The Manolo Matrix (6 page)

For the moment, at least, I was safe.

I dropped back into my desk chair. In front of me, the PSW message screen seemed to leer, and suddenly my little Manolo victory seemed entirely pyrrhic.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And, just for the hell of it…Fuck.

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I didn’t know what to do. I might be the calm leading lady, but the fact was that I didn’t have a script. I

didn’t know if I should be terrified (I was), proactive (how?), or if I should go hide under my
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bed

(appealing). All I knew was that this message signaled the start of a deadly game. And somehow, someway, I was now right smack dab in the center of it.

Unless it was a hoax!

The possibility gave me something to cling to, and I started spinning scenarios in my head: Mel was irritated that I wasn’t supporting her attempts to figure out who was behind her ordeal last year. And so she’d sent this email to give me a taste of her medicine. That’s why she wasn’t answering her phone. And when shedid answer, I’d be pissed, but I’d have to agree that I sort of understood now.

It was a wonderful scenario, but I knew it was only fiction. And since Mel still wasn’t answering her phone, there was only one way to find out. I picked up the phone again, then called the automated system at my bank. If the money wasn’t there, I was fine. It was just a stupid trick.

I waited, drumming my fingers on the table as the voice went through the entire intro message, then punched in my account number, then 1 to retrieve my balance: $20,157.43.

The one-hundred fifty-seven I’d been expecting. The twenty thou meant I was screwed. Even Mel wouldn’t transfer huge sums just to prove a point. This wasn’t a hoax, and I grabbed my cell phone once again and dialed 911.

“911 operator. What is your emergency?”

I stared at the phone, thinking about the message. “Expressly forbidden,” it said. And I also remembered something Mel had told me about how she and Matthew hadn’t called in the cops to help them, not until it was all over. Breaking the rules, Mel had said, would have been bad, bad, bad.

“Please state your emergency.”

“I…I’m sorry. I accidentally punched a speed-dial number. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Miss? What is your location?”

“I’m fine, really. I’m sorry. I’m okay. Bye.” I snapped my phone shut, then looked around frantically, half-expecting armed assassins to descend from ropes from my roof, machine guns ready to take me out.

I’d broken a rule. I’d called the authorities. I didn’t remember exactly what the consequences were, and

I wondered if I’d just fucked myself over royally.

There was something perverse about convincing myself that I didn’t want the police riding to my rescue, but I told myself I’d done the right thing. Someone had just sucked me into a game that was played to the death. I didn’t know enough yet to risk disobeying the message.

Mel had survived, but Mel is smart. Hell, Mel is a Mensa-certified genius.

I couldn’t even get a callback audition.

My mom had always told me that the odds of making it on Broadway were slim. But right then, I’d be more than happy to take those odds. Because I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that the

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odds of surviving this game were even slimmer. Plus, now I wanted my mom. I didn’t call her, though.

What could I say that wouldn’t make her call the cops?

Without a plan or the police, and fueled only by adrenaline, I got up, sat down, got up, sat down, then got up again. Something familiar had tickled my brain, but I couldn’t remember what.

Out of frustration, I grabbed my phone and dialed Mel again. Not too surprisingly, I still got no answer.

Okay. Fine. Obviously I was in this on my own. I could handle that. I might not be a genius, but I
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wasn’t an idiot either. I sat myself back down in the seat, looked at the screen, and tried to think what to do.

First thing, what did I know?

Well, just from the message, I knew that even though I’d definitely been sucked into a terrifying situation, I wasn’t the one whose ass was on the line. At least, not directly. Because I wasn’t the target in the game. Instead, I was the protector. (Which, frankly, made me feel a little sorry for Mr. Devlin Brady. I

mean, I’m qualified to do a lot of jobs, from waitress to receptionist to makeup consultant.

Bodyguard, however, is not on the list.)

And that’s when I remembered: That little tickle in my brain was because of Devlin Brady.

Devlin Brady was the FBI agent who’d investigated Mel’s case.

