The Manolo Matrix (26 page)

“We should get you new clothes, too,” I said. “New shoes. Nothing as fancy as Manolos…”

“Next place we pass,” he said. “So long as they fit, I’ll be fine.”

“Men.”

“I could scour the town for the perfect running shoe, but right now, we need to focus on figuring out the next clue.”

Thatraised an interesting little dilemma. “Whatnext clue?”

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“I don’t have any idea.”

But I did. All of a sudden, I knew exactly what the clue was.

Worse, I knew that it was gone.

JENNIFER

“Ihad it,” I said. “It was right in my hand with the pill. In all the commotion, I must have dropped it.”

We were back near General Sherman, hunched over as we scoured the ground. We’d been at it for over fifteen minutes, and my eyes were about to fall out.

“We’ll find it,” Devlin said. “And it’s not your fault.”

“Of course it’s my fault.” I stood up, straightening and rubbing my back. Nothing. Not even shards of glass from where it had gotten run over by a carriage wheel. The thing was simply gone.

“Somebody probably picked it up,” I said. “Some tourist is putting back shots of tequila with it right this very second.”

Devlin straightened too, and looked around the crowd. “You might be right, and we probably shouldn’t stay here any longer in any case. Who knows when our friend will be back.”

“She’s your friend,” I said, with a devious tone.

He grinned at me, but this time it was real, with none of the self-loathing I’d seen earlier. “Not
Page 112

hardly.”

He held out a hand. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“I’ve got an idea,” he said.

We walked past the row of horses and carriages to the street, and Devlin stepped off the curb, arm stretched out to hail a cab. I looked wistfully back at the carriages. We’d thoroughly scoured Bishop’s carriage again—Sean, thankfully, hadn’t held our little stunt against us.

Especially after we’d handed him a load of cash to repair the bullet hole. We hadn’t found the glass, though, and I could only stand there wishing we could do it all over again.

I didn’t understand how I lost the thing, but lost it I had. Some protector. One fucking clue comes into my hands, and I’m so busy watching my own ass that I can’t even keep a hold of it.

“Quit beating yourself up,” Devlin said, as he ushered me into a cab.

“I can’t help it.”

“Try. We found the antidote. You’re alive. I’m alive. Those are the important things.”

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“You may be alive, but for how long? If we can’t find that glass, we’re stuck. You’re a walking target with no way to win the game. No way to end it. The game turns into a race, Devlin. A race that you can’t win. You can only lose.”

“I don’t intend to lose.”

I leaned back in the seat and exhaled through my nose. “Yesterday, you probably would have done cartwheels at the idea of some freak with a pistol waiting to take you out. Now you’re an optimist?”

“I’ve got a new perspective,” he said with a wicked grin that for some reason had me blushing.

“Yeah? Well, I’m glad.” I twined my fingers through his. “Why don’t you just leave?” I asked, leaning forward with sudden inspiration. “Go away. Leave town. Move to Mexico.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting a romantic retreat?”

“Damn it, Devlin, be serious.”

“I am,” he said, “because that’s the only thing that would get me out of this city right now. I didn’t ask for this, but I’m damn sure going to see it through.” He turned away from me, looking out the window at the passing street.

“All right,” I finally said. “But does that go for everything?”

“What do you mean?”

I swallowed, wondering if I should really go there. Then I decided what the hell. One thing I was learning: life’s short. “I mean that you didn’t ask for them to take your badge. Are you going to see that through, too? Work to get reinstated?”

“Jenn…”

There was a warning in his voice, but I didn’t care. “See it through, Devlin. I may not be able to imagine leaving the theater, but this cop stuff is in your blood. Even in your funk, you stepped up to the plate to help me. So how come you didn’t do the same for yourself?”

“You’re pretty wise, Jennifer Crane.”

“Don’t tease me, Devlin. I’m serious.”

“So am I. But right now, the only thing I’m worried about seeing through is this game. Not my career.

Just my ass. And yours, too.”

