The Manolo Matrix (15 page)

“Hotel manager?”

Her shoulders slumped as she exhaled. “Hold on.” She finished making a drink for someone, then told another customer that she’d be right with him. She rolled her eyes as she said it, and the customer smirked, clearly bonding with the girl in sympathy about the crazy people she had to deal with.

She reached below the bar and pulled out a cordless phone. She dialed, waited, and then she was talking with Harry, presumably the night manager. She explained—without any of the required urgency, I

thought—that some patrons wanted to see one of the rare books. She listened, nodding, then
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said, “Okay, thanks.” And hung up the phone.

“Well?” I demanded.

“He said sure. Just come back in the morning when Mr. Banister is here. He’ll take care of you.”

“But we—”

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“Okay,” Devlin said. “Sure. Thanks.”

He pulled me away, his firm grip annoying me almost as much as his words. “What are you doing?” I

asked. “We can’t wait until morning. My deadline’s ten! Can’t you just shoot the lock off? Or better yet, just shoot that bartender.”

“That’s one idea,” Devlin said. “Another would be to go find Harry and convince him to let us have a peek. Maybe tell him it’s a scavenger hunt and we just need to see the book.”

“Can’t you flash your FBI badge?”

His face hardened, and he shook his head. “If I had it, I’d flash it. But no. Right now, that’s not a possibility.”

“Oh.” I figured I’d discovered Devlin Brady’s sore spot. But now wasn’t the time to poke at it.

His mouth quirked. “Or maybe you should just hit a high C. Break the glass. Then we run like hell.”

I crossed my arms and stared him down. “That’s a myth, you know. Even if I could hit the note, the glass wouldn’t shatter.”

“Actually, I was kidding.”

“But it could work,” I said. “An obnoxious woman singing at the top of her lungs is sure to draw the manager. And fast.” Plus, the plan was dramatic. I, of course, am all about drama.

“I’m not so sure—”

But I was already shoving my tote bag into Devlin’s arms. “Be ready,” I said.

“Jenn, you’re not—”

But I didn’t have time to answer. I was already into my role, shifting from kick-ass Lara to vixen Lola.

And as the guy sitting by the book gaped, I settled myself on his lap and started with the sultry tones of

“Whatever Lola Wants,” one of my absolute favorite songs fromDamn Yankees.

“Excuse me!” The girl part of the couple didn’t seem too happy with my plan. But since that was part of my plan, I was A-okay with her irritation.

The guy, I noticed, wasn’t complaining at all. Too shocked. And that, also, was just fine by me. I pulled my legs up and pressed against his chest so that I was snuggled close as I sang about how he was a fool and I was irresistible. “Give in,”I sang. Then I poked him in the chest. “Give. In.”

By this time, people were staring. Also what I’d wanted. Except that in my fantasies about singing solo numbers, I’d always been on a stage. Not in a bar.

“Enough, already!” the bartender called. “I swear, if you don’t shut down the disturbance, I’m calling security.”

Devlin frowned, and I knew what he was thinking—security was no help to us.

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I reached the end of the song, and was trying to decide if I should stop or keep going when I caught

Devlin’s eye.More, he mouthed. So I kept going. I wasn’t sure what he had planned, but I trusted him. I

was also happy he’d gotten into the spirit of the plan.

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I segued neatly into “Who’s Got the Pain,” still in my Lola character, and on the word

“Mambo,” I

grabbed date guy’s hand and tugged him out of the chair.

The song’s bouncy and fast and, hey, it’s about the mambo. So that’s what we did. Or, rather, that’s what I did. And since I had his hands tight in my own, he reluctantly joined me. We weren’t going to win any awards, but the exhibition did have the desired effect. Namely, the girl jumped out of her chair—absolutely furious—and tried to cut in. I wasn’t having any of that, and danced him across the room to another little cluster of chairs. Not that there was anyone sitting there.

By that time, they were all gathered around us. Me and date guy, and the girl trying to horn in on our good time.

