The Manolo Matrix (9 page)

He raised an eyebrow.

“Justtell him,” I begged.

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The concierge eyed me up and down with a frown (I tried not to take it personally). Then he apparently came to a decision. Unfortunately, I wasn’t informed of what that decision was, so when he picked up the phone again, I didn’t know if he was once again trying to call Agent Brady, or if he was calling security to have me booted out.

It turned out he was calling Marissa (whoever she was). “Is Agent Brady up there?” He listened to the response, then looked at me, shaking his head slightly. “I’m sorry, miss, he’s not in the gym.”

I exhaled, torn between frustration and fear. What if he was in there rotting? I had to at least know. If

Agent Brady was gone—or dead—then my last ally was gone. And since alone wasn’t an option I

wanted to contemplate, I leaned up against the concierge desk, doing my best to look desperate.

Which, under the circumstances, wasn’t too hard.

“Could I just head up?” I asked, aiming my best ingénue smile at him. “It’s really important that
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I see him, and he’s probably just asleep. I’ll pound on the door, and he’ll let me in and everything will be just fine. Please?”

“Lady, I’m sorry.”

So much for the ingénue role. “His regular phone, then. Have you called his regular phone?”

He nailed me with a squinty-eyed stare. “Haveyou ?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. No answer. But that was at least a half hour ago. Can you try again?”

Surprisingly, he didn’t argue, just dialed the number, then left a curt, “Please call the front desk”

message. After he hung up, I stared at the phone for a full minute. Surely Devlin would call.

He didn’t.

I cursed, then considered sneaking upstairs. I had Devlin’s profile, so I knew he lived in 12A.

And there had to be a back door to this place. Some sort of service entrance. Probably even a service elevator. So all I had to do was get past the doorman and the concierge…and the locked doors and the security cameras.

Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best plan, but I was getting desperate enough to try anything.

I was just about to tell the concierge that I was heading to the corner to get a Diet Coke (a total fabrication since what I really wanted to do was scope out the rear-entrance potential), when a messenger trotted in, his bike helmet still on his head and his pouch slung crossways over his chest.

“Hey,” he said to the concierge, not even noticing me. I decided this was as good a time as any to make my escape. If I hurried, maybe the concierge would be so involved with the messenger that he wouldn’t check the monitors that were undoubtedly broadcasting everything going on near the back doors. I’d moved two feet away from the doorman when I heard the messenger say “Brady, 12A. I’m supposed to wait until he signs for it.”

I stopped. More specifically, I froze. And it doesn’t take a genius to know what I was thinking: This skinny cycler with helmet hair was holding the message that would shove Devlin Brady full force into the game.

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I sidled back until I was leaning against the concierge desk. While I did, my good friend the concierge dialed the house phone again. Once again, there was no answer. The messenger and the concierge looked at each other. Then the concierge held out his hand. “I can sign for it.”

Helmet Head made a face. “Sorry, man. I’m supposed to make sure it’s delivered. Urgent document or something. Customer even paid extra. I’ll get ripped a new one if I don’t get a confirmation.”

“Maybe we could all go up,” I suggested. “Knock on the door.”

“Who are you?”

“Miss…” The concierge sniffed. Apparently my good friend the concierge was getting a little pissy.

“Look,” I said, trying to appear reasonable and rational. “I’m pretty sure that message is related to my business with Agent Brady. So let’s all go up and knock on the door. What can that hurt?”

“I gotta get the man the message,” Helmet Head said. “If I go back without trying everything, my boss is gonna—”

“Rip you a new one,” I finished. “Yeah. We know.” I turned to the concierge. “Please?”

He scowled, then picked up the phone, this time dialing enough numbers that I knew he wasn’t buzzing

Devlin on the house phone. But I didn’t know who he was calling. A psychiatric ward, maybe?

While he concentrated on the phone, I focused on the messenger. “So, um, who’s the message from?”

“Beats me.”

“Does it say on the envelope?”

