The Givenchy Code (3 page)

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New Message:

To: SemperFi

From: Identity Blocked

Subject: Funding

Advance payment deposited your account, 09:00 hours. Amount: $20,000.

Client name: Melanie Lynn Prescott. Additional funds to be delivered upon successful completion of mission.

Game commences: 12:01 a.m.

Good luck.

>Player Profile Attached: MLP_Profile.doc<<<

>Click to Download<<<

Matthew Stryker read the message four times, but each time it stayed exactly the same.
It was starting again.

He’d been drinking beer and eating leftover lasagna when he’d logged on, and now the food roiled in his stomach, threatening to come right back up. He stumbled to the kitchen sink and twisted the tap, letting the cold water flow. He stuck his head down and drank straight from the faucet, then tilted his head and let the stream pummel his face.

The blast of cold water got his mind off his stomach, so that was a plus. But nothing he did could make the real problem go away.

He thought of Jamie Tate, dead on the floor in a pool of her own blood. Because of him. Because he hadn’t believed.

His gut clenched again, and he pressed the back of his wrist to his mouth until the nausea passed. Then, with his hands still clutching the Formica countertop, he turned his head just enough so that his laptop came into view, the blue screen seeming both ominous and uniquely important. Something that compelled and commanded him.

This time, Stryker knew, he would obey.

With trepidation, he approached the machine, like a hunter stalking a wild and dangerous beast. He bent down and put his finger on the trackball, then maneuvered over until he could click on the attachment:
MLP_Profile.doc.
He held his breath and clicked.

The computer hummed, then a Microsoft Word file opened. Innocuous enough, the document could easily have been a résumé. Name, address, phone. Educational background. Hobbies. A photo, too. A striking girl standing in front of a cage, a lion stalking in the background. The sun had caught her hair just right, and it sparkled like spun gold, vivid even on his computer screen. She was tall and poised and looked straight at the camera, her smile reflecting both confidence and joy.

Whenever that picture had been taken, it had been a good day.

Stryker focused on the name at the top of the page: Melanie Lynn Prescott. He rubbed his temples, the headache returning with full force. For Melanie Lynn, he knew, the good days were fast coming to a close.

“You’re next, Melanie,” he whispered. “And God help us both.”

“W
ant to grab a cocktail next?” Jenn asked. We were in Bloomingdale’s, perched on stools in front of the MAC Studio counter.

I made what I hoped was an affirmative sound—I couldn’t actually speak because the salesgirl had her hand on my face and was concentrating on lining my lips with MAC’s latest variation of burgundy liner.

So far, we’d been shopping for almost four hours. We’d started on Fifth Avenue, window-shopping our way past Tiffany’s, Gucci and the like. Then we’d backtracked to57th and headed east, rehashing the whole Todd situation as we walked—“I know you have to go there tonight to get the message, but do
not
sleep with him!”

Since I had absolutely no intention of sleeping with my ex, we’d run through that line of conversation pretty quickly, and we’d moved on to other important topics: the new waiter at Stardust that Jenn thought was cute, my prospects (or lack thereof) in the dating world, whether we had any chance in hell of finding a pair of Manolos on eBay for less than a hundred and fifty. We’d had a moment of reverential silence in front of Prada, then we’d continued our chatter all the way into Borders at 57th and Park, where we’d both bought lattes at the second floor café (our first purchases of the day) before heading back outside.

By that time, my Visa had been itching to be used, and we’d headed to Bloomie’s. I’d planned to head straight up to the second floor to see if they were having a sale on Juicy Couture, but Jenn needed some new blush for the trip, so we’d gotten waylaid on the first floor in makeup. When the MAC girl had offered me a quick mini-makeover, I hadn’t been able to say no.

“You’re not getting this because of Todd, are you?” Jenn asked suspiciously.

I turned my head as much as the girl, who’d moved on to my cheeks, would allow. “Are you nuts? I broke up with him, remember?”

“
I
know you broke up. I’m just hoping you remember
why
you broke up. He obviously wants you back.”

I frowned and was immediately chastised by the woman for moving too much. So I sat stone-faced and considered Jenn’s theory. Todd probably did want me back (which I’ll admit was nice for my ego). After all, he’d gone to great lengths to find me earlier and to get me to his apartment tonight. But the feeling wasn’t mutual. I’d done the right thing breaking up with him, and I had no desire to go back. Except to get my message, of course.

The girl finished my makeover and passed me a mirror. I have to say, I looked amazing. I’m no slouch at putting on makeup, but this girl had made me look like a model, all air-brushed and perfect. My eyes, under the benefit of skillfully applied mascara, eyeliner and shadow, appeared huge and more blue than usual. My cheekbones seemed high and aristocratic. And my lips…well, they looked pouty and kissable.

