The Givenchy Code (21 page)

A
s they walked into St. Patrick’s the next morning, Stryker genuflected automatically, even though it had been years since he’d set foot inside a church. He hadn’t been to Mass since his mother had gotten sick more than two years ago. As soon as he’d heard the news, he’d left the service, calling Riley to take him up on the offer of a job as long as Stryker could work from Jersey instead of D.C.

Riley had agreed, of course, and Stryker had gone home to Jersey City to be with his mother. He hadn’t seen her in three years, and she’d lost weight and her skin had taken on a sallow, plastic quality. Her eyes had been the same, though. Sparkling with warmth and humor. And when she’d opened her arms wide and flashed that familiar smile, the sick woman in the doorway had once again become his mother.

He’d prayed that night one last time, begging God not to steal this vibrant woman from him.

God hadn’t listened. And Stryker had stopped listening for God.

“Are you okay?” Mel had her hand on his shoulder, arching up on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. They were at the back of the cathedral, waiting for the priest to pass and the churchgoers to filter out now that Mass had ended.

He shook his head, as much to clear it as to tell her he didn’t want to talk about it. She looked at him for a moment but didn’t argue. Good. He wasn’t up for arguing with her, and he’d been half afraid that she’d go all female on him, thinking that sleeping together gave her license to pick at his feelings. He didn’t want to be picked. He just wanted to protect her. And, so help him, he wanted her in his bed again.

Beside him, she was gazing into the church with pure wonder. He understood the expression. The cathedral was stunning, like something transplanted out of Europe. Stone columns rising to a domed ceiling, stained glass everywhere, and so much detail that you had to believe it took masons centuries to complete the place. The place seemed to be made of arches, and he leaned over to whisper to Mel. “Are any of these arches the catenary thing? Like in St. Louis?”

“Could be,” she said. She peered around. “Someone must know about the architecture of this place.”

He tugged her sideways, then, easing them over to the Information desk. An elderly man with a ruddy face and piercing green eyes smiled at them. “Can I be of some help to you, then?” he asked, his Irish lilt seeming to fill the hall. Stryker couldn’t help but smile.

“We were wondering if you knew about the architecture. Are any of these arches a catenary curve?”

“Ah, well, that I couldn’t tell you. Mildred might know, but she’s in Pittsburgh this week for her daughter’s wedding.”

“How about someone who could give us a tour?” Stryker asked. If they walked through the place, maybe Mel would see what they needed.

“I’ve been a member since I was in diapers and a volunteer since I lost my Sadie back in ’eighty-three. I think I ought to do just fine. Paddy O’Shea. The pleasure’s mine.” He peered at them through spectacles as he stepped out from behind the booth, signaling for the short, dark-haired woman beside him to staff the desk. “Anything in particular you’re interested in? The stained glass? Cathedral history? I don’t know arches from anything, but the rest I’ve got right up here.” He tapped his temple as he walked past them into the nave. He started down the aisle toward the altar, not waiting for their answer and instead throwing out tidbits of information: the size of the cathedral, the year it was built, the architect, and enough other factual trivia to make Stryker’s head swim.

“See that,” he said, stopping and pointing to the baldachin over the main altar. “Solid bronze. Amazing, isn’t it?”

“Are there any statues of the saints?”

“Well, sure.” He peered at Matthew. “You’re looking for Saint Michael.”

Beside him, Mel gasped. “We are. How did you know?”

The old man cocked his thumb toward Stryker. “That boy’s a soldier through and through. Couldn’t slouch if his life depended on it. Must be looking for his patron, eh?”

Mel laughed, flashing a smile toward Stryker that tugged at his gut. He liked seeing her laugh. It erased the strain from her face and filled her with light. “You’re right,” she said, “but we’re looking for St. Louis, too. Do you have them both here?”

“Well, of course we do. The St. Michael and St. Louis altar. Right there by the Lady Chapel.”

“What did you say?” Mel whispered. “What altar?”

“It’s called the St. Michael and St. Louis altar. Right beautiful it is, too. Would you like to see it?”

“Absolutely,” Mel said. To Stryker, she added, “That has to be it. Everything fits. But what’s the next clue?”

“Clue?” Paddy asked as he led them further into the cathedral.

“It’s kind of a game,” Stryker said as they followed. They’d turned to the left, moving up some stairs next to the main altar. They passed the organ, though it seemed more that they passed through it, with the organ on their right and the pipes on their left and the intricately carved wood surrounding them.