“My ass appreciates it.”

“And I appreciate your ass,” he said with an exaggerated leer that had me laughing. It also had me ending the subject. I know how to take a hint.

I held out my hand. “Pass me the phone.” He did, and I dialed, determined to follow the only clue we had left. The shot-glass I’d lost was from the Jekyll & Hyde Club, and the way I saw it,
Page 113

that was the only

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

lead we had. I called information first, then got put through to the club. One ring, two, then a recorded message with the restaurant’s hours. I checked my watch, then cursed.

“Not open yet,” I said, snapping the cell phone closed and passing it to Devlin. “Damn.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. He leaned forward and gave the driver an address on 42nd Street.

“Where are we going?”

“To see the one person who might be able to help us.”

“But what about involving outside people? Doesn’t that put them at risk?”

Devlin’s face shifted, his jaw cutting a firm line. “It might,” he said. “But with this son-of-a-bitch, I

frankly don’t care.”

DEVLIN

Jenn didn’t ask any questions as Devlin led her up into the skyscraper. He was glad of that. Right now, he wanted to think. Needed to organize his thoughts. And he wanted to mentally play out—in every painful, bloody detail—exactly what he intended to do when he saw the man.

He’d just been finishing up a scenario where he beat the cretin to a bloody pulp when they arrived in front of the reception desk. “We’re here to see Thomas Reardon,” Devlin announced, when the pert twenty-something greeted him. Beside him, Jenn shifted and he heard her barely audible gasp of surprise.

He didn’t bother to look; he was concentrating on the receptionist, keeping his eyes locked on hers. He might not have his badge, but he knew how to be persuasive when he wanted to. And he wasn’t leaving this building without first chatting with Reardon.

In front of him, the girl squirmed, her expression shifting from polite welcome to something else entirely.

Confused horror? No, that made no sense. The whole firm couldn’t be in on the scheme, and even if a few higher-ups were involved with bringing Grimaldi’s computer game out into the real world, there was no way this barely legal receptionist had been drawn into the scheme. Devlin had to be reading her wrong.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” the girl finally stammered. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but it’s imperative we see him. We’ll only take a few minutes of his time.”

“I…Well, I…just a moment.” She picked up the phone, dialed an extension, waited, and then spoke.

“Yes, hi, it’s Gillian. Um, there’s a gentleman here who wants to speak to Mr. Reardon. He says it’s urgent. Of course, sir. Certainly. Thank you.”

She hung up the phone, her expression now one of relief. And aboutthat, Devlin was certain.

“Mr. Jackson is on his way,” she said. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“What about Mr. Reardon?”

“Ah, you’ll have to talk to Mr. Jackson.”

He considered protesting some more, just for form, but it wouldn’t do any good. “A couple of coffees would be great,” he said, figuring they could both use the caffeine. And while she headed around a corner to what had to be a refreshment center, Devlin settled on the leather sofa next to Jennifer.

Immediately, she pounced. “Thomas Reardon!” she whispered. “I thought you said he was
Page 114

clean.”

“Not clean,” Devlin explained. “Just no dirt we could see.”

“You mean he might be behind all this? Placing the clues? The collar on the cat? All that kind of stuff?”

“It’s possible.”

“Shit.”

He nodded, knowing exactly how she felt. Thomas Reardon had been mixed up in Mel’s ordeal, but the

FBI had never been able to pin anything on him. For all intents and purposes, Reardon was Grimaldi’s attorney, nothing more. And there was nothing illegal about representing a dead computer genius. Even if that genius’s online game had suddenly gone live in the real world.

“So you think he might know where we need to go next?”

“Exactly,” Devlin said. “Even better, he might be able to shut this whole thing down.”

“But if the FBI never managed to nail anything on him, what are you going to bargain with? He’s just going to say he’s clueless, and that will be that.”

She was right, of course, but since Devlin was all out of ideas, they were going to see this through. He was about to tell her that when the receptionist came back with their coffee, followed almost immediately by a tall, thin man with salt and pepper hair topping a dour expression.