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“Lady, you want to give it a rest?”

“I’m just curious. And what’s the big deal, anyway? You can’t even look?”

He did look. But he didn’t say a word to me.

“Well?”

“Is your name on this envelope?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Then I guess it ain’t any of your business, is it?”

“Since you won’t let me see the envelope, how do I know if my name’s on there or not?”

“What is your problem?”

“There are too many to list. But it’s important.Really. Now who sent the package?”

He sighed. “There’s nothing on the envelope, okay?”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

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He gave me a curt nod back.

“So who brought it to your office?”

Every bone in his body seemed to go slack, and he let out the loudest sigh I’ve ever heard. I swear, I’ve never seen such a stunning example of exasperation. Truly. The guy should be an actor.

Behind us, the concierge started speaking, telling Agent Brady in very polite tones that he would be escorting a delivery man to the door, that it was a priority package, and that he hoped Agent Brady would answer when he and the messenger came calling.

“What about me?” I asked.

The concierge ignored me. Instead, he signaled to the doorman, asked him to watch the desk for a moment, then headed toward the elevator bank.

I tagged along.

The doors slid open and they stepped on. Once again, I followed, only to find myself foiled by a firm hand held out by an equally firm arm. If I took one more step, the concierge would be copping a feel, and that really wasn’t something I was in the mood for.

“Dammit! I told you, it’s urgent. I need to see Agent Brady.”

“And I told you no. Not unless Agent Brady wants to see you.”

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, wondering what I should do now. I’ve gotten used to being rejected at auditions, but except for that, I tend to get my own way. And I can’t say I was too keen on not getting it right now.

Unfortunately, I didn’t see a way around it.

“Fine,” I said, mustering as much pride as I could. I turned to Helmet Head. “Will you at least answer my question?” I was standing in the doorway, and the elevator door was doing that number where it’s trying to close but can’t. Any second now, the thing was going to start squawking.

“What question?”

“Who gave you the package?”

“My boss.”

It was my turn to be exasperated. “Who gave it to him?”

“Her,” he said. “My boss is a woman.”

The concierge took a step forward. “Miss, if you don’t step back now, I’m going to call the authorities.”

That did it. Frustrated and defeated, I stepped back. But as the doors slid closed, I did manage to catch a glimpse of Helmet Head’s satchel: Speedy Delivery.

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Well, I thought. That was something.

DEVLIN

Devlin stared at his answering machine, the red flashes almost blinding in the dim light of the apartment.

He almost erased the messages, but then he squared his shoulders and pushedPLAY instead. A whir, a beep, and then, “Yo, Devlin. It’s Mark. Agent Bullard if you want to get official about it, and since I hear you’re sitting on your ass, I guess we’ll make this an official request. I outrank you, after all.” A pause, then, “I’m worried about you, buddy. I know you’re not dirty, man.

And a lot of the other guys are rallying for you, too. So just give me a call, okay?”

The message clicked off and Devlin drew in a breath. He’d known Bullard for going on three years now, and the guy was a decent enough agent. But he’d never been investigated by OPR.

Never shot his partner. As far as Devlin knew, Bullard hadn’t ever even fired his weapon outside of training.

Still…he picked up the phone. Almost called back. Then he slammed down the receiver and, for good measure, he hit theERASE button, effectively deleting the rest of the messages from the machine. Why not? He’d already interacted with the human race today. As far as Devlin was concerned, his quota for the week was filled.

He stood there and counted to ten, trying to calm down. When that didn’t much work, he headed to the kitchen for a beer. Or bourbon. That’s when he heard the knock.

For a second, he considered ignoring it, but he dismissed the idea. Most likely Annabel again, and he figured he could put up with her for at least a few more minutes.

But when he pulled open the door, it wasn’t the elderly lady he saw. It was Evan, the concierge, standing beside a skinny guy in cycling gear who immediately shoved an envelope into Devlin’s face. A

standard brown clasp envelope adorned with a crisp white label. Devlin noted his name, and also noted that there was no return address. He didn’t take the envelope.

