by Julie Kenner
I didn’t understand how I lost the thing, but lost it I had. Some protector. One fucking clue comes into my hands, and I’m so busy watching my own ass that I can’t even keep a hold of it.
“Quit beating yourself up,” Devlin said, as he ushered me into a cab.
“I can’t help it.”
“Try. We found the antidote. You’re alive. I’m alive. Those are the important things.”
“You may be alive, but for how long? If we can’t find that glass, we’re stuck. You’re a walking target with no way to win the game. No way to end it. The game turns into a race, Devlin. A race that you can’t win. You can only lose.”
“I don’t intend to lose.”
I leaned back in the seat and exhaled through my nose. “Yesterday, you probably would have done cartwheels at the idea of some freak with a pistol waiting to take you out. Now you’re an optimist?”
“I’ve got a new perspective,” he said with a wicked grin that for some reason had me blushing.
“Yeah? Well, I’m glad.” I twined my fingers through his. “Why don’t you just leave?” I asked, leaning forward with sudden inspiration. “Go away. Leave town. Move to Mexico.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting a romantic retreat?”
“Damn it, Devlin, be serious.”
“I am,” he said, “because that’s the only thing that would get me out of this city right now. I didn’t ask for this, but I’m damn sure going to see it through.” He turned away from me, looking out the window at the passing street.
“All right,” I finally said. “But does that go for everything?”
“What do you mean?”
I swallowed, wondering if I should really go there. Then I decided what the hell. One thing I was learning: life’s short. “I mean that you didn’t ask for them to take your badge. Are you going to see that through, too? Work to get reinstated?”
“Jenn…”
There was a warning in his voice, but I didn’t care. “See it through, Devlin. I may not be able to imagine leaving the theater, but this cop stuff is in your blood. Even in your funk, you stepped up to the plate to help me. So how come you didn’t do the same for yourself?”
“You’re pretty wise, Jennifer Crane.”
“Don’t tease me, Devlin. I’m serious.”
“So am I. But right now, the only thing I’m worried about seeing through is this game. Not my career. Just my ass. And yours, too.”
“My ass appreciates it.”
“And I appreciate your ass,” he said with an exaggerated leer that had me laughing. It also had me ending the subject. I know how to take a hint.
I held out my hand. “Pass me the phone.” He did, and I dialed, determined to follow the only clue we had left. The shot-glass I’d lost was from the Jekyll & Hyde Club, and the way I saw it, that was the only lead we had. I called information first, then got put through to the club. One ring, two, then a recorded message with the restaurant’s hours. I checked my watch, then cursed.
“Not open yet,” I said, snapping the cell phone closed and passing it to Devlin. “Damn.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. He leaned forward and gave the driver an address on 42nd Street.
“Where are we going?”
“To see the one person who might be able to help us.”
“But what about involving outside people? Doesn’t that put them at risk?”
Devlin’s face shifted, his jaw cutting a firm line. “It might,” he said. “But with this son-of-a-bitch, I frankly don’t care.”
Chapter
45
DEVLIN
J enn didn’t ask any questions as Devlin led her up into the skyscraper. He was glad of that. Right now, he wanted to think. Needed to organize his thoughts. And he wanted to mentally play out—in every painful, bloody detail—exactly what he intended to do when he saw the man.
He’d just been finishing up a scenario where he beat the cretin to a bloody pulp when they arrived in front of the reception desk. “We’re here to see Thomas Reardon,” Devlin announced, when the pert twenty-something greeted him. Beside him, Jenn shifted and he heard her barely audible gasp of surprise.
He didn’t bother to look; he was concentrating on the receptionist, keeping his eyes locked on hers. He might not have his badge, but he knew how to be persuasive when he wanted to. And he wasn’t leaving this building without first chatting with Reardon.
In front of him, the girl squirmed, her expression shifting from polite welcome to something else entirely. Confused horror? No, that made no sense. The whole firm couldn’t be in on the scheme, and even if a few higher-ups were involved with bringing Grimaldi’s computer game out into the real world, there was no way this barely legal receptionist had been drawn into the scheme. Devlin had to be reading her wrong.
“I’m…I’m sorry,” the girl finally stammered. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but it’s imperative we see him. We’ll only take a few minutes of his time.”
“I…Well, I…just a moment.” She picked up the phone, dialed an extension, waited, and then spoke. “Yes, hi, it’s Gillian. Um, there’s a gentleman here who wants to speak to Mr. Reardon. He says it’s urgent. Of course, sir. Certainly. Thank you.”
She hung up the phone, her expression now one of relief. And about that, Devlin was certain.
“Mr. Jackson is on his way,” she said. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“What about Mr. Reardon?”
“Ah, you’ll have to talk to Mr. Jackson.”
He considered protesting some more, just for form, but it wouldn’t do any good. “A couple of coffees would be great,” he said, figuring they could both use the caffeine. And while she headed around a corner to what had to be a refreshment center, Devlin settled on the leather sofa next to Jennifer.
Immediately, she pounced. “Thomas Reardon!” she whispered. “I thought you said he was clean.”
