The Manolo Matrix (10 page)

“Three…four…”

I was just about to step into the revolving door when I heard the phone ring. Since he stopped his counting, I stopped walking. Call it a matter of principle.

I couldn’t hear what he had to say, but I did see the way he looked at me. Annoyed and maybe
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even more than that. Maybe downright pissed off. Then he nodded, hung up the phone, and walked toward me. I held up my hands in defense. “I’m going, already. Just get off my case.”

“Agent Brady will see you now.”

I balked, but I recovered quickly. I lifted my chin high as I moved away from the door. Then I walked with a grace and dignity I didn’t feel toward the elevator bank. I stepped into a waiting car, pushed the button for twelve, then turned to aim my very best stage smile at the concierge.

The kind that the guy on the last row of the balcony can see. “Thanksso much. You’ve been such a big help.”

And then—with timing that couldn’t be more perfect—the elevator doors slid closed, effectively erasing his prissy, sour face.

A minor victory, maybe, but at the moment, I was taking whatever I could get.

JENNIFER

Only a few moments had passed from the time I stepped into the elevator all agog with victory to the time I emerged on the twelfth floor, completely and totally terrified once again. Under the circumstances, a victory was like a drug. During the moment, all was perfect. But once the drug wore off, reality slapped back, and even harder than ever.

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I’d barely knocked when Agent Brady yanked the door open. He stared at me, not the pillar of strength

I’d expected at all. Instead, he looked lost, his pale eyes cloudy with distrust. For an instant, recognition flickered in his eyes, and he stood back from the door, a silent invitation if not exactly a welcome.

I almost ran the other direction, I swear to God I did, but right now, this was the only person I knew who could help me. And I desperately needed help. So I stepped inside. The thud of the door closing seemed to echo in my head as Devlin stared me down. I just stood there in the dimly lit foyer, my hands at my sides.

“You,” he finally said. “I know you.”

I nodded. “Jennifer Crane. I was Melanie Prescott’s roommate last year.”

“What do you know about the game?”

I took a step backwards and casually rested my hand on the doorknob. After what happened with

Andy, my faith in the safety of my surroundings had diminished to zero. Agent Brady might be the target, but I was still going to be careful.

Brady didn’t move a muscle. He just stared right at me, his face etched in stone, his eyes penetrating.

The man scared me and, unreasonably, that made me feel better. This was a hard man. And a man like this could keep me safe.

“Talk to me, Crane. I need to know what you’re doing here.”

There was no denying the sharp edge of anger in his voice, and I cringed. “I got a message,” I said.

“About PSW. I’m…I guess I’m playing the game now.” I licked my lips. “And I guess you are, too.”

His face never softened, but I saw a flicker of something cross his eyes. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets as he moved out of the foyer. Not knowing what else to do, I followed, silently congratulating myself on only looking back toward the door once. There was no place to run, after all. Ever since I’d left Andy, I’d been telling myself that this apartment was safety. Now that I was here, I was clinging to that, and nothing was going to make me change my mind.

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Not even Devlin Brady.

DEVLIN

“You’re here about PSW,” Devlin said. He examined her face as she nodded, her lips pressed together as if she wasn’t going to say another word until she was sure he was on her side. Smart woman. “It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t bite. Just tell me.”

She hesitated, then drew a breath and spoke. “You’re the target. And…and I’m the protector.”

He looked her up and down. A mane of coal black hair framing a thin, worried face. A delicate body, but with a solid layer of muscle. He thought back, trying to remember her file, and he seemed to recall the theater. A dancer, maybe, in which case she might have a hell of a kick.

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A kick wasn’t going to do a lot of good against an assassin’s bullet. Finally, he just laughed. A weak, tired, time-to-quit-all-the-bullshit kind of laugh.

She took a step back, her green eyes wide, her expression terrified.

“Forget it,” he said.

“Forget it? Forget what?”

