The Manolo Matrix (11 page)

Damn Yankees

Evita

Falsettos

Gigi

Hair

I’d Rather Be Right

Jesus Christ Superstar

Kiss Me, Kate

Lady, Be Good

Mary Poppins

Nine

Oklahoma!

Pippin

Quilt

Rent

Show Boat

Titanic

Urinetown

Vanities

Wonderful Town

You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown

Ziegfeld Follies

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NIHOVE ADAAVI DI N ANAV ODIA AKREIARA VOVH

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“We’ve definitely got a Broadway theme going here,” he said.

“No kidding. But why?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“The whole point of PSW is that the clues are based on thetarget ’s profile. Right?”

“Right.”

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“But myRocky Horror message and your Play or Die message all have Broadway musical references.”

“So?”

“So the clues are supposed to be related toyou. But Broadway’s my thing. That’s why I’m in New

York. I don’t intend to be a waitress forever. One of these days I’m going to win a Tony award.”

“Good luck,” he said, and I didn’t think he was being facetious. “But that’s not a mystery.” He turned his head toward the massive mahogany entertainment center. And right there, above the television on the center shelf, stood the familiar statuette. I think I started to whimper.

“You have a Tony award?”

“Got it when I was thirteen,” he said. “That was my seventh production, I think. Second nomination.”

I swear I had to manually shove my jaw back into place. “You were on Broadway when you were a kid? Holy shit.” I was gaping at him, but that was just too damn bad. “Wait. Wait a second.

Devlin

Brady. Of course! I just never made the connection. Oh my God! Oh. My. God.”

He just stood there staring at me. I had a feeling he’d been subjected to the gushing fan thing a few times before. I wasn’t a gushing fan so much as an envious wannabe. But I could still see why Devlin wanted to keep his distance.

I cleared my throat and tried to calm down. “So why do you work for the FBI?” I couldn’t imagine quitting Broadway. Not in a million years. And especially not if I’d won a freaking Tony award.

What kind of planet was this guy from?

“I wanted a low-stress career,” he said.

“Ha ha. Seriously, why—”

But he cut me off with a wave of his hand. “We can discuss the pressures and foibles of a career in theater after we keep you alive. Right now, all you need to know is that Broadway musicals fit my profile, too. Except, of course, I never submitted a profile.”

I blinked. “You must have.”

“Nope. I’m not into computer games. And after I landed the case, I wasn’t inclined to jump on the PSW

bandwagon, you know?”

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“But I saw it!”

“Fake. I entered one in the course of the investigation in order to access the game, but no legitimate information was used. Second of all, even if I had submitted a profile, I would never have included my address and phone number. I may be fucked up, but I’m not stupid.”

He had a point, actually. I know I hadn’t put that kind of information on my PSW profile. For that matter, I wasn’t even sure the profile form had asked for those kind of details. Except it must have because that’s how I got Devlin’s address and phone number.

I lifted a finger. “Just hang on a second.” My tote bag was at my feet, and now I rummaged inside and pulled out my laptop. I started it up, cursing it softly to try to make it boot up faster.

Since that wasn’t happening, I shifted gears, moving on to other things while the computer warmed up. “And here’s something else that’s off. Don’t you think it’s a little freaky that I’m involved in this game? You, too.”

“I’ll bite,” he said. “Why?”

“Because we know the score. We know that Mel and Matthew actually won. Plus, we know about that lawyer you guys suspected for a while.” By “you guys” I meant the FBI. Since Devlin was nodding, I

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figured he knew that.

“Thomas Reardon,” he said.

“That’s the one. I can’t believe you didn’t arrest him.”

“No proof,” Devlin said.

I snorted. From what Mel had told me, Archibald Grimaldi’s attorney had been at the very end of the game she’d played. And somehow—I’m not quite sure how—he’d been the catalyst for both Mel winning her prize money and for calling off the assassin. That seemed to me to be proof enough.

I guess my disbelief showed on my face, because Devlin kind of half-smiled. “We had no proof that the attorney was doing anything except holding materials for Grimaldi. Since Grimaldi is dead, if he’s behind all of this, then obviously someone else was helping him. It might be Reardon, it might be someone else.

We just don’t know. And we can’t arrest without sufficient evidence.”

“Fine,” I said. I wasn’t a lawyer; how was I supposed to argue with that? “But it still seems weird to me that you and I are sucked into this. We know stuff. And if we were chosen randomly, then it’sreally weird.”

“Especially since I’ve never played the game.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Except according to that, you have.” I pointed to the laptop, which had finally finished doing its thing. I hunched over and pulled up the document, DB_Profile.doc. I turned the machine and pointed. “Take a look.”

He did. “You’re right,” he said. “This is fucked.”

“You really didn’t do it?”

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“I really didn’t. And look at this.” He tapped the screen and I leaned over to see the photo embedded in the document. “That’s a candid shot.” He met my eyes. “Someone’s been scoping me out. And someone knows me well enough to put together a profile.”

“Someone wanted you to be the target,” I said. “Wanted you enough to make sure you had a profile in the system.”

“Looks that way.”

“Have I mentioned I really don’t like this?”

He smiled, but didn’t answer. Instead, he just said, “What else?”

“What else is weird? Other than the whole situation? Well, the insinuation that I’m going to be dead before lunch tomorrow is a little off-putting.”

“I can see that it would be.”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Considering the whole game is about killing people off, I think it makes a lot of sense.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Your support is overwhelming.”

He just smirked. I tell you, I was starting to like the guy.

“Look,” I said. “Killingthe target off is what the whole game is about. But I’m not the target.

That’s you,” I said, poking him in the chest to make my point. “So why am I the one with the ticking clock?”