“Not clean,” Devlin explained. “Just no dirt we could see.”
“You mean he might be behind all this? Placing the clues? The collar on the cat? All that kind of stuff?”
“It’s possible.”
“Shit.”
He nodded, knowing exactly how she felt. Thomas Reardon had been mixed up in Mel’s ordeal, but the FBI had never been able to pin anything on him. For all intents and purposes, Reardon was Grimaldi’s attorney, nothing more. And there was nothing illegal about representing a dead computer genius. Even if that genius’s online game had suddenly gone live in the real world.
“So you think he might know where we need to go next?”
“Exactly,” Devlin said. “Even better, he might be able to shut this whole thing down.”
“But if the FBI never managed to nail anything on him, what are you going to bargain with? He’s just going to say he’s clueless, and that will be that.”
She was right, of course, but since Devlin was all out of ideas, they were going to see this through. He was about to tell her that when the receptionist came back with their coffee, followed almost immediately by a tall, thin man with salt and pepper hair topping a dour expression.
“I’m Alistair Jackson,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“We’d like to speak to Mr. Reardon,” Devlin said.
“Are you a current client?”
“No, actually, I’m with the FBI.”
“Identification?”
“I’m not here officially,” he said, sideswiping the request. “But it is important to me personally that I see Mr. Reardon.”
“And the young lady?”
“Jennifer Crane,” she said, holding out her hand. Jackson took it, then released it, his expression never softening.
“I’m sorry but we won’t be able to help you.”
Devlin started to open his mouth, not sure what he intended to say. Probably some bluster about cooperation and official inquiries and bullshit like that. Didn’t matter. Mr. Jackson’s next words
shut him up real fast.
“I’m afraid Thomas Reardon is dead.”
Chapter
46
JENNIFER
I waited until we’d gone back down the elevator, crossed through the lobby, and exited the building before I said a word. But as soon as we were outside, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “She did it. She must have done it.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’d be willing to make book on it.”
“So what now?”
He took my hand and tugged me across the street, jaywalking, of course, in the fine tradition of New York natives.
“Where are we going?”
“We need to sit. And we need to think.” And with that, he led us to the Bryant Park Café, nestled behind the library and conveniently located just across the street from the recently deceased Mr. Reardon’s offices.
We sat outside, and when the waiter delivered our water, I actually felt human. I was in a restaurant, with a guy, enjoying an unseasonably warm afternoon in New York City. If it weren’t for the whole psycho-trying-to-kill-us thing, the afternoon would be perfect.
It wasn’t, though, and I sobered up pretty quickly. “What now?” I asked.
“How good a look did you get at that shot glass?”
“It was from the Jekyll & Hyde Club,” I said. “That’s all I noticed.”
“But there could have been something etched in the glass on the bottom,” he said. “Something important.”
“I know.” I sank down a bit in my seat and fiddled with my silverware.
“I wasn’t criticizing,” he said. “Just stating a fact.”
“A bad fact,” I said. “Got any good news to go with that little reminder of my ineptitude?”
He chuckled. “No, but I have an idea that might turn out to be good. Fair enough?”
“At this point, anything.”
“Jekyll and Hyde played as a musical, didn’t it?”
“So it’s definitely part of our theme.”
“So we check the theater. Maybe something was left for us at the box office.”
“And we still need to check the Club. Maybe someone left a message with the manager or put something in the lost and found.”
“Right. As soon as they open.”
I checked my watch. “Actually, it’s right at 11:30. They should be open by now. Should I call?”
He shook his head. “No, we should go there. Since we don’t know what we need, better to show up in person. Less likely someone will brush us off if we’re standing right in front of them.”
“Fine.” I was pushing my chair back when the phone rang. I checked caller ID, then snatched it up. “Brian! Thank God! Where are you?”
“Jesus, Jenn, I just found out! I’ve been at Larry’s going over some last minute lyric changes, and I just checked my messages. What the fuck is going on?” His voice was thick, and I could tell he’d been crying. Probably got word from the cops, then thought to check his voice mails and found the message from me.
“You can’t go home,” I said. “Stay where you are and don’t go home.”
“I have to give a statement to the cops.”
“Make them come to you,” I said.
“They are.” He made a strangling noise. “What’s happening?”
“It’s PSW, Brian, but don’t tell the cops that. It could only make it worse. Just say you don’t know.”
“PSW? But how? Why?” Now there was terror in his voice in addition to the grief. He’d heard all about Mel’s escapades, but I know he’d never expected one of his own. I sure as hell hadn’t.
“It’s my fault,” I said, even as Devlin laid a firm hand over mine. “I got sucked into this fucking game, and I didn’t realize—” I choked back a sob. “I didn’t realize when I asked your help on that stupid puzzle…”
“Oh, shit,” Brian said. “They wanted to kill me. Oh my God. Fifi’s dead because of me.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said firmly. From across the table, Devlin squeezed my hand, as if saying it’s not your fault, either. But I knew that it was. At least a little bit, Fifi’s blood was on my hands. And, unless I was careful, Brian’s would be, too.