And nowI supposed to protecthim?

This was not computing in a big way. How the hell was I supposed to protect an FBI agent?

But then I realized that I was looking at this all the wrong way. Maybe this was a good thing. The man had a gun and a badge, right? If he couldn’t watch his own back—and mine, too—then who could?

DEVLIN

Devlin only remembered because of the panties.

He’d dropped his goddamn beer, and he was bent over sopping up the mess when his fingers had brushed a bit of satin under the sofa. He’d tugged it out with two fingers, the light from the television illuminating the pale pink panties. Panties that brought back a rush of memory highlighted by a wash of self-loathing.

God, he’d been a fool. When was that? Yesterday? The day before? He couldn’t remember; it was too much of a blur. All he remembered was picking up the girl. Fucking the girl. Forgetting the girl. And all in the hopes of forgetting his own damn problems.

Hadn’t worked.

Now he sat on the couch, the panties in his hands, feeling lost and disgusted.

And, once again, alone.

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Frustrated, he shoved the balled-up panties down into the couch cushions to rot with the loose change and old Cheetos. Then he just sat on the couch in the dark and tried to lose himself once again.

Didn’t work.

The shades were drawn in the apartment, the black-out kind, designed for people who worked at night and slept during the day. Devlin didn’t care about that. All he’d wanted when he’d pulled the shades weeks ago was darkness. All he’d wanted was to forget. Forget his partner, dead and buried. Forget the investigation that was either going to clear him or crucify him.

Forget every goddamn thing.

Lately, though, that was getting harder and harder.

Had he really nailed the girl just so he’d have a reason to escape from his thoughts? From the fucking mess his life had become?

He sat there like a slug, miserable and drained, as colors flashed from the television, illuminating the room with images fromGilligan’s Island. Or maybe it wasBewitched. He hadn’t bothered to look up once, and even now, with the television right in front of him, he didn’t care enough to look at the screen.

It was just television. He didn’t give a fuck about television. He told himself he didn’t give a fuck about anything.

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Disgusted, he shoved himself up off the couch, kicking the take-out containers that littered the floor in front of him out of the way. He stumbled to the kitchen, then turned the water on in the sink. He leaned forward, staring down at the Indian food stuck to his cheap plastic plates, glasses half-filled with watered-down scotch, apple cores, pizza crusts, and half a dozen other unrecognizable food products. In short, a disgusting mess. If anything, the mess gave him some minor degree of satisfaction. He wasn’t a complete basket case. Not yet, anyway. Because at the very least, he was still remembering to eat.

Idly, he wondered if he’d bought the girl dinner. He doubted it. Somehow, he didn’t think that chivalry had been on his mind.

Devlin shoved his hands under the running water, then splashed his face. The back of his neck ached, and he rubbed his wet hand along his hairline, trying to ease the tension.

Three sharp raps sounded at the door. Automatically, Devlin’s hand went for his hip…and the gun that was no longer there.Fuck.

The pounding sounded again. Who the hell was that? Had to be a resident. No way for an outsider to get past Evan. The building’s concierge wasn’t tipped better than a starlight whore at Christmas for nothing. The man had some serious cajones on him. If Evan didn’t want someone in the building, then that someone wasn’t coming into the building. Simple as that.

Again the sound. Devlin considered ignoring it, but the truth was he was craving distraction.

He’d either answer the door now or crawl down to a pub at midnight looking for another woman who could make him forget.

He eased down the hallway silently, avoiding the one parquet tile that squeaked when you stepped on it just so. He settled in next to the door, reconsidered whether he really wanted to do this, then finally

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called out, “Who’s there?”

“Oh, Agent Brady! Thank goodness. I could hear the television, and then when you didn’t answer the door I thought—Well, let’s just say I was worried.”

Devlin rubbed the bridge of his nose and considered going back to the couch. But then Annabel rapped again. “Agent Brady! Now you open this up right this second. I want to take a look at you.”