“I don’t think I’ve got a free pass here. For one thing, we don’t have any idea what that message says. I

can’t even pronounce it, much less interpret it.”

“Devlin! That’s not the point. I’m supposed to be the protector. I may be entirely lacking in qualifications—sorry ’bout that—but that’s still my role. And the protector isn’t supposed to be the target. That’s the whole point of having those nice descriptive names.”

“Kill switch,” he said.

Since that seemed like a total non sequitur, I stared at him. “Kill who?” I finally asked.

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“The twenty-four-hour kill switch,” he said, this time speaking slowly, like I had a learning disability or something.

That ticked me off. “Okay, Agent Brady, let’s get something straight, okay? I don’t play this game. And

I didn’t spend months investigating some psycho who shoved the game into the real world. So don’t treat me like an idiot just because I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Okay?”

He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “In the online version of the game, if you don’t start playing in twenty-four-hours, the target is terminated and the players can all move on to another game.

The point is incentive. So that the protector and the assassin aren’t waiting around waiting to play a game with some target who’s dragging his ass.”

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“Nice,” I said.

“Not so nice in the real world,” Devlin said. “What kind of incentive is there to play, after all?”

I cocked my head, remembering. “Kill the target,” I said, remembering what Mel had told me.

She’d been poisoned. And she had twenty-four hours to interpret the clues that led her to the antidote. And let me tell you, according to Mel, that was some slam-bang incentive to getting her ass in gear.

I frowned, then, because the pieces still didn’t fit. “But that’s just what I’ve been saying. Mel was the target. I’m not. So why am I being threatened?”

“Because it wouldn’t do any good to threaten me.”

He spoke nonchalantly, his voice level. I didn’t have to ask what he meant.

“So whoever’s pulling our chains knows us both really well. Knows enough to fill out a profile for you.

And knows enough to know that threatening to kill you right off the bat isn’t going to get you up and moving any faster.” I kept my voice as flat as his, but I have to admit my heart was breaking.

Something had happened to Agent Brady. The one time I’d met him before, he’d seemed vibrant. Now, he just seemed broken. I wanted to ask, but I didn’t want to offend. I needed him to keep me alive. But he didn’t need me at all.

“Threatening you, though…” He trailed off with a shake of his head. “Well, welcome to my weakness.”

“Serve and protect,” I said, dully.

“That’s the police. But yeah, the sentiment’s the same.” He stood up then, and moved to the window.

He stared out over the city, his hands shoved deep into the pocket of his jeans. “So what’s going to happen to you tomorrow at ten, Jennifer Crane?” he asked.

I didn’t know. And so help me, I didn’t really want to find out.

BIRDIE

Iarrive at the white stone skyscraper after most of the staff has cleared out. The quarry I’m currently tracking will still be there, though. Of that, I’m sure. That’s the lovely thing about lawyers; they don’t keep bankers’ hours.

I sign in—with a false name, of course—then walk the short distance to the elevator banks. The inside of the car is mirrored, and during the express ride, I take the opportunity to check my wig and freshen my makeup. This isn’t a job where I expect to call upon my feminine wiles, but one can never be too careful.

A receptionist still mans the desk, probably counting the minutes until she can leave or counting the dollars in overtime she is earning. I identify myself, then sit down and start to riffle through a
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copy ofThe

New Yorker while she announces me.

I’m chuckling over one of the cartoons when my quarry steps through the glass doors, his hand held out

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and a smile on his face. “Miss Paroti,” he says. “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Thomas Reardon.”

I rise and take his hand, my smile full of charm. I know that I’m attractive, all the more so when I smile.

High cheekbones, arched eyebrows, a wide mouth. All features that light up when I’m happy.

According to my mother, I was never happy enough. My response? With a mother like her, why would I be?

His grip is firm, but cold. And as I study his face, I decide that I don’t like him. There’s weakness in his eyes. A sense of self-loathing.

I never find my job distasteful; far from it. But in this case, I find my mission to be even more palatable than usual. I will be doing the world a favor.

I continue to smile as he leads me to his office, my expression fading only a bit when Thomas steps toward his desk without shutting his office door. I clear my throat, and he stops in his tracks.

“I don’t mean to silly,” I say, “but I was hoping we could keep this just between us. At least until I sign a retainer. I’m so very particular about my privacy.”

“Of course.” He moves back to shut the door, and when he does, I pull the gun from my purse.

It’s well hidden in the folds of my skirt by the time he turns back and then gestures to one of the guest chairs.

I sit, then adjust my skirt to cover the gun and show off my legs. He sits as well, behind the desk, and his gaze drops to my knee. Oh, yes. This one will be so, so easy.

“You mentioned you had some business concerning a friend,” he says, referring to some handwritten notes on a yellow legal pad in front of him.

I nod, and try to look sad as I make a mental note to take that pad with me when I leave. “Yes.

More of an acquaintance, really. But I respect the man and I’m trying to tie up some loose ends for him. At his request, you know.”

“You were rather vague on the phone. Why don’t you give me the full story now.”

“I’d be happy to,” I say. I lean back in my seat, my hand still hidden in the folds of my skirt. “I think you know my acquaintance, actually. The one who needs my help.”

“Do I?” He looks appropriately interested. “Who is it?”

“Archibald Grimaldi.”

Thatgets him moving. He sits up straight, his eyes flashing with alarm. “Archie’s dead. He’s been dead for well over a year now.”

I nod. “I know. Such a pity. A brilliant man, cut down in the prime of his life. A brilliant man who left so many loose ends hanging.”

“What loose ends? “he says, and as he speaks, his hands creep toward the edge of the desk.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I say, and as I speak, I stand. The gun in my hand is aimed right for his heart, and the expression of stunned disbelief on his face is priceless.That, my friend, is what makes my job so rewarding.

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