The Manolo Matrix (31 page)

“Wardrobe,” Brian said. “I’ve got about five changes down here, three up in the quick change area. It’s a madhouse in here during a show.”

“So what are we looking for?” I asked.

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“Check the names on the lockers. This show’s got a big cast, doesn’t it? Maybe there’s a dummy locker. Someone with the initials PSW.”

We split up and started checking the rows of lockers, but we didn’t find anything.

“A message board?” I suggested. “Someplace you guys leave notes for each other?”

“Sure,” Brian said. We trotted back out into the hallway. Down at the end was a corkboard. A few dirty cartoons were pinned up, but nothing out of the ordinary.

“This isn’t working,” I said, moving to my right and taking a seat on a step. “There’s too much down here, and we don’t know where to look.”

“We have all the information,” Devlin said. “We just have to interpret it.”

“Bishop and a haunted club,” Brian said. “That’s what you told me.”

“The Bishop reference has to be Belasco himself,” Devlin said.

“And the theater is haunted,” I added, unable to keep the frustration out of my voice. “We know that.

That’s why we’re here. But it’s a big place. A clue could be anywhere.”

“Clubs are private, aren’t they? Exclusive?” Devlin asked, more or less rhetorically. “So what’s private in a theater?”

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“Dressing rooms,” I said. “Bathrooms.” I met Brian’s eyes, trying to see if he’d thought of something I’d missed. “Um, I guess that’s it.”

“Apartments are private,” Brian said, and right away, I knew he’d nailed it.

“David Belasco kept an apartment here,” I said. “Of course!”

“And it’s supposed to be the most haunted part of the theater. That and the elevator, I think.”

“So how do we get to this apartment?” Devlin asked.

“The elevator still goes up there,” Brian said.

I lifted an eyebrow. “Thehaunted elevator?”

He stared me down. “You’ve been running for your life for days now. You’re going to let an elevator weird you out?”

I shrugged. The man had a point.

His brow furrowed. “Actually, now that I’ve mentioned it, I’m not sure it’s really our best bet.

The place has been totally cleaned out. I think there are air-conditioning shafts running through it now. It’s a mess.”

“It’s still the best idea we have,” Devlin said. “Let’s go.”

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We followed Brian to the elevator, an ancient metal thing covered in peeling gray paint. A long lever took the place of buttons, and a tattered stool remained for the elevator operator. Above, a single lightbulb sputtered and hummed.

I looked at it dubiously, but soldiered on. The box seemed sized for a single passenger, but we all three squeezed in. Fine with me. This wasn’t a place where I wanted to be alone.

Devlin took a look at the elevator, shrugged, and shifted. The elevator lurched, then moved.

“So far, so good,” he said.

I was certain the cable was going to break and we’d plummet to our death, but it creaked slowly and steadily upward. When it stopped, Devlin pulled open the metal door, and we emerged into the gutted remains of the once grand apartment of the Bishop of Broadway.

“Man,” I whispered, “it really has been cleaned out.”

“It used to be amazing,” Brian said. “I’ve seen pictures. Built-in bookcases, ornate columns.

Lots of furniture that would fetch a bundle at Sotheby’s these days.”

“It’s a mess now,” I said. The walls had been stripped of any coverings, revealing bare plaster with numerous nail holes. The floors were battered, and not a stick of furniture remained in the cavernous space. Like Brian had thought, a large air-conditioning shaft ran across the far side of the main room.

About the only thing intact, in fact, was the fireplace and hearth. Brian and I wandered that direction while Devlin stayed behind, inspecting each nook and cranny with more patience than I had.

“These tiles were stolen by slaves in Spain and brought here,” Brian said, fingering one of the beautifully glazed tiles.

I ran my finger over one, leaving a trail in the dust, as I looked at him. “How the hell do you know that?”

“One of the guys in the show put together a website about the theater and the ghost. After I got cast, I

read it.” He shrugged. “No big deal.”

“Did the site mention anything else? Like where someone might hide a clue in this mess?”