In short, I looked fantastic. And I had absolutely no one to show myself off to. Except Todd. Well, damn.

Always an optimist, I bought the whole lot of products she’d used—doing serious damage to my credit card in the process. I’d have other dates, after all. And with practice, I’d learn how to put the makeup on just as perfectly as she’d done. At the very least, I’d come close.

We made a quick run through the second floor, where Jenn talked herself out of a hot pink Betsey Johnson skirt. Jenn’s willpower can be very impressive at times. Instead, we headed to the eighth floor, and she bought a stuffed bear for her soon-to-be-born niece. After that, we meandered back to the first floor and the men’s department, then headed out the exit at Lexington and 60th.

The summer heat hit me like a wall, and I realized that Bloomie’s icy air-conditioning must have frozen my brain. “No cocktails,” I said. “The idea is great but I’m going to Todd’s. I need to be sober.”

“Say no more.” Jenn looked around, sizing up our location, then pointed east. “We’ll go to Serendipity,” she announced. “You’re spending the evening with an ex; you need chocolate.”

Tucked into an old brownstone a few blocks from Bloomingdale’s, Serendipity is a popular ice cream parlor/restaurant that’s a favorite first-date location. It’s past the point of trendy, having moved on to touristy, but I still love it, despite the inevitable thirty-minute wait for a table. Actually, I love the frozen hot chocolates, and as soon as Jenn and I were settled at one of the old-fashioned soda-shop-style tables, we ordered two. Since each one comes in a bowl large enough to feed a small nation, I’ll admit to a certain level of gluttony. But I’d gone to the gym before walking the dogs, so I had caloric equity in my personal portfolio.

Besides, this was my lunch. And my dinner, too, unless I got lucky and Todd had food in his apartment.

“So how long are you going to be gone?” I asked after I’d made a significant dent in my lunch/dessert/whatever.

“Two weeks. They’re inducing tomorrow, and I’m going to be there for that. Then I’m going to help Lisa with the baby until my mom flies out. We’ll overlap for a few days, and then she’s going to stay on a full month. After Mom, Katie’s going to come stay for another two weeks,” Jenn added, referring to her other sister. “After that, Jake’s going to take paternity leave when Lisa goes back to work.”

“You’re going to have so much fun,” I said. “In a crying-baby-tired-family kind of way, I mean.”

“I know,” she said with a grin. “I can’t wait.”

I believed her, too. Chances were she’d be stuck in the house with an exhausted sister and a crying baby, and then later a doting first-time grandmother. It would be chaos, and I totally envied her. Not only am I an only child, but I also figure that if I ever have a kid, my mom will send a gift certificate for Nannys “R” Us. Not the maternal type, my mom.

Jenn rummaged in her bags, then pulled out a sales receipt. She scribbled a number on it, then passed it to me. “My sister’s house,” she said. “In case there’s no cell service. Call if you want to talk after you see Todd. Or if you need anything at all.”

I nodded, dutifully tucking the number in my back pocket. But I knew I wouldn’t call. We’d already rehashed the Todd situation; and since I wasn’t going to sleep with him, nothing was going to change on that front.

And I couldn’t think of anything else that would be so important that I’d have to interrupt my best friend while her sister was having a baby. My life just wasn’t that dramatic.

T
odd’s studio apartment isn’t too far from Bloomie’s, so when Jenn headed for the subway, I caught a cab to 72nd and York. Todd buzzed me in, and I headed on up. Two minutes later I was in his apartment, the heavenly smell of curry, rogan josh and nan surrounding me and making my stomach rumble.

“I figured you’d want to stay in,” Todd said. “So you could work on your message.”

“Either that or you were afraid that if you didn’t feed me I’d just grab the envelope and leave.”

“That too,” he said, and I had to smile. At least he was honest.

Besides, I was there and hungry, the spicy scents only making me more so. If I’d gone home, I’d only have gone back to an empty apartment. I might as well stay there. Todd might not be able to cook worth a damn, but he orders the best takeout of anyone I know. And Indian food is my absolute favorite.

“So where is it?” I asked.

He nodded toward his futon couch, which doubled as a bed. My envelope was right there, on the side with the reading lamp. On the coffee table in front, he’d put out a couple of plates and opened all the takeout boxes. He’d even poured a glass of wine. If the man was trying to win me back, he was on the right track.

“I ordered extra nan,” he said, and I swear I almost kissed him. I adore the pitalike bread and always eat way more than an Atkins-friendly portion.

