The Manolo Matrix (21 page)

Lots and lots of guilt.

Most of all, though, I was scared. There was a man in there—dead—by the hand of the same person who had me on a hook. Who had a gun aimed at Devlin’s heart.

And who was still looking for Brian. Or, maybe, had already found him.

No. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe that. Brian was safe. And since I was the one who got him in to this, I was the one who was going to get him out.

I started rummaging in my tote bag, found my cell, and began to dial. Once again, Devlin ripped it out of my hands.

I glared at him. “You’re starting to make a habit of that.”

“We need to get another phone.”

“Excuse me?”

“Think, Jennifer.”

Okay, now that just pissed me off. But I thought, and it only took me about two seconds to understand what he meant.

“Oh.”

Page 89

“Ohis right,” he said. “If the assassin came after Brian, it’s because somehow he found out about your phone call. Found out that Brian helped you with the clue.”

“And how could he have done that unless he’s intercepting my cell calls,” I added, a statement, not a question.

“Exactly.”

“There could be a bug in your apartment,” I suggested.

“Possibly,” he said, easily. “But since we don’t know for sure, we should probably avoid using your cell.

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

Or mine, for that matter. If you call Brian, the assassin’s going to hear. And if he doesn’t already know

Brian’s still alive, he will then.”

He was right, of course, but I didn’t want to waste any time. “We need a phone.” I pointed randomly into the crowd that was starting to dissipate now that they knew there wasn’t going to be a raucous arrest or a violent shoot-out. “Ask someone for a phone.”

“And drag someone else into this mess? No way. We find a pay phone.”

He had a point, but I didn’t know where a pay phone was. For that matter, for all the times I’d come to

Brian’s place, at the moment, I couldn’t even remember where the closest deli was. I stood up, turning in a circle as I scoped out the neighborhood. “Dammit, this is New York. Why is everything closed?”

“This is a pretty residential street,” Devlin said. “Come on. There’s got to be a twenty-four-hour diner nearby.”

“Yes!” Thank God the mush I call my brain was starting to gel again. “Yes, there’s a little coffee shop around the corner. I’m almost positive it’s an all-nighter.”

“Let’s go.”

The place really was just around the corner, and we were settled in a booth in no time. I pulled my notes about the clue out of my tote and slapped them on the table in front of him. “I never got the chance to tell you what I figured out,” I said, then ran him through my thinking about

“Memory” andCats and the fact thatOne Thing After Another, The Love Set, andWhen in Rome were all old shows. “AndCandide is a musical, of course,” I added. “But I haven’t put it all together yet.”

I hauled out my laptop again and pushed it to his side of the booth. “Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

While he got the computer going, I rummaged for some change, then headed off to warn Brian.

In a perfect world, he’d answer his phone, I’d tell him calmly and firmly to go take a Club Med vacation, he’d do it (and screw the Broadway debut), and I’d return to the table to find that Devlin had solved the clue.

Needless to say, I was not living in a perfect world. I couldn’t get through to Brian, and Devlin’s frustrated expression when I returned suggested that he’d made no progress whatsoever.

“Nothing?” I asked, just in case he was, you know, teasing me. Maybe he’d figured the whole thing out, located the assassin, and took him out of action.

He looked up, but didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

“Well, hell,” I said as I slid into the booth.

“How about you? Any luck?”

“No, goddamn it. I left him a message. Told him not to come home, to lay low, and that I’d call him back soon.” I ran my fingers through my hair, then twisted it into a knot that I held in place with the pencil sitting across Devlin’s notes. “We have to get another cell phone. One of those pay-as-you-go things.”

Page 90

“Stores aren’t open yet,” Devlin said. He leaned across the booth and plucked the pencil from

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

then tapped the paper with it. “This is our priority right now.”

He had that right.

The truth was, I didn’t even know if Brian was still alive. But if he was—and I hoped to hell he was—the only way he’d stay safe was if we played this game to the end.