“The whole goddamn thing,” he said. “I don’t need a protector. I’m not playing the game.”

“What do you mean?”

“What does it sound like?”

“So you’re just going to sit here? A target, literally, for some freak? You’re going to end up dead!”

“Maybe,” he said. Then he turned and headed down his small hallway to the living room. She followed.

“Would you like coffee?” he asked, the sarcasm coming naturally. “Soda, water? Anything I can do to make you feel more comfortable?”

“You wanna make me more comfortable? Quit acting like an asshole.”

It was a gutsy response, and accurate. And he liked the girl all the more for it. “Sorry. Asshole is my natural state of being.”

“Work to overcome your limitations,” she said.

“Feel better?”

Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“Do you feel better?” He spoke slowly, the way his mother had always talked to the hired help who didn’t speak English, as if a slower speed would somehow make the unfamiliar words comprehensible.

She shook her head slowly, clearlynot comprehending.

“Anger,” he said. “Sometimes it takes the edge off of fear.”

“I…Oh.” She squinted at him, probably trying to decide if he was okay, or even more of a jerk than she’d originally believed.

While she pondered that mystery, he moved into the kitchen and came back with a Diet Coke.

He hadn’t asked what she wanted, but in Devlin’s experience, most women wanted Diet Coke.

She popped the top without even looking at the can, took a long sip, and then grinned. “You’re right,”

she said. “Getting pissed off at you totally made me feel better.”

“Happy to oblige.”

She glanced around his apartment, her nose wrinkling in disgust as she did so. He stifled a shrug.

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Women. The place wasn’t that bad yet. Nothing was breeding in the mess on the floor, and to the best of his knowledge, he hadn’t yet discovered penicillin in its natural form.

He waved at the couch. “Sit if you want. We should probably talk.”

“Well, duh!” She turned and glanced at the couch, then moved to his desk and pulled out the hard wooden chair and sat there.

He shrugged and moved to the sofa, shoved aside the take-out containers, beer bottles, and crumpled bags of chips, then sat in the space he’d offered her. Then he stared at her.

She managed to keep still for a good sixty seconds. Then she got up, went to the curtains, and pulled them open. Since it was late afternoon, the light was dim, but it was still more than his apartment had seen in weeks. His pupils shrank to the size of pinpricks, and he flinched, squinting even as he glared at her.

“Come on, lady! You want to ask next time!”

“It’s like a tomb in here.”

“Maybe I like it that way.”

Her brow furrowed. “I remember you,” she said. “What happened to you?”

“Shit happened,” he said. A pretty accurate assessment of the situation, he thought. Pithy. To the point.

And a lot more direct that blathering on about a drug deal gone bad. About discovering that his partner had thrown in with the assholes they’d been tracking. About the FBI thinking maybe he’d gone dirty, too.

About shooting his partner, so his buddy wouldn’t shoot him first. Except maybe Randall wouldn’t have shot him at all. He didn’t know, not anymore. Not for certain. Especially not after he’d seen Randall’s daughter, three years old and dressed in black, coming up to him after the funeral and hugging him.

Loving him still, even though Devlin had killed her daddy.

What was left of his heart had just about ripped in two.

“Shit happens all the time,” he said.

She stared at him, then slowly shook her head. “Nice philosophy.”

“I can’t claim that it’s original.” He watched her, then tried to pull something resembling social skills up from the depths of his gut. “Look, just go.”

“I can’t do that,” she said. “I don’t have anyone else to help me. And something’s going to happen to me. Tomorrow. The voice said I had until ten tomorrow.”

Hysteria had crept into her voice. The last thing Devlin wanted to deal with was a hysterical female. He had to give this one credit, though. She’d been thrust into an untenable position.

Worse, she’d ended up stuck with him. Right now, that was a fate he wouldn’t wish on anybody.

So maybe he could understand her mood.

His mood wasn’t particularly chivalrous, but that didn’t mean he had to be an ass. Especially since there was apparently more to the whole story than she’d told him so far.