The television he could tune out, but not his neighbor, and so he unlocked the door and tugged it open.

And as he leaned against the door frame, he looked down from his two-foot advantage into the cloudy gray eyes of Annabel Carson, resident, apartment 12B.

She took a step back, shaking her head and making the kind oftsk-tsk noises his grandmother used to make. When it came right down to it, that’s probably why he let her in. It wasn’t like he could slam the door on Grandma.

In the hallway, she looked Devlin up and down, this inspection even more intense than the last.

“Agent

Brady, you look terrible.”

He shrugged. This was hardly breaking news. “Then I guess there’s some justice in the world, Annabel, because I feel terrible, too.”

“And what are you doing about it?”

Sitting in the dark, feeling sorry for himself, screwing around, eating only when he had to. To Annabel, he just said, “I’m coping. I’ll be fine.”

“Will you? When? It’s been two weeks since the shooting.”

He flinched at her bluntness. Even his buddies at the field office had danced around it, calling the shooting “the incident.” OPR had been more bold, of course, especially when they’d confiscated his weapon and sent him off into exile. That had raised some eyebrows. Time off
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after a shooting was par for the course. But the suits in the Office of Professional Responsibility only confiscated your weapon and badge if they thought the shooting was dirty. If they thoughthe was dirty. Bastards. Wasn’t it enough that he had to live with killing his partner? If you could call what he was doing living….

As for Annabel, she didn’t seem to expect an answer, and she just barreled on. “You need to get out, young man. You need fresh air. Friends and family.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Mmmm.” Her appraising look peeled over him one more time, and this time he shifted uncomfortably, fearing that maybe old Annabel Carson, with her tea cozy décor and Lawrence Welk sensibilities, might be seeing more in him than he wanted her to. “What were you doing when I knocked?”

“Mrs. Carson…” He left the question unanswered, but managed to infuse his voice with a hint of warning. It was a tone that had silenced numerous unfriendly witnesses.

It wasn’t silencing Annabel. “Don’t you ‘Mrs. Carson’ me, young man. You were sitting in here in the dark watching television, weren’t you?”

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“There’s a lot of quality programming on cable these days.”

That almost earned him a smile, and Devlin was amazed to realize how much lighter his heart felt.

“All right, Devlin. Have you got a hammer and nails?”

Although he had a feeling that any answer would be the wrong one, Devlin answered that, yes, he had those particular tools.

“Good. Go get them. I’ll wait here.”

He opened his mouth to ask why—no, to tell Mrs. Carson that she could purchase her own hammer and nails for under twenty bucks at the hardware store on the corner—but some gremlin ordered him to keep his mouth shut. He left her standing in the doorway, then headed to the kitchen where he rummaged around under the sink until he found the small plastic tool chest. Dutifully, he lugged it back to the door, feeling a little like a prized puppy when she nodded approval and said, “Good.”

He started to hand it to her, but she didn’t take the thing. Instead, she pointed to the hook just inside the door, and the key ring hanging there. “You might want to lock up.”

“I might?”

“You can never be too careful, can you?”

He agreed that you couldn’t, and grabbed his keys, now fully aware that he was being handled.

“Want to tell me what we’re doing?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m curious,” he admitted.

“Good. Means you’re alive.” She took her own key out—apparently she’d locked up even though she’d never been out of sight of her own door not ten feet away. “Spring cleaning. I’ve got stacks of boxes with things that need sorting, old bills to be filed, and at least a dozen pictures I need to hang.

You’re helping me.”

He honestly meant to protest, to tell his well-meaning but interfering neighbor that he’d be going back to his couch andGilligan’s Island or whatever it was. And good luck getting those pictures straight. But when he opened his mouth, all he said was, “It’s March.”

“I’m starting early.” She reached out and squeezed his hand, her wrinkled skin soft and cool in his palm.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t have any reason to. Because even though he might not want to admit it to her or to himself, the truth was that he knew this was about more than helping Annabel
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