“Not really,” Brian said, but he was frowning, like maybe he did have someplace in mind. “But maybe the fireplace? It’s definitely a permanent fixture.”

“A secret compartment,” Devlin said, calling from the far side of the room. “David Belasco was famous for having secret compartments all over his apartment. There were even rumors some of the compartments were compact beds for his liaisons with various women.”

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Since hidden compartments sounded appropriately mysterious, I figured Devlin had to be right.

The only question was,where was the compartment we needed?

“I still say the fireplace,” Brian said. “Nobody would plaster over it, or put furniture in front of it, or dismantle it.”

“Ideas?” I said, pacing in front of the fireplace.

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“Inside,” Devlin said. “A loose brick, maybe?”

“You look,” I said.

He shot me a grin, then got down on his hands and knees and poked his head into the fireplace.

“Why do men always have to do the dirty work?” he asked, his voice echoing in the hollow space.

“Ha ha,” I said. And then, because he’d made me feel guilty, I got down there with him and started poking at the bricks myself.

“Cozy,” he said.

“Mind on the job,” I retorted.

While we poked in there, Brian started to tug at the tiles, just in case one of them came loose and revealed a secret hiding place. Nada. And by the time I emerged, I think I could have played a chimney sweep inMary Poppins . It wasn’t soot (at least, I don’t think it was) but the dust was pretty dang thick.

“What’s the new plan?” Devlin asked, standing next to me, and looking about as ratty as I did.

Instead of an answer, I sneezed, then stamped my feet as I tried to de-dust myself. Honestly, it didn’t seem to do much good.

“Do that again,” Devlin said.

“Devlin,” I whined. “The dust is clinging. All the stomping and slapping in the world isn’t going to change that. I need a washing machine.”

He made a face and then stomped himself. Instead of the dull smacking noise I’d expected, I heard a hollow thud. I met his eyes and then, without another word, we both dropped to the floor. Twelve large tiles ran the length of the floor, protecting the hard wood from flying soot and ash. I grabbed at the one

Devlin had stomped on and tried to pry it up with my fingers. No luck.

Devlin snatched his knife from his pocket and bent down, then slid the blade into the cracked grout. I

held my breath as he levered the knife and then, sure enough, the tile popped off revealing a hollow space under the floor.

“What’s down there?” I asked.

Devlin shook his head. “Nothing.”

I swear I wanted to just collapse right then. I’d been so sure…

And then he said, “Hang on. It looks like this goes back under the floorboards.” He laid down, then pulled out a copy ofPlaybill, February 2006 issue, withSpamalot on the cover.

“Well, hell,” I said. “I was so sure we finally had it right.”

“I think we do,” Devlin said, sitting back. He waved the magazine. “Last month’s issue.

Published back when someone had to be planning this thing. So there was plenty of time to write something in here or slip

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a note inside.” He held it up by the corner and shook it, but no mysterious pieces of parchment fell out.

Brian had settled onto the floor next to Devlin, and now he was leaning over, scouring the pages
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as

Devlin flipped through. I settled in and joined them, trying to read upside down.

Playbillis the theater magazine that is handed out at every Broadway production. Each magazine is the same, except for the middle part and the cover, and those are customized for a particular show. So the magazine has the list of scenes, cast list, all that kind of stuff. Most folks keep them as souvenirs.

Personally, I have a whole drawer full of them.

Each month, it changes, updating the cast (if it’s changed) and running new ads and articles in the part that’s uniform across all productions.

Since it’s a printed magazine, I expected our clue to be something written in Magic Marker across a page, or printed on a Post-it note and stuck inside.

What I wasn’t expecting was what we eventually found: An advertisement, very clearly directed toward us.

“He’s Not Dead Yet,” Devlin said, reading the ad’s headline. “Paul S. Winslow salutes all the players.

www.survivethe game.com.” He looked up at me and shrugged. “That’s all it says.”

“Guess we surf the ’Net,” I said. I’d dropped my tote by the fireplace, and now I pulled out my laptop, fired it up, then typed in the web address. Then the three of us held our breath until the page came up.

