The Manolo Matrix (14 page)

Devlin knew he should reach out to her, tell her it was going to be okay. But that wasn’t a connection he wanted to make. He was willing tomake it okay. To make sure she was safe and secure and getting on with her life.

But to discuss it? To get all warm and fuzzy about it and hold her in his arms and let her cry on his shoulder?

No.

He couldn’t go there.

Instead, he could only go as far as the hotel.

She fidgeted a bit, then dug in her purse and pulled out her cell phone. As Devlin listened, she made a call, then asked for status on Andrew Garrison. After a pause, she frowned, then hung up the phone and looked at him.

Instantly, he was on alert. “Trouble?”

“I don’t know. They said he’d been discharged. I thought he was supposed to stay overnight.”

“They can’t hold him if he wants to leave,” Devlin said. “And under the circumstances, he probably wanted to get out of there. I bet he’s on the way to Washington. You said he works out of Mel’s house sometimes, right?”

She nodded, her thumb stroking the phone. “I want to call him, you know? Call and make sure he’s okay. And say I’m sorry. But…”

She trailed off, and he nodded in understanding. “But you can’t risk contacting him again. I know.” He put a hand on her leg and met her eyes. “I’m sure he understands, too.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

A tiny smile flashed, then was gone. “For being home. For letting me in.”

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“No problem,” he said, only slightly surprised to realize he meant it.

They rode in silence for about a block, then he said, “We should—”

“I know. The clue. Let’s see if we can’t figure it out.”

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They batted a few ideas around, but nothing much stuck. Then Jenn looked up at him again, her eyes sparkling. “The clue’s about Broadway musicals, right? And we’ve both performed in musicals. And the clues are supposed to be kind of personal. Geared toward the target and all.”

“Right…”

“Well, since this first clue is supposed to be a little bit easier than the ones that come later, maybe we should be thinking about shows that you’ve actually been in. You’d know those the best, wouldn’t you?

So that would make the clues the easiest.”

He nodded. “Not bad,” he said. “Okay, let me think.” He started to list all the productions he’d been in, counting them out on his fingers as she stared at him, obviously in awe. So in awe, in fact, that he had to work to hide his grin.“…West Side Story, Falsettos, Into the Woods, Man of La Mancha, Cabaret—”

“Hang on,” she said.“Man of La Mancha?”

“Summer stock,” he explained.

“There’s a song, remember? ‘Knight of the Woeful Countenance.’ ”

“Right,” he said. “AndMan of La Mancha is based—”

“OnDon Quixote, ” she said, triumphantly. “Which is a really old book. And doesn’t the Library Bar have a bunch of old books?”

“They probably prefer to think of them as rare books. Old just sounds like something in your grandmother’s closet.”

“Your grandmother, maybe,” she said. “My grandma keeps her closet filled with boxes of Estée Lauder.

A lifetime of free gifts with purchase.”

“At any rate, that’s got to be it.” He gave her a huge grin. “We’re good.”

“Good? Screw that. We’re awesome.”

They reveled in the high of being awesome for about three more minutes, and then the cab dropped them off in front of the nondescript entrance. Basically a door-sized hole cut into a white wall. Even more nondescript because of the scaffolding—the stuff seemed ever-present in New York—set up to allow workers access to the upper floors of the building.

They paused in front of the entrance for a second, and Devlin got a good look at the fear in Jennifer’s eyes. And the determination.

This whole situation was completely fucked up, but she was hanging in there. He had to hand it to her.

His life had been screwed up even before today, and he’d barely been hanging on by his fingernails.

They rounded a tight corner then got on a claustrophobic escalator. Devlin hadn’t been to the hotel before, though he’d been on several dates that hadalmost ended up at the Library Bar or the Hudson

Bar. The job had interfered though, his pager going off at an inopportune time and hauling him away.

When Uncle Sam signed your paycheck, you learned to deal with interrupted dates and a fucked-up

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schedule. His dates, unfortunately, never learned the lesson as well. They always got pissed off when he had to cut the evening short.

