing.

And yet the computer had insisted they’d been there.

He’d almost missed it, actually. A note. Taped to a signpost.

Lynx.

Too late.

And now you’re hunting blind.

And there, taped underneath the bold, black text, a tiny gray microchip. The GPS device.

He hadn’t reacted. Hadn’t caused a scene. He’d simply hailed a cab, gotten in, and let the taxi drive him through Central Park. He’d found the trees soothing. He’d needed to be soothed.

In the park, he’d found a solitary table near the boat house and called NYU. His story had been simple: He was checking references for a job. He’d spoken to one of Melanie’s past professors, who’d referred him to a paper she’d written, which referenced another paper she’d written with Warren Voight.

And all accomplished in less than two hours.

He hadn’t needed to panic. He’d been right not to lose his temper. He was back in the game. All he needed was someone to help him. And now he was here in her colleague’s apartment, waiting for help to arrive.

Warren would help.

Of that Lynx was sure.

Secret roi urn [Resurrection?]

For Rebecca:

Peter Trent holds the keys and is witness to your trials and salvation.

“Good job,” Stryker said, taking the paper I handed to him. “But I don’t think you’re through. You may have deciphered a code, but you haven’t solved the clue. At least not that I can tell.”

“Details, details, details.” I couldn’t help the light note in my voice. We’d lost Lynx (I thought) and we’d almost solved all the clues (I hoped). Sure, I still had to work out those pesky details—who
was
Peter Trent, anyway?—but we’d come this far. We’d manage, right?

“Okay,” I said, giving in to a sudden fear that maybe Lynx had figured out as much as I had. “Let’s get busy. What the hell does this mean?”

We’d checked into a no-tell hotel on the Lower East Side. The kind with rooms advertised for“gentlemen” that have weekly, as well as hourly, rates. The place smelled funny, and there was no way I was sleeping on that mattress. But it did have a phone book, and Stryker was flipping through it.

“Three Peter Trents,” he said. “And one P. Trent.”

“So we just call them? What do we say?”

“You’re the expert.” He passed me his cell phone. “Have at it.”

Reluctantly, I took the phone. This didn’t feel right, but I wasn’t about to accidentally overlook the resolution of the entire puzzle simply because I’d had a feeling. While the first number rang, I nodded toward his laptop. “Do me a favor. Do a search for
resurrection
and
New York.
Let me know if anything interesting pops up.”

He fired a little salute in my direction and started typing.

I started spewing a line of bullshit to the guy who answered the phone. Did he know a Melanie Prescott? Did PSW mean anything to him?
Nada.

I tried another tack. “Secret roi urn,” I said, then closed my eyes and prayed he responded with something equally absurd, like a commentary on the rain in Spain.

Instead, he hung up on me.

No problem. I can handle rejection.

I dialed the next three numbers. Pretty much the same response, except for the guy who made a rude sexual suggestion about what he’d like to do with me in an urn.

I assumed that wasn’t a coded response and moved on.

“Nothing,” I said, reporting to Stryker. “Please tell me you’ve found something so I don’t have to start calling Peter Trents in Brooklyn and Queens.”

“Actually, I think I did.”

“Really?”

“Hold on. I just pulled the page up.” He typed some more, then lifted his hands in triumph before hooking his fingers behind his head. “Damn, I’m good.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Did you run the search
I
asked for?”

“Hell, yeah. But it’s all in the fingers.” He let his chair fall forward as he waggled his fingers at me.

“You do have marvelous fingers,” I said, my voice husky.

He laughed and pulled me into his lap so that I could see the computer screen, too. As I skimmed the page, I felt a little giddy, and it wasn’t just from the feel of Stryker’s arms around me. No wonder he was in such a good mood.

This was it.

This was the answer.

“T
here!” I shouted, twisting back and pointing as Stryker missed the turn.

He slammed on the brakes, and the tiny Ford Aspire screeched to a halt. He kicked it in reverse, and I held my breath as we shot backwards to Highland.

He spun the wheel, we turned, and I started breathing again.

“You could have gotten us killed!” I said, but mostly just for show. Under the circumstances, I was getting used to almost being killed. A little reckless driving wasn’t going to rock my world.

“So how far is the cemetery?” he asked.

I consulted the map but couldn’t tell much of anything. Maps aren’t my thing. All I knew was that we were on the south shore of Staten Island cruising on Highland, and we should be getting close. “Almost there,” I said, sounding much more confident than I really felt.

We’d called Resurrection Cemetery from the city and spoken to a woman in the main office, who’d looked at the registry and confirmed that, yes, a Peter Trent was buried there. We weren’t at all sure what we’d find at his grave. (I’ll confess to being a tad creeped out. I mean, I certainly wasn’t planning to dig the poor guy up.)

As soon as she’d confirmed our suspicions, we’d rented a car from Apple Rent-A-Car, and after a bit of a schlep, we were almost there.

Just when I was about to consult the map again, I saw the gates. I pointed, Stryker turned, and we were in.