They moved down a passageway past a series of doors until Paddy signaled for them to stop. They were just to the left of the Lady Chapel, essentially behind the high altar. “There it is,” Paddy said, indicating the white Carrara marble altar. It had a Gothic feel to it, with three towering, intricately carved spires over three niches. The middle spire rose the highest, marking the altar cross. The niches to the left and right contained statues of St. Louis and St. Michael, respectively. Behind the altar was a stained-glass window, through which a stream of light now passed, a warm purple with bits of dust dancing in the colors. A small altar rail surrounded the area, complete with red velvet kneelers, effectively keeping them from getting close enough to inspect the altar in more detail.

“A game, eh?” Paddy said, his voice low in deference to the altar and the nearby Lady Chapel. “You tell me what you’re looking for, and maybe I can help you. Otherwise, can’t see that I’m doing much good here.”

“We’re not—” Stryker began, but Mel cut him off.

“A scavenger hunt,” she said, giving him an apologetic little shrug. “I know it sounds silly, but this altar is a clue. We’re just not sure what the clue is.”

“Ah, I see. A bit of the wild-goose chase, then.”

“Something like that.”

“So a clue led you to the altar, and now the altar will lead you to a prize?”

“Essentially.”

“Well, I don’t think there could be a message actually waiting for you here. Off limits, don’t you know.”

Stryker nodded. “It must be something about the altar. Something that points the way to something else.”

“The direction the saints are facing, maybe?” Mel suggested, though without much enthusiasm.

“Oh, no, my dear. That’s not it. The clue is obvious, though what you’ll find when you’ll follow it is a mystery to me. You’ll come back and tell an old man?”

“If you can tell me what the clue is, I promise I’ll tell you where it leads.”

“Tiffany’s, of course. What would have a better prize?”

“Tiffany’s?” Mel asked, her face reflecting Stryker’s confusion. “You mean Tiffany & Co. down the street? Diamonds and crystal and bridal registries Tiffany’s?”

“That’ll be the one. You’ll be finding your next clue there. Mark my words.”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Stryker said. “What makes you so certain?”

“The altar, of course. The altar was built by Tiffany& Co.”

“Mr. O’Shea, you’re
my
patron saint.” Mel took the man by the shoulders and kissed him on each cheek. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Well, now…” His already ruddy cheeks colored even more, and he shuffled a bit. “Unless you want more of a tour, I’d best be getting back to my post.”

“We’re fine,” Stryker said. “Thanks again.” As Paddy headed toward the front of the cathedral, Stryker turned to Mel. “Ready to go shopping?”

“On Fifth Avenue? I can’t wait.” Her eyes danced, and color lit her face as well. They’d figured out another clue, and they were on their way. He hoped her happiness lasted. The clues were getting harder and harder, and the stakes were still just as high.

She started to walk past him back toward the aisle, but he reached out a hand to stop her. “Wait. There’s something I want to do.”

He moved toward the shrine next to the Lady Chapel, then knelt and took a candle, dropping an offering into the little box. He lit the candle and bowed his head. He hadn’t prayed in years, but it felt right to be there now asking for help from some power higher than himself, and the words came easily to his lips.

When he stood up, Mel was behind him, her face a wash of compassion. “Are you okay?”

“I was asking Mary to pray for you. To pray for your protection.”

“Thanks, but wasn’t that a waste of a prayer?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just that your prayer’s already been answered,” she said, taking his hand and flashing a smile that cut right through him. “I have you.”

S
t. Patrick’s may be heaven on Fifth Avenue to some. To me, heaven was Fifth Avenue itself. More specifically, the shops that line Fifth Avenue.

Ironic, then, that as we moved down the avenue with all deliberate speed—passing all the stores I lust after on a regular basis—I couldn’t have cared less.

All of them just passing me by. And me with a man carrying significant cash on his person. Really, I didn’t care at all. (Well, had we passed Manolo, I might have cared a little, but fortunately it’s not on the route, and I didn’t have to suffer the agony of not going in.)

I’ll confess to feeling a little OHMYGOD twinge as we rushed through the doors of Tiffany’s. Most girls go there with their husbands or fiancés (or lovers or rich daddies). I was there to save my own life.

That sobered me up
tout de suite.

The clerk who approached us wore her hair piled up, making her resemble Audrey Hepburn in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s,
a little tidbit that I’m sure wasn’t lost on her. “May I help you?”

Now that the question was out there, I realized I had no clue what to say. We’d made the trek up Fifth in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. I was so giddy about knowing where to go for the next clue that I hadn’t given a thought as to how we’d recognize that clue in the first place.