For just a second, his mind drifted back to the woman from the pub. Maybe that was the best way to connect with a woman. In a bar. Juiced up. With no names, no strings, and no memory.

“Devlin?”

He looked up, surprised, and realized that he’d been rubbing the aching spot at the back of his neck.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” He stood up straight and tried to shake it off. “Just a memory.”

“Bad?”

“No. Yes.” He closed his eyes and took a breath. “Just something I’m not very proud of.”

She answered with a curious look, but he was spared a response because the escalator had reached the top, and they emerged in the center of a lobby that—even in his current jaded mind-set—he had to admit was impressive. A reception counter spread out in front of them, and the facing wall was glass, but mostly covered with climbing vines of ivy that seemed to engulf the entire room. A déjà vu moment from his first trip to the tropical rainforest room at the zoo. Except the rainforest wasn’t so loud. Here, the din from a nearby bar filled the room as much as the ivy did. The plant, Devlin assumed, was a necessary acoustical accoutrement.

Without it, the bass thrum from distant speakers would be almost nuclear.

Beside him, Jenn was clearly in awe. “Isn’t it great?” she said, practically shouting. “I absolutely love this place.”

“It’s impressive,” Devlin said. But he was thinking:chick pick. Give him a sports bar any day.

A boy in black with a Euro accent greeted them and offered assistance, but Jenn was already leading the way. Just a quick shift to the left, then a right turn and down a short hallway.

They moved that way, passing the Hudson Bar, which was apparently the source of the music.

Filled to the brim with beautiful people, the bar seemed to vibrate with energy. Glass tables sat on a glass floor where colors flashed then faded.

Devlin took a quick look as they passed, grateful they weren’t going in there, then exhaled in relief when they rounded the corner and he realized he could hear again. “Hello,” he whispered.

Jenn stopped and looked at him. “See someone you know?”

“Just testing. I really can hear myself think now. Nice.”

She rolled her eyes and continued on, past the table and chairs set up against a windowed wall overlooking a stone patio. Devlin shrugged and followed, wondering when he’d gotten old. He still wasn’t forty, though. So maybe it was a curable antiquity.

Unlike the too-loud-to-think music coming from the Hudson Bar, the Library Bar was quiet.

Old-world elegance coupled with a hint of whimsy. Specifically, overstuffed leather chairs, lots of woodwork, and

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some paintings of cows. Devlin got a particular kick out of the cows.

A freestanding bar filled one corner, a tall woman with curly black hair manning the thing. A few men leaned on the bar rail, apparently fascinated with the way she mixed a martini.

They squeezed in and waited to catch her attention.

Jenn had her head tilted back as she turned slightly, taking in the entire top section of the room.

Although it was called the Library Bar, the place was different from any library Devlin had ever seen. The ceiling was high, with a catwalk about ten feet up. The upper portion of the walls was made up of built-in bookshelves, and they seemed to hold a wide variety of old books. Dusty books, actually. And Devlin supposed that made sense. The point, after all, was that they were old. And rare.

As the bartender turned to them, Devlin leaned in closer. “Have you gotDon Quixote?”

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She cocked her head. “That’s with pineapple juice and tequila, right?”

“It’s a book,” he said, and she looked so blank he almost laughed. He waved his hand, encompassing the room. “You know…books.”

“Oh. Right.” Her forehead creased. “I don’t know what we’ve got.”

He exchanged a quick glance with Jenn, who shrugged. Then he turned back to the bartender.

“Well, what if I want to read a book?”

The girl stared back at him, her eyes narrow behind her fashionable fuchsia frames. “Read?”

“Yeah. You know. Read. I think it’s the traditionally accepted thing to do in a library.”

“This isn’t a library,” she said, her mouth quirked all funny. Like maybe he was the dangerous sort and she had to keep her distance. Well, maybe he was and maybe she did.

“It’s called the Library Bar.”