“Where to now?”

I saw a sign pointing out the direction of the main office. “That way. Toward the older section.”

“Right.”

We pulled up in front of the little office moments later, and I ran in while Stryker left the car running. The woman I’d spoken to had a plot map ready for me, and she’d helpfully circled Peter Trent’s grave.

Unfortunately, all her help was wasted on me. After twenty minutes of driving in circles (and passing the caretaker twice, the second time earning us a wave and a smirk), Stryker finally pulled over and snatched the plot map from my utterly incompetent fingers. “I warned you,” I said.

He grunted, consulted the map, and managed to get us to the right place in less than five minutes. “I thought men were supposed to be the directionally challenged sex,” he said.

I shrugged. “So I’m a trendsetter.”

The cemetery was relatively new, not the spooky place I’d pictured at all. From where we were standing, I could hear boats passing and could see a bit of water beyond the hills and landscaping. The place was peaceful, soothing. The complete opposite of the way my life had been going the past couple of days.

The plots were neatly mowed, flowers abounded, and the landscaping was lush. A mix of flat grave markers and old-fashioned tombstones kept the place looking like a cemetery, but otherwise I was reminded of a nice park. If I hadn’t been afraid of bad karma, I would have said that I’d like to be buried someplace like this. As it was, I kept my mouth shut.

Peter Trent’s grave was marked with one of the tombstones, and we both walked solemnly to the marker.

PETER TRENT

LOVING HUSBAND AND FATHER

Born August 19, 1922

Died January 11, 1980

May He Rest In Peace

I looked at Stryker, and he shrugged, obviously having no more sense of why we were there than I did.

I turned in a circle, my arms out to the side, helpless.

“The message said he holds the keys,” Stryker said.

“If that means we dig him up and pry a key ring out of his cold, dead hand, then I give up right now.
Not
happening.”

For a second, I actually thought Stryker was going to argue, but he took a good look at my face and nodded. “Right. No grave robbing.”

“Thank you.” I pointed to the gravestone. “Under it, maybe?”

Stryker looked around, then up toward the sky.

“Under,” I said.

“I’m looking for security cameras.”

“Oh.”

Apparently he didn’t see any, because he eased against the headstone and started to rock it. At first it didn’t move, but after a little work—and a little additional help from the Ford Aspire’s handy tire iron—he managed to get it loose. He gently laid it flat on the grass while I looked around, hopping nervously, sure we were going to be arrested at any minute.

But there was no scream of sirens filling the skies and no cemetery attendants pointing accusing fingers our way. I still felt guilty, and I moved quickly to Stryker’s side, wanting to find the clue and get the stone back in place as fast as possible.

Except there was no clue. Just black earth roughly the shape of a triangle. I bent down and clawed frantically at the dirt, certain I’d find a metal box, a key, something just under the surface. Nothing. Just a few grubs and spiders. Ick.

“It has to be here,” I said, my fingers digging deeper into the dirt.

Stryker got down on his knees and joined me, both of us digging into the soft earth. We’d dug quite a hole before he sat back on his heels and pressed a gentle hand to my shoulder. “Give it up, Mel. Come on. Help me get the stone back in place.”

My head screamed
no!
The clue had to be there. If it wasn’t, we were screwed. But the rest of me ignored the protest. Instead, I nodded numbly, then climbed to my feet, holding the stone steady as Stryker seated it once again firmly in the dirt. In the end, it didn’t look too bad. (Okay, Peter Trent’s family wasn’t going to be happy, but I figured the caretaker could clean it up. And it wasn’t like we’d opened the grave.) My stomach clenched. Dear Lord, please don’t let Stryker say we have to open the grave…

“What was the clue?—‘Holds the keys…’”

“‘…and is witness to your trials and salvation,’” I finished.

“Not exactly crystal clear, is it?”

As I shook my head, Stryker pulled out his phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“I’m not.” He moved in front of the stone, held the phone at arm’s length, and pushed a button. “Camera phone. We might need this later.”

I made a face. “I was kind of hoping this was the last clue.”

“Ditto.”

“Okay, so the key part has us stumped,” I said. “What about the witness part?”

“Something Trent saw before he died?”

“Great,” I said. “We’ll just have a little séance.”

“Just a shot in the dark,” Stryker said.

I moved over to the gravestone and stood right in front of it, careful not to lean on it in case Stryker hadn’t completely stabilized it. “Come on, Peter. Tell us what you know…”

Peter stayed silent.

“Witness,” I said. “Witness. Something he sees. What does a dead man see?”

“The sky?” Stryker said, his words finally kicking my brain into gear. “The trees? Passing airplanes?” He glanced at my face and shrugged. “Sorry. Best I can do.”

“No, no,” I said, rushing to kiss his cheek. “I think you’re right on target.”

I grabbed his hand and tugged him with me across the little path to the grave site directly opposite Peter Trent’s. “He’d also see his neighbors.”

We both looked down, silently reading the marker on this grave:

Thomas Reardon