Fortunately, Stryker wasn’t as tongue-tied as me. “A friend called. He told us he’d bought a present for my girlfriend, and that we could pick it up here. Has anything been left for Melanie Prescott?”

Girlfriend?
I turned the word over in my head and decided I liked it. Yeah, I think I liked it a lot.

As “Audrey Hepburn” headed back behind the counter to look for the mysterious package, I leaned toward Stryker. “Are you sure?” I whispered.

“Not at all. Got any other suggestions?”

“I’ve got nothing. I suppose there could be a message scribbled on the bathroom walls, but this place seems too posh. They’d probably paint over the message before I had time to find it.” I made a face. “I hope you’re right. If not, it’s back to visit Paddy and see if he has any other helpful ideas.”

Audrey reemerged carrying a clipboard. “We have several items waiting for pickup at the moment. What was your name again?” She looked at me, her pen poised to write.

“Melanie Prescott.”

She flipped pages, her pen moving down the paper. “I’m sorry, that name’s not on the list.”

“Ah.” Okay. Now what? “Um, he has a silly nickname for me. And I, um, can’t imagine he’d actually give the name out to anyone. But maybe he’d use the initials? Is there a PSW?”

I held my breath, but I was certain it would be there. It had to be. If it wasn’t, we were screwed, because I was fresh out of ideas.

Once again, she flipped through the list. A tiny little shake of the head, and I knew what the answer would be. “Sorry. Nothing like that on the list.”

“Oh. Um…”

“Would he have put it under any other nicknames, sweetie?” Stryker asked. To the helpful “Miss Hepburn,” he said, “Our friend Lynx is such a kidder.”

She tapped the clipboard, ever efficient, but not nearly as patient. “Shall I check for that name?”

“Yes,” Stryker said. “Please.”

Once again, I held my breath. Once again, she shook her head.

I sighed. Obviously Stryker had wasted an intercession. He should have lit a candle and asked Mary to pray that we’d figure out this stupid clue.

I cocked my head, that ridiculous thought spurring another. “You know,” I said, “Lynx might have left it in your name.”

Stryker gave me a look that suggested he thought I’d lost my mind, but he went with it. “Possible. Try—”

“Michael,” I said, effectively cutting him off. “Michael Louis.”

Again with the pen down the page, and the whole thing was so familiar that I was half-cocked to walk away when she gave us the news.

“I’ve got a Louis Michaels,” she said.

“Right,” Stryker said, not missing a beat. “That’s me.”

“Hepburn’s” brow furrowed as she peered at me. I shrugged. “You’re working off a list. I figured last name first…”

I wasn’t entirely sure she believed me, and my uncertainty morphed into full-blown negativity when she asked Stryker for his identification.

“Dammit, honey,” I said. “I told you to bring your wallet.” I shot her a look that I hoped suggested a female bonding moment. “He never listens to me.” The corner of her mouth quirked, and I, encouraged, rushed on. “I understand you can’t let us leave with it—we can come back tomorrow with his license—but could we at least take a peek?”

“Well, I don’t know. That’s not really—”

“I know it’s awkward,” I said, rushing on. “But we’re seeing Lynx later this afternoon and I know he’s going to ask if I like it.”

“You’d really be helping us out of a jam,” Stryker added.

She licked her lips, then glanced around the store, probably checking to see if her manager was watching. Finally she nodded. “Okay. A peek.” I swear I wanted to kiss her, but I held back, figuring she’d only appreciate the gesture if it came from Stryker.

When she emerged again from the back room, she was carrying the trademark Tiffany’s blue box, this one about the size of a shoe box. She opened it, fought her way past layers of packing material, and emerged with an engraved crystal plaque.

“How, um, nice,” I said. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “It’s a bit big to be a paperweight.”

So it was. The thing was about eight inches long, four inches wide and one inch thick. Solid crystal, with something etched on top. I leaned in for a closer look, Stryker right beside me. I heard his sharp intake of breath and knew that he’d realized the same thing I had. This was it. This was our clue.

“Oh, this is why,” “Hepburn” said. She was looking at the paperwork. “A special order.” She glanced down at the message and then up at me. “Does that mean something to you?”

“He likes to play games,” I said. “Could I borrow a pencil and a sheet of paper?”

We might not be able to take the plaque with us, but at least we could take the message.

Secret roi urn,

For Rebecca:

552:2, 9:15, 36:6, 602:6, 635:67, 274:9, 800:67, 642:54, 641:9, 148:53, 45:30, 51:7, 161:14.