She rattled a martini shaker. “I think the emphasis is on thebar. ”

“Devlin…” Jenn had eased in, and now had her hand on his shoulder. He wasn’t even tempted to move away. In fact, he kind of liked it—the feel of her hand and the whole good-cop bad-cop groove they could get going if they tried. He thought of the woman from the pub—the woman whose panties had found their way to his couch. For about thirty-seven seconds, she’d made him feel alive. Maybe with

Jennifer Crane the moment would last a full minute.

And maybe this wasn’t the time to be thinking about it.

“So the books are only for show?” he asked.

The bartender nodded.

“Is there a staircase up to that catwalk or anything?”

“No,” the girl said, a little sulkily, Devlin thought. “And I think the point was atmosphere. It’s not like a

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sports bar has to have a baseball team hitting foul balls in the back corner.”

“Can’t hurt,” he said, earning him a scowl from both Jenn and the bar girl. A doubleheader.

“And as a matter of fact, wedo have an exhibit.”

“You do?” Jenn managed to ask the question before Devlin could get his mouth around the words.

The girl pointed somewhere toward the center of the room. “All those big cushy leather chairs?

You gotta have someplace to set your drinks, don’t you?”

“You set them on rare books?”

That earned him another scathing look.

“Display tables. They’re glass. I guess the powers that be started thinking like you, so they’ve pulled some of the coolest old books and they’ve put them on display.”

“The powers that be are very astute,” Devlin said.

“Want me to run a tab?” she said, in a not-so-subtle attempt to end the conversation and send him and

Jenn on their merry way.

“We’re not drinking.” He stepped away, ignoring the bartender’s irritated snort, and considered the room. Jenn had already moved across the room, and was peering into a waist-high display table that was set up against the back wall. She turned to him and shook her head. So much for easy.

If anyone else cared that there was no “library” in the Library Bar, they didn’t care enough to stay away.

The place was packed. Every overstuffed leather chair filled, every brocade couch stuffed full of people.

Even those standing were packed in so close that the traditional American rules of personal
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space seemed no more to apply.

Since Devlin didn’t give a flying fuck about personal space, he barged into the nearest group with a brusque “excuse me,” then peered down at the table centered between the couch and two armchairs.

“Do you mind?” That from a woman in fabulous silk suit, with legs of equal quality.

“Not very well,” he admitted. As the bartender had promised, books were on display in the case.David

Copperfield, some C. S. Forester, even a first edition ofAlice in Wonderland.

NoDon Quixote.

He backed out from the crowd—smiling at the woman with a curt “I’ll call you”—then moved behind the group to get a look at a side table nestled between two nearby armchairs.

Again, nothing.

He was just about to move on to the next display case when Jenn slid up beside him, taking his elbow and tugging.

“I found it!” she whispered. “It’s right over there.” She pointed to the far corner of the bar, where two

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wingback chairs sat, a drunken couple holding hands over an ornate display table. “That’s it,”

Jenn repeated, her face practically glowing. “That’sDon Quixote. Now all we have to do is get it.”

JENNIFER

We’d found the book, which was good.

The book was behind glass. That was bad.

The glass was part of a table nestled between a particularly amorous couple. I edged closer, craning my neck to see. “Can I get a quick peek?” I asked.

The man, who reeked of alcohol, shrugged. He also eyed me in a way that should have really pissed off his date. Me, I just ignored it and pressed forward. And there it was, just inches away.

A leather-bound volume, underneath which had been placed a typed index card that set out all the particulars of the book, and also announced that it had been donated by Paul S. Winslow.

I reached over to flip the latch on the case, not terribly surprised when I found it locked. Not surprised, but still annoyed. I looked back at Devlin, but he was already heading to the bartender. I hurried after him.

“Any chance of getting inside that display case?” he asked the girl. “We need to take a look at that book.”

“Um, no. I mean come on, dude. What’s your problem?”

“How about the manager? Maybe we could speak to him?”

“No manager on duty tonight. What you see is what you get.” And then she flashed a winning—if not entirely sincere—smile.