A waiter swung by and delivered two sodas and a basket of fries, food I assumed that Devlin had ordered while I’d been on the phone.

I grabbed a fry and munched on it, my thoughts in a scramble. “Memory” leads toCats leads to…Man of La Mancha? That just didn’t make sense.

I tapped my pencil against the table top, looking at the clue again. “The knight’s production,” it said.

Okay, sure. But what does that mean? Did Don Quixote put on plays? He did in the story, but—

That’s it!

“It’s notMan of La Mancha ,” I said, practically yelping. “It’s Andrew Lloyd Webber.He’s the knight who put onCats .”

His grin shot straight down to my toes. “Awesome,” he said. “That’s got to be it.”

I sat back and took a long sip of my soda, feeling almost smug. We’d worked our way through the first part, and now we were on something of a roll. The rest, I thought, would be easy.

JENNIFER

Famous last words.

Five minutes later we’d gotten nowhere.

“We have to approach this methodically,” I said. “Step by step.”

“Agreed.”

“Right.” I sat up and straightened my shoulders. “So this part here talks about how the answer is on the knight’s production. So it’s onCats. Backstage, maybe? Or something during the show?”

“I doubt it’s backstage. The show’s not on Broadway anymore, and I doubt we’re supposed to chase touring productions. The clue has to be hidden someplace where we can get to it.

Someplace whoever is setting us up can get to as well.”

“So maybe it’s backstage at the originalCats theater.”

“Do you have any idea how tight security is on Broadway since 9/11? Getting backstage would be damn near impossible.”

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

“I know a ton of people,” I said. “We could call someone. Get a tour.”

He just stared at me.

“Oh. Right. Never mind.” Getting other people involved in my little drama was not a good idea. “Okay, so maybe it is on-stage. Something that happens during the show? A clue made out of one of the songs?

The stage direction? Something?”

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“Me neither,” I admitted. For one thing, since the show had closed on Broadway, how could we see the staging? For another, even if it were playing, the curtain would go up at eight, way too late for my personal version of High Noon (or High Ten, anyway). If I had to see the show to save myself, then someone had an even sicker sense of humor than I already thought.

“Let’s keep going,” Devlin said. “The rest of the message is obviously going to flesh out the first
Page 91

part.

That’s why it says ‘And will be found by following.’ Right?”

“I guess…”

“By followingOne Thing After Another, ” he said. “That was on Broadway, you said?”

“Right. I found it on the Internet. Short run in the 1930s.”

“Hmmm. Any idea what to do with that tidbit?”

“Nope. Maybe we should focus onCandide. At least that’s a show I know.”

“So who was the patroness of that show?” he asked.

“Ah. Um, well, I don’t know the show that well.” I made a face. “Actually, I don’t even know what a patroness is.”

“Maybe the producer was a woman?” he suggested.

“Maybe.” Since the answer wasn’t going to come to either of us without divine intervention, I reached for the next best thing. Honestly, how did people survive without the Internet?

“SinceThe Love Set andWhen in Rome were on Broadway, too, maybe there’s some connection between all the shows.”

“We can check.” The browser was open, and I typed “Candide” in the ibdb search box, deciding to start with it because I knew the show a little. The computer did its whirring thing, and then I was rewarded with two hits, both musical versions of the story. I slid the pad of paper we’d been using over to Devlin.

“Write down all the women,” I said. “Unless you have a better idea where to start.”

“None,” he said, and then he made a quick list:

Lillian Hellman (book)

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

Dorothy Parker (lyrics)

Genevieve Pitot (music, second version)

“It’s all very clear to me now,” he said, staring at what he’d written.

“At least it’s only three names,” I said.

“But what about them?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. Cross reference them with the other shows, I guess.”

“Click here first,” he said, tapping the screen. “That should get us more info about the show.”