I heard the bartender howl from across the room. “I’m calling right now! I mean it!” And then I saw her yank up the phone. I tried not to worry about that because I now had more important things to worry about. Like the fact that I’d glanced toward theDon Quixote table and found Devlin through a break in the crowd, busily shoving the blade of his pocket knife under the top of the table.

Oh, shit.

Since I didn’t want anyone else looking where I’d been looking, I turned back to my captive, stepping lively and moving his arm up and down in an exaggerated motion as I sang at the top of my lungs that immortal question of“who needs a pill when they do the mambo?” Then I flipped my leg up in a flirty little kick just as the song hits anUGH!

Honestly, this isn’t the easiest song to sing without accompaniment, and I think I was doing a kick-butt job. Considering how everyone was staring and laughing, I figured I wasn’t being too conceited. If those guys from theCarousel audition could see me now…

I glanced back toward the table where Devlin had been, and saw that he wasn’t there now, and figured it was time to wrap this up. I yanked us to a stop, pulled the guy close, and planted a big kiss on him.

(On his cheek. After all, I didn’t want to mess things up for his girl.) Then I pushed him away and turned to the girl. “Great dancer,” I said. “He’s a keeper.”

And then, with the hum of the crowd buzzing behind me and the bartender calling out,

“Hey,hey! ” I

hauled ass out of there.

Devlin (thank God) was waiting for me at the end of the hall, and he took my hand and we raced across the lobby, the ceiling of ivy looming above us and the music from the bar pounding all around us. We skidded across the floor, then raced down the escalator until we emerged onto the sidewalk.

My heart was pounding in my chest, and I leaned back under the scaffolding, breathing hard. In front of me, Devlin was leaning over, his palms pressed against his knees, and his eyes on me.

“Tell me you have the book,” I said between gasps.

“I’ve got it,” he said. “Keep moving.” And he took off at a clip toward Seventh Avenue, me keeping pace behind him.

I glanced back before we turned and didn’t see armed security guards barreling down on us.

That was a

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good thing.

Finally, we quit running, but still walked quickly, and Devlin took my hand. “You’ve got one hell of a voice on you, that’s for damn sure. But have you ever heard of subtlety?”

“It worked, didn’t it? And I didn’t see you coming up with any other brilliant ideas.”

“No,” he said. “You didn’t. You did good in there. Not subtle. But it worked.”

“Oh.” I stopped on the street. “So you weren’t being critical?”

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“Just stating facts. Don’t stand there. We need to keep moving.”

Right he was. I kicked back into step beside him. “Where are we going?”

“Someplace we can sit down and look at the book.”

“Right.” It suddenly occurred to me that we’d just committed theft. Not something I would haveever considered doing before. Now, though, I didn’t even feel a twinge of guilt. We needed the book to keep me alive. We got the book. That deserved a pat on the back, not handcuffs and a mug shot. For that matter, it deserved a standing ovation.

He rounded a corner, then ducked into a bar. The place was elbow-to-elbow with people, but Devlin miraculously snagged us a table, conveniently tucked away under a bronze crawfish rotating on a pedestal. I kid you not.

We collapsed into the chairs, and Devlin shoved the previous occupants’ dirty glasses aside.

Then he pulled the book out from under his jacket and plunked it on the table.

I have to admit that I did feel a tiny bit of guilt at this point. Not for stealing the thing—we’d give it back when we were done with it—but for taking it out of its sealed and locked little homestead. I don’t know much about books and preservation and all that kind of stuff, but I couldn’t help but wonder if we’d just consigned this poor book to mold and worms and other versions of bookish hell.

The cover was red leather, with a stylized drawing of a knight all in black on the cover. Gold gilt bordered the cover and also decorated the spine. All in all, it was a pretty book. And solid. And probably incredibly expensive.

Devlin had just opened the cover when a waiter appeared. “What can I get for you?”

“Nothing!”

Devlin looked at me sharply. “Scotch. On the rocks. Single malt.”

“Nothing for me,” I said. “But could you take those away?” I nodded toward the dirty glasses.

They still had some liquid inside them. “What if he spills your drink when he brings it? What ifyou spill it?”