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And before Devlin even realized what he was doing, he was standing in front of her, his hand on her shoulder. He led her to the couch, then sat her in the clean spot. He sat himself on the coffee table in front of her, first using his arm to wipe all the detritus to the floor. “Tell me,” he demanded.

“I got a message,” she said.

“That much I gathered. So what was it? Transferred money and my profile?”

“No. I mean, yes. I got all that. Then later, when I was trying to figure out what I should do, I got another message. It…it wasRocky Horror .”

“Excuse me?”

“A phone call. It was a line from Eddie’s song inRocky Horror . The voice on the phone was
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singing

Eddie’s line about hurrying, or he might be dead. Only the line was different. It was a warning to me.

Hurry, oryou might be dead. Talking about me. Talkingto me. And then after that, there was this freaky ticking noise and a computerized voice told me I had until ten tomorrow.”

“Shit.”

That actually earned him a grin. “That was pretty much my reaction. And the thing is…” She trailed off with a shake of her head. “Never mind.”

“You figured that even if you weren’t cut out to be my protector, at the very least I could help you.”

“It seemed reasonable. But then I couldn’t get ahold of you. So I called Andy.”

He felt an absurd pang of guilt for erasing the messages, then quashed it and focused on what she was saying now. “Who did you call?”

“Andrew Garrison. He works with Mel on all the PSW research she does on the side. You know about that?”

He nodded, and she continued, telling him about how she contacted Andrew, then went to his apartment. When she got to the part where Andrew got shot, he winced.

“I called the hospital,” she said, summing up, “and he’s doing okay. But I still needed help.”

“And I was all that was left.”

“Pretty much. So I came here.” She looked around his apartment. “But I didn’t know.”

“Know what?”

“That shit happened.” She stood up, then hauled her huge tote bag over her shoulder. “I’ll be fine. I’ll get ahold of Mel. I’ll figure this out. And right now, I’ll just leave you alone. So sorry to have bothered you, Agent Brady.”

She started to take a step, but he caught her arm. She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

“Call me Devlin,” he said.

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“Fine. Good-bye, Devlin.”

“And stay.”

“Why?” she asked.

Redemption,he almost said. But he didn’t. “I’ll help you,” he said. “And then we’ll see where we are.”

JENNIFER

“And that’s all the phone call said?” Devlin asked.

I nodded. I was pacing his apartment again, a trash bag instead of a Diet Coke in my hand as I used the tip of my forefinger and thumb to pick up all the crap and toss it in a bag. Honestly, the man should arrest himself. The apartment was stunning—all gleaming wood, expensive furniture, and fabulous artwork—and he’d totally trashed the place.

I didn’t know what had happened to this man, but I did know that he’d come over to my side.

Or maybe his cop instincts had just gotten the better of him. I didn’t know the reason, and I didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was going to help me.

He passed by me, taking the trash bag from my hand. I was about to argue—Ireally didn’t intend to hang around in that mess—but then he started picking up the trash himself. Good. I didn’t come here to be his maid, and I settled myself back in front of his window, looking out onto the terrace that overlooked the East River.

“A few lines fromRocky Horror, a warning that you might be dead if you don’t hurry, and then a voice telling you the clock is ticking and that your drop-dead deadline is ten tomorrow.”

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“Except for the fact that I’m not crazy about the term ‘drop-dead,’ yeah. That about sums it up.”

“It’s theRocky Horror thing that I think is really interesting.”

“Well, gee, me too. Who doesn’t love a great transvestite musical?” I was dripping sarcasm now.

I think he could tell.

“Myclue,” he said, “is overflowing with Broadway musical references.”

Okay. He was right. I was interested. “Let me see.”

He disappeared back into the hallway and returned with a manila envelope I’d seen before. He handed it to me, and I pulled out the single sheet that was inside. When I saw it, I gasped: PLAY OR DIE

Annie

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Brigadoon

Cabaret