“You have to stay hidden,” I said. “She might still be looking for you.”
“She?”
“The killer’s a woman, Bri. That freaky bitch we saw at Bergdorf’s. The one who tossed the Manolos.”
“Holy shit. Tell the cops. Get them looking for her.”
“I can’t,” I said. I took a deep breath. “But maybe you can.”
“What?”
I looked up at Devlin, saw that his face was tight. I mouthed a question: Okay?
For a second, he didn’t do anything, but then he nodded.
I exhaled and spoke into the phone. “When you talk to the police tell them about the girl in Bergdorf’s.” Describing her to the police probably wouldn’t do any good. But maybe we’d get lucky. We certainly hadn’t with the shot glass. And since we were now operating without complete clues, I figured we needed whatever advantage we could grab. “Tell them about how she was acting strange. About, I don’t know, about whatever you want. Just don’t say it came from me. I call the cops, I’m in trouble. More trouble,” I amended. “But you saw her, too. She was acting suspicious. Following us, even. But that’s all you know, Brian. You can’t know anything about the game.”
“I don’t know anything,” Brian said flatly, “except that my cousin is dead.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I know, Jenn. I—” His voice broke.
“You have to stay hidden,” I said. “You understand that?”
“I’ve got a show, Jenn. I’ve got rehearsals. I’ve got opening night. I’ve got—”
“A life, Brian. And if you want to keep it, you need to do what I say.”
“Jenn…”
“At least for a day or so. Make up an excuse. Give me time here. We’re going to end this thing, Devlin and I. I promise we are. So please, just lay low for a little bit. Please. For me. I don’t think I could stand it if something happened to you.”
Silence, and then, “You’re going to get the bitch who killed him, right?”
“I promise.” I didn’t know how I’d make good on that promise, but when I said it, I meant it.
“I want to help.”
“I know you do,” I said. But about that, I wasn’t promising anything. I’d already dragged him into this. I really didn’t want to pull him in any further. “I have to go,” I said. “Be careful.”
“You, too.”
We hung up, and Devlin passed me a napkin. I must have looked confused, because he reached out and brushed his thumb across my cheek. I’d been crying, and I didn’t even realize it.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No.” I stood up. “Let’s get out of here.”
Since we were already near the Plymouth Theater, we decided to check there first to see if anybody had left something for us at the box office. If we got lucky, great. If not, we’d hoof it back up Sixth to the Jekyll & Hyde Club. Mostly, I just needed to move. To feel like we were making progress. Because once we stopped making progress, the game was all over. Once that happened, we were really and truly fucked.
“She’s going to find us,” I continued. “We’re going to be running around town trying to figure out some missing clue, and that bird bitch is going to find us.”
Devlin went as still as stone beside me. Alarmed, I turned to him. “What did you call her?” he asked.
“Bird Bitch,” I said, a little cautiously. “It’s stupid, but that was the nickname I gave her.”
“Why?” he asked, his fingers just a little too tight on my arm.
“Um, Devlin, I’m not—”
“Why did you give her that nickname? You only saw her the one time before this morning, didn’t you? In Bergdorf’s?”
“Right. But she was wearing a halter. And she had this huge—”
“Tattoo,” h
e finished, closing his eyes, and then letting go of my arm so that he could rub his temple. “Birdie,” he whispered, and when he turned to me, his eyes were lit with excitement. And also, I thought, with fear. “I know her,” he said. “I know who our assassin is.”
Chapter
47
DEVLIN
R age burned through Devlin as his long strides ate up the sidewalk. They’d left the café and were heading toward Broadway. Ostensibly to cut up from there to 45th Street and check in at the Plymouth’s box office. But Devlin wasn’t thinking about any of that. Not about the possibility that the Plymouth house manager could be holding a clue, not about the Jekyll & Hyde Club, not even about the woman trotting along beside him, trying desperately to match his pace.
No, all he was thinking about was that he’d been had. He’d been taken for a fool, and he’d been used.
That was beginning to be a goddamn habit. He thought about Randall, his partner, now cold in his grave. Randall had turned on Devlin, had gone so far as to try to take him out once Devlin got wind that he was on the take. But Devlin had won. It had cost him everything, but he’d won.
He’d won against Birdie once before, too. But could he do it again?
“Devlin. Devlin!” Jenn reached out and grabbed his arm, yanking him to a stop. “What is going on?”
“I helped put her away,” he said. They’d stopped in a storefront, a kind of open space where various vendors set up shop. He stepped further inside, moving away from the street. “About five years ago. She was on the fringes of an organization we were taking down. I was doing grunt work. Paper pushing. But I ran across some anomalies, and they tracked back to this woman. This hard-as-nails woman who’d do just about anything if the price was right.”
“You caught her,” Jenn said.
“Not me. The FBI. But, yeah. She wouldn’t have gone down if it weren’t for me.”
He watched Jenn’s face as she processed that information. “So this is personal. She’s got a personal vendetta against you.” Her brow furrowed. “We were right. It isn’t coincidence that we’re involved. Someone’s hand-picking the players.”