“I’m Alistair Jackson,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“We’d like to speak to Mr. Reardon,” Devlin said.

“Are you a current client?”

“No, actually, I’m with the FBI.”

“Identification?”

“I’m not here officially,” he said, sideswiping the request. “But it is important to me personally that I see

Mr. Reardon.”

“And the young lady?”

“Jennifer Crane,” she said, holding out her hand. Jackson took it, then released it, his expression never softening.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“I’m sorry but we won’t be able to help you.”

Devlin started to open his mouth, not sure what he intended to say. Probably some bluster about cooperation and official inquiries and bullshit like that. Didn’t matter. Mr. Jackson’s next words shut him up real fast.

“I’m afraid Thomas Reardon is dead.”

JENNIFER

Iwaited until we’d gone back down the elevator, crossed through the lobby, and exited the building before I said a word. But as soon as we were outside, I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“She did it. She must have done it.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’d be willing to make book on it.”

“So what now?”

He took my hand and tugged me across the street, jaywalking, of course, in the fine tradition of New

York natives.

“Where are we going?”

“We need to sit. And we need to think.” And with that, he led us to the Bryant Park Café,
Page 115

nestled behind the library and conveniently located just across the street from the recently deceased Mr.

Reardon’s offices.

We sat outside, and when the waiter delivered our water, I actually felt human. I was in a restaurant, with a guy, enjoying an unseasonably warm afternoon in New York City. If it weren’t for the whole psycho-trying-to-kill-us thing, the afternoon would be perfect.

It wasn’t, though, and I sobered up pretty quickly. “What now?” I asked.

“How good a look did you get at that shot glass?”

“It was from the Jekyll & Hyde Club,” I said. “That’s all I noticed.”

“But there could have been something etched in the glass on the bottom,” he said. “Something important.”

“I know.” I sank down a bit in my seat and fiddled with my silverware.

“I wasn’t criticizing,” he said. “Just stating a fact.”

“A bad fact,” I said. “Got any good news to go with that little reminder of my ineptitude?”

He chuckled. “No, but I have an idea that might turn out to be good. Fair enough?”

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“At this point, anything.”

“Jekyll and Hyde played as a musical, didn’t it?”

“So it’s definitely part of our theme.”

“So we check the theater. Maybe something was left for us at the box office.”

“And we still need to check the Club. Maybe someone left a message with the manager or put something in the lost and found.”

“Right. As soon as they open.”

I checked my watch. “Actually, it’s right at 11:30. They should be open by now. Should I call?”

He shook his head. “No, we should go there. Since we don’t know what we need, better to show up in person. Less likely someone will brush us off if we’re standing right in front of them.”

“Fine.” I was pushing my chair back when the phone rang. I checked caller ID, then snatched it up.

“Brian! Thank God! Where are you?”

“Jesus, Jenn, I just found out! I’ve been at Larry’s going over some last minute lyric changes, and I just checked my messages. What the fuck is going on?” His voice was thick, and I could tell he’d been crying. Probably got word from the cops, then thought to check his voice mails and found the message from me.

“You can’t go home,” I said. “Stay where you are and don’t go home.”

“I have to give a statement to the cops.”

“Make them come to you,” I said.

“They are.” He made a strangling noise. “What’s happening?”

“It’s PSW, Brian, but don’t tell the cops that. It could only make it worse. Just say you don’t know.”

“PSW? But how? Why?” Now there was terror in his voice in addition to the grief. He’d heard all about

Mel’s escapades, but I know he’d never expected one of his own. I sure as hell hadn’t.

“It’s my fault,” I said, even as Devlin laid a firm hand over mine. “I got sucked into this fucking game, and I didn’t realize—” I choked back a sob. “I didn’t realize when I asked your help on that stupid puzzle…”

“Oh, shit,” Brian said. “They wanted to kill me. Oh my God. Fifi’s dead because of me.”