“You’re Agent Devlin Brady?” the messenger asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“Agent Brady,” Evan inserted, in the smooth tone of a man used to working out problems, “this gentleman insists that this delivery is of the utmost importance and that he was strictly instructed to deliver it only to you.”

“Tell him to get the hell out of my way, or my fist will deliver something meant only for him.”

“Come on, man,” the messenger said. “I’m going to get so fucking fired if you don’t sign for this thing.”

Devlin looked at Evan. “You fell for this shit?”

“I’m sorry, Agent Brady. You’ve received so many official papers these last few weeks that I thought this might be urgent or expected. But now that I see it’s not, I’ll escort the gentleman back downstairs, Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter,

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and apologize for the inconvenience.”

“No way, man. Just take the thing, would you? I’m going to get so busted.”

Devlin was just about to say that wasn’t really his problem when he heard the locks click on Annabel’s door. Then it opened and the woman’s head poked out, her eyes wide behind her glasses.

“I was wondering what all the fuss in the hall was about. Is there a problem?”

She looked at Devlin while she spoke, her voice and expression just a tad too innocent. He sighed and held his hand out for the envelope.

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“Thanks, man. Sign here.” The messenger shoved a clipboard at him, and Devlin dutifully signed. He tucked the envelope under his arm and dug in his pocket for his key as Evan and the messenger headed back toward the elevator bank.

“By the way,” Evan said as Devlin pushed his door open. “There’s a young lady in the lobby who wants to see you. I called to announce her, but you didn’t answer.”

“I’m not interested in seeing anyone,” Devlin said.

“She said it was about a game.”

Devlin paused, for a moment wondering if it was the woman from the bar, come to play find the panties.

“Tell her it’s a bad day. She can try back later.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Devlin didn’t think any more of the woman. Instead, he shut the apartment door and flipped the dead bolt. He tossed the envelope onto the foyer table, and was just about to leave it sitting there when one small oddity caught his eye. A watermark, barely visible, on the pure white label.

He hesitated, wanting to simply leave it be. But Devlin had learned a long time ago to trust his instincts, and the fact that he’d been living in a cave for the last few weeks hadn’t changed that.

He took the envelope, then angled it slightly, so that he could just make out the mark: PSW.

Devlin reached for the gun he wasn’t wearing as his mind raced to Melanie Prescott, his first thought that she was in danger. He hadn’t been on the case in over six months, his reassignment inevitable once the case had gone cold. Was this a break? Or was it something else entirely?

The thoughts ripped through his head almost as quickly as he ripped the seal on the envelope.

Then he reached in, carefully extracting the single piece of paper with the very tips of his fingers.

He laid it on the table, then felt his stomach tighten as he saw what was written in bold at the top of the page: PLAY OR

DIE.

He drew in a breath, steeled himself. This was something else entirely, all right.

And this something was a hell of a lot worse.

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JENNIFER

“No way,” I said. “I’m staying. Consider this a hunger strike.” I’d been pacing the lobby, but once Mr.

Concierge returned and told me that Agent Brady refused to see me and that I’d have to leave, I’d plunked myself down on the fancy brocade sofa. Now I kicked my feet up onto the polished wood coffee table, crossed my arms over my chest, and dug in for the long haul. Agent Brady had to come out sometime. And until then, I was staying put.

I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to do about food or bathroom breaks, but I was kind of hoping we wouldn’t get that far. Of course, the second the thought entered my head, I realized I desperately needed to pee. So much for mind over matter.

“Let me be a bit more specific,” my concierge friend said as he loomed over me. “If you don’t vacate the premises by the time I count to five, I will call the police. One…two…”

Okay, obviously he’d figured out my weak spot. So I got up—slowly—and headed toward the revolving door. Mr. Concierge Asshole Dude continued counting, which really pissed me off. I was going, wasn’t I?