TO WIN THE GAME, TYPE THE PASSWORD HERE:

THE PASSWORD IS ON DISPLAY BESIDE THE PATRIOT

WHO WATCHES OVER THEM ALL

I looked at Brian. “You’re the puzzle guy. Any brilliant ideas?”

He shook his head slowly. “This is the kind of thing you two have been dealing with?”

“’Fraid so.”

“Shit.”

“That about sums it up,” I agreed. “But this is it. ‘To win the game,’ it says. We have to figure this out. If we figure this out, it’sover.” And wouldn’t that just be a slice of heaven.?

“We’ll get it,” Devlin said, and he reached out and squeezed my hand.

I squeezed back, and I swear I felt the earth move. I blinked, then put my hand on the floor.

“Oh, shit,” I

said. “Do you feel that? For that matter, do you hear that?” A decidedly mechanical hum, along with a kind of thrumming that shook the floor ever so slightly. I looked at Devlin, and then we both looked toward the elevator.

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“Get behind me,” he said, pulling out his gun.

Neither Brian nor I argued, and we all stayed still, waiting for the elevator to open. It didn’t.

And then, as quickly as it had come, the creaking stopped and the floor quit shaking. We all looked at each other, not quite sure what to make of all that.

“Birdie?” I whispered.

“I don’t know,” Devlin said, still holding his gun at the ready.

“I’m not sure which would be worse,” I admitted. “Birdie or Belasco’s ghost.”

“Iknow,” Devlin said, and, honestly, so did I. “But how could she have found us? I can’t believe she planted anything on you, and I’ve switched out everything. Nothing I’m carrying was in my apartment when she was there.”

“The gun,” I said.

He frowned, but nodded. “It was locked up and hidden. It’s possible. But unlikely.”

“If anyone got into this theater,” Brian said, “Marvin would know. Let’s call him and ask.”

Since we all thought that idea was dandy, he did just that. I couldn’t hear Marvin, but from
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Brian’s side of the conversation it sounded like all was well.

“Nobody in or out,” Brian reported. “So I guess we’re safe. At least,” he added, “we’re safe for right now.”

BIRDIE

“You did good, old man,” I say, with a wide smile.

He looks at me, relief shining in those watery eyes.

My smile widens, and I cold-cock him with the butt of my gun. He falls to the floor, his expression never changing.

I find tape and bind him, then drag him back into the hallway and, finally, into one of the dressing rooms.

He’ll be out for at least half an hour, I expect. And that should be plenty of time.

After disposing of the man, I head back into the theater and continue our little tour alone.

Before, I’d politely requested his assistance in showing me around. Now, I peek through the sets and props, getting a feel for the place. I’ve already left a few hints for Agent Brady, suggesting to him that I’m here. If he’s too stupid to interpret my clues, that certainly isn’t my fault.

The best little hint, of course, was running the elevator. A silly trick, but so apropos considering the rumors about this theater. Ghosts! Why should Agent Brady be afraid of a ghost when there’s something

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much more sinister prowling in the wings—me?

I don’t know exactly where he is, of course, because the tracking software isn’t specific enough to have pinpointed his exact location. From my own observation, I can assume that he’s in the apartment of which the old man spoke, most likely with the woman. I don’t know what they’re looking for, and I

admit I’m curious. They must have interpreted the next clue. For that, I give them points since the shot glass is still in my suite at the Waldorf. But what, I wonder, do they expect to find here?

More, I’m afraid that they are drawing close to the final culmination, and that means that I don’t have long to toy with

Agent Brady.

I tilt my head up, looking roughly in the direction of the apartment, imagining that I can see the two of them up there.

Surprise,I think, as I work out the details of my oh-so-perfect plan.

And itwill work.

After all, who doesn’t like a surprise?

JENNIFER

“Should we take the clue and get out of here?” I ask, feeling antsy.

“If we’re safe,” Devlin said, “we should stay. At least for a bit. See if we can’t figure out this clue and end this thing.”