“I won’t.” He was slowly flipping the pages.

“How can you be so sure? That book has to be, what, four hundred years old?”

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He stopped his inspection of the pages and looked up at me, curiosity in his eyes. “You know Cervantes?”

“When you were on stage, did it bother you when people thought you were dumb? Does it bother you now if they think you’re just some FBI flunkie with no brain, a black suit, and the party line?”

“Point taken.” He tapped the book. “But this isn’t a first edition. It’s in English.”

My cheeks warmed a little at that. I mean, I know Cervantes wroteDon Quixote back in the 1600s.

During the years of torture that my father called a liberal arts education and that I called twelve years of hellish private schools complete with uniforms, I’d studied Cervantes on more than one occasion, though

I can’t admit to retaining all that much of it. I’m very proud of my straight-C average. But I’m not going to be discussing the impact of fifteenth-century literature at cocktail parties anytime soon.

“So, what does that mean? It’s not really rare? Does that matter? We got it from the Library Bar.

There’s no way we got that clue wrong. It was too freaky and obscure. And the book was there.

We have to have gotten it right.”

“We got it right. And if it makes you feel any better, I still won’t spill anything. The book may not be four hundred years old, but it’s still old and spectacular.” He closed the book and inspected it. “I don’t know how much this baby is worth, but considering its condition, I’m
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thinking a lot.”

“A lot? How much a lot?”

“Enough that you and I just committed a felony.”

“Oh. Great.”

“Don’t worry.”

“I’m not. Unless we find the clue, I’m going to be dead before they arrest us, anyway.” I blinked, and sat back in my seat, the reality of the situation blindsiding me. I’d stowed it away, pretended I was playing a part, but this was real. Real and deadly, and I was scared.

“Jenn? Are you okay?”

I looked at him, my eyes unnaturally wide as I tried to keep myself from crying.

“It just hit me. Something bad is going to happen to me. In just a few hours. It’s not a drama. It’s not the theater. And nothing’s going to swoop down in the third act to save me.”

“I will,” he said, with such conviction that I actually managed a smile. He pressed his hand over mine. “I

like happy endings, Jenn. And I promise you that you’ll get one, too.”

I swear I almost melted on the spot. But I gave myself a little shake and tried to come to my senses.

“Right. You’re right.” Brooding wasn’t going to get us anywhere. And I didn’t have time for self-indulgent depression or momentary lapses into lust.

“Right,” I said again. “I’m fine.” He didn’t look convinced, but I pointed to the book. “Do you see anything in there?”

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He paused, but then shook his head. “Not yet,” he said, still flipping pages.

“Do you think maybe it’s some combination of words? Something from the first message? Do we have to use that code key to unscramble something else?”

“If that’s the case, we really are screwed.” His eyes met mine. “Are you up to translating all of these words using that code?”

I shook my head.

“Me neither. But I don’t think it matters. The code we had before turned nonsense into legitimate words.

I can’t fathom how it would work backwards. And even if there’s a word or two in here that would become something else if we applied the code, how are we supposed to know which word to use?” He shook his head. “No, I think the key has to be somewhere in this book.”

“Or in another one,” I said. “Oh, shit, Devlin. What if the bar had more than one copy ofDon Quixote ?”

“No panicking,” he said. “And no making up worst case scenarios. The clue’s here,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“Because it says so.”

I gaped at him. “Itsays so? What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you read the card?”

“The notecard? Yeah. Sure.” I frowned, trying to remember it. “It was just a card.”

“Not exactly,” he said, and then he smiled, reaching into the back of the book to pull out a card and pass it to me. “Lucky I snagged it, too.”

“ ‘Privately Printed for the Members of the English Bibliophilist Society and Printed by Morrison &

Gibbs Limited, Edinburgh,’ ” I read. “No date, but it says that it was probably published between 1892

and 1894. It’s part of a limited edition of one hundred copies, and this one was donated by Paul S.

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Winslow.” I looked up at him, definitely missing the big picture. “So?”

“Paul. S. Winslow,” he said, slowly. “PSW.”