The Givenchy Code

by Julie Kenner

  “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.”

  Chapter

  58

  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 girlfr
iend, 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.

  Chapter

  59

  “I ’m sure glad we found that clue,” Stryker said. “It’s all so very clear to me now.”

  I shot him a look that was supposed to make him behave and aimed a finger toward the counter. We’d left Tiffany’s with our clue and headed straight for the nearest Starbucks. Stryker might be suffering from a severe case of defeatism, but I was back in my element. Genuine codes. Not this pseudo-scavenger hunt over Manhattan Island, racing between esoteric clues. This was fun. Just like that very first pigpen code. If it weren’t for that little downside of dying if I screwed up or Lynx found me, I’d actually be having a really good time.

  Stryker returned with one latte and his boring cup of solid black coffee.

  “So what do we know?” He leaned forward. “Actually, I know what I know. Nothing. So the real question is, what do you know?”

  “A bit more than that,” I said. And, yeah, I was feeling a bit smug and pleased with myself. I scooted my chair around so he could see my notes right side up. “The ‘secret roi urn’ reference is a bit odd—”

  “No shit.”

  “—so we’ll leave that aside for the time being. This is the key,” I said, pointing to the second line, For Rebecca. “And I mean that literally.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll bite. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Do you read spy novels? Any Ken Follett?”

  He shook his head.

  “Eye of the Needle? The Key to Rebecca?”

  “Sorry.” Then, “Wait. The second one. Didn’t that have something to do with a code and a book?”

  “Exactly. Like Enigma, the system really was used during the war. A code was sent using a book as a key. In that case, Daphne du Maurier’sRebecca.”

  “So we need a copy of the book?”

  “No, no. The reference toRebecca just tells us what kind of code we’re dealing with. The key isn’t that book. It’s something else.”

  “What?”

  I shrugged. He’d pretty much tuned into the heart of the matter.

  He shifted in his seat, downed a slug of coffee, then shifted again. “Okay, back up here. You’re sure the book we need isn’t Rebecca. How do you know?”

  “These numbers.” I pointed to the first number in each pairing. “Those must be page numbers. ButRebecca doesn’t have eight hundred pages. It must be something else.”

  “All right,” he said. “What?”

  I shook my head. “No clue.”

  He grunted. “So if these numbers are pages, what do these mean?” He tapped the numbers following the colons, one by one in succession.

  “Not sure. Words or letters. We won’t be positive until we figure out what the book is.”

  “Secret roi urn?”

  I looked at him, tapping my pencil against my chin and nodding slowly. “No idea. Too bad Warren isn’t here.”

  “Warren?”

  “Used to be my study partner. He’s a total anagram fanatic
. The anagrams inSilence of the Lambs were too easy for him. He was totally bored. He’d figure this out in a heartbeat.”

  “No problem,” Stryker said. “I can do that.”

  “Really?” I looked at him with respect. “I had no idea.”

  “Sure.” He opened the laptop, and I sat there shaking my head, both amused and befuddled. But he was right. Less than two minutes later he’d pulled up an anagram generator on the Internet and had a whole list of words that could be made fromSecret roi urn.

  “We have to keep in mind that it might not be an anagram,” I said as I scanned the list. Somehow words like sorcerer unit or erect insuror seemed less than useful. “Maybe it refers to a crypt. Roi means ‘king,’ right? So maybe dead royalty? Ashes in an urn?”

  “Keep reading,” Stryker said, his eyes never leaving the screen.

  I did.

  Crustier Nero

  Trounce Riser

  Oh yeah. These were helpful. Not. I kept my mouth shut and kept reading as Stryker scrolled through the list. It’s amazing how many words and phrases (albeit nonsense words and phrases) Secret roi urn could produce.

  Nicer trouser

  (that one was amusing, at least)

  Resurrection

  (that one was at least a real word)

  Escort Ruiner

  The last one pretty much cracked me up, and I kept one hand on the back of Stryker’s chair so as not to fall over in a fit of helpless giggles. (I know, I know. It wasn’t that funny. But I think under the circumstances I was entitled to a little hysteria.) Escort Ruiner. Yeah, there’s a great clue. We’ll just go by every brothel and—)

  I blinked, realizing with a start that I was an absolute and total idiot.

  I must have made some sort of noise, too, because Stryker looked back over his shoulder at me. “What? What is it?”

  “Resurrection.” I said. “That’s got to be it.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll bite. Why?”

  “Well, for one, it’s the only really sensible word in the entire list.”

  He half nodded, but I didn’t wait for him to say anything.