Todd and I settled in at the couch, and after I’d heaped my plate full, I slipped the message out of the envelope, studying it as I chowed down. To be honest, I could tell right away this wasn’t going to take a lot of effort, and I experienced a sudden dissipation of respect for my secret admirer, rather akin to the flushing of a toilet.
Whoosh!
All that esteem just went spiraling down into oblivion. I mean, really. You’d think someone willing to encrypt a secret message or fantabulous invitation could have come up with something at least a
little
challenging.

“So what
is
that thing, anyway?” Todd asked, resting a hand on my thigh as he leaned closer. I didn’t shrug it off; in fact, it felt kind of nice. Not sparks—the only sparks I’d ever had with Todd had been generated between the sheets—but comfortable. I’d been W.B. (without boyfriend) for over six months now, and I could feel my soul yearning to slide back into the familiar cocoon of coupledom. Where relationships are concerned, I’m weak and pathetic. I know this, but we all have our crosses to bear.

I concentrated on his question, trying to ignore his breath against my ear. “It’s a pigpen code,” I said.

“Of course it is.” The hand lifted, and I took a breath. “Want to tell me what that means?”

I was already making notes with a felt tip on the Styrofoam container the curry came in, trying to work out exactly how this cipher was constructed. “Fences,” I said. “See how each letter is like a little box?” I drew a basic pigpen.

“The letters are‘fenced,’ and so that’s how the code got its name.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, clearly not following.

“Trust me, it’s cool. Confederate soldiers used codes like these during the Civil War. Just give me a sec to work it out….” I tapped the pen against my teeth, thinking. I could tell from the placement of the dots within each “fence” of the message that I was dealing with a four-character pigpen, which is what I’d drawn for Todd. But I’d plugged in a few letters and come up with gibberish.

I took another bite of sag paneer as I pondered what to try next. Was I dealing with a code in a code? Or maybe I’d drawn the wrong key. Maybe this key ran vertical instead of horizontal? I tried that, creating my decryption device by writing the alphabet and first ten digits down instead of across, so that I had A, B, C where before I had had A, M, Y. Still pretty simplistic. Would it work?

Three minutes later I had my answer. It worked like a charm…and I didn’t like the result. Not one little bit.

“What kind of a sick son of a bitch would send me a coded message like
that?”
I stood up and circled the table, and now I was standing facing Todd and pointing down at the table with an accusing finger. I’d written the decoded message across the pastel pink takeout menu:

PLAY

OR

DIE

***

PRESTIGE

PARK

39A 89225

“What do you think it means?” Todd asked.

“I don’t
care,”
I said. And I didn’t. I don’t like scary movies, I don’t like surprise parties, and I certainly didn’t like strange, creepy messages…no matter how tall, dark and handsome the messenger might have been.

“It’s probably from someone in your study group,” Todd said. His voice was low, meant to soothe. Wasn’t working.

“Well, screw them,” I said, still fighting goose bumps. Play or
die???
What kind of a freak sends a message like that?

“Just forget about it,” Todd said, getting up and coming around to me. He leaned over and grabbed the coded message off the table, crumpling it in one hand even as he pulled me closer. “Whoever sent it isn’t even worth thinking about.”

“But—”

“Just.” He tossed the balled-up paper into the trash can. “Forget.” He pulled me closer and nuzzled my neck. “About it.” He snaked his hand up between my breasts, then managed (I’m not entirely sure how) to twist me around in his arms until I was facing him, and his lips were on mine, and I have to admit it felt really good.

There was something so freeing about doing exactly what he said. At the moment, he was saying that I should go with him to bed. Not in words, mind you. But in that language that we all speak. That language that doesn’t have a word for
stop
or
slow down
or
this may not be the best idea right now.

His lips slipped over mine, comforting and familiar, and as his wide palms stroked my back, I merrily beat my doubts into submission. I might have told Jenn that there was no way I’d sleep with Todd again, but right then all my reasons were forgotten, replaced by the simple fact that I was in his arms and it felt good. Besides, wouldn’t not sleeping with him be a total waste of a cute outfit?

The truth was, I didn’t want to go home. Normally, an empty apartment all to myself would be good news, but right then—on a night when the downside was creepy coded messages and the upside was a familiar lover keeping me warm—well, sue me, but I picked door number two.

“The food.” Not a real protest, mind you, but I had to keep up appearances. “We should put it away.”

“We can always order more,” he said. And then he kissed me.

And even though the smart don’t-sleep-with-your-
ex part of my head told me I shouldn’t, I kissed him back.

After all, I was single, over twenty-one, and some creepy weirdo had ruined my formerly good day.

Really, I reasoned, what could possibly go wrong?