“Yeah. The theater, run dates, list of songs. Pretty much the whole nine yards.” I clicked, then looked at him as I waited for the page to come up. “What do you expect to find?” I wasn’t challenging him or anything. I just wanted us to be thinking simpatico.

“The songs Parker wrote,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because she wrote short and pithy. So unless you know how to pull secret messages from music, or unless you want to read the entire script, then she’s our best bet.”

“Right,” I said. “Cross your fingers.”

We both did, and then skimmed the web page. Apparently, that version had been staged three times.

Feeling decisive, I clicked on the first one. Revivals are nice and all, but always go with the original if you can.

“Well, hell,” Devlin said as the page opened.

I agreed. No list of lyrics. “I could have sworn this database has the lyrics. I guess that’s somewhere else.”

“See if you can find them,” he said, but I was already typing. And as soon as Google came up, I entered:

“Dorothy Parker Candide Lyrics.”

The list of hits that came up sounded pretty promising, and I clicked on the first one.

Page 92

Bingo.

The page focused on one of the revival performances, but I didn’t care because there, at the bottom of the page, was a section called “Lyric Credits.”

“There,” Devlin said, pointing to the screen.

“ ‘The Venice Gavotte,’ ” I read. “Lyrics by Richard Wilbur and Dorothy Parker.” I looked up at Devlin with a frown. “What the hell is a gavotte?”

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

“No clue. But I’ll take an educated guess that it’s some sort of dance.”

I headed over to Dictionary.com to check out that little theory. Sure enough, a “gavotte” is a French peasant dance. And as soon as I read that, I tossed my arms around Devlin and planted a wet one on his mouth.

“Mmm,” he said. “If we keep making such great progress on this clue, we’re going to end up rolling around naked by the time ten rolls around.”

“So long as we’ve made sure that my pretty little ass is safe,” I countered, “that’s perfectly fine with me.”

Our eyes met and held, and a wonderful burst of lust tingled up my spine. I remembered the way he’d felt against me in the hotel, not to mention the heat I’d seen in his eyes.Wow.

I sighed and made a conscious effort to move two inches away.So not the time. “We have to be good,”

I said. “The clue. Solve the clue and then we’ll talk. Or more.” I spoke more cavalierly than I felt, but what else could I do? Blush bright red and hide under the table? Not damn likely.

“Such incentive,” he said. He shot me one more quick grin, then focused on our notes. I exhaled, relieved to be back to the status quo. At least I knew how to act in my freaky PSW scenario. I mean, how hard is hysteria? But I’m never sure of the role I should play when dealing with men.

Especially men

I’m hot for. (I know the theoretical answer is that I should just act naturally. Trust me. That one never works.)

“So now we know that the thing we’re looking for is at the gathering place of Dorothy Parker,”

he said.

“That makes no sense whatsoever.”

“Agreed. Did she ever do a play at the Winter Garden Theater?” he asked, naming the theater where

Cats played for years.

I typed a search into Google, then surveyed the hits. “No, butWest Side Story opened at the Winter

Garden, and both it andCandide were by Leonard Bernstein.”

“I have no idea where that takes us,” Devlin said.

“Me either.”

We stared at each other, then Devlin shook his head slowly. “Just write it down. We just need to keep going. Something else will jump out at us.”

I nodded and made a note. But there was light seeping through the windows now, and ten was barreling down. If something was going to jump out at us, I sure hoped it would do it soon.

More, I hoped it was an answer…and not an assassin.

DEVLIN

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

Page 93

Jennifer hunched over the computer, and Devlin felt a pang in his heart. This girl—this flighty woman who’d never faced anything more serious than a run in her pantyhose—was digging in and focusing like a pro.

Even more, as much as she was working to save her own ass, he knew she was also intending to save him, too. Could she? That didn’t really matter much. What got him in the gut was that she wanted to try.

She didn’t even know him, but she was damn sure going to try to save him. And he had a feeling she wanted to save more than just his life. This girl wanted to save the man.

Who else in his life could he say that about?