The Manolo Matrix

by Julie Kenner

  “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.

  “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 in Mary 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 of Playbill, February 2006 issue, with Spamalot 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 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 as Devlin flipped through. I settled in and joined them, trying to read upside down.

  Playbill is 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’s over.” 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.

  “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.”

  “I know,” 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 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.”

  Chapter

  55

  BIRDIE

  “Y ou 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 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 c
lose 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 it will work.

  After all, who doesn’t like a surprise?

  Chapter

  56

  JENNIFER

  “S hould 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.”

  Made sense to me, and so we went to work, pacing through a dusty, abandoned apartment as we tried to figure out an obscure clue. And tried to ignore the creaking and groaning of the resident ghost. (That might be a slight exaggeration, but now that we’d heard the ghost once, every creak of a floorboard caused my pulse to race. The only benefit was that it kept my adrenaline high. If Birdie or Belasco showed up, I’d be out of there like a shot.)

  “On display,” I said, quoting the clue. “So like on a sign?”

  “Probably,” Devlin said. “It says it’s beside the patriot, so that would make sense. We should probably figure out who the patriot is and work backwards.”

  “Right. So who’s a patriot?”

  “A Broadway patriot,” Devlin clarified.

  “Irving Berlin,” Brian suggested.

  “Good,” Devlin said. “So what would be beside Irving Berlin?”

  “Is there an Irving Berlin Theater?” I asked. “I can’t think of one, but maybe…”

  Devlin shook his head. “I don’t know of one. Not here, anyway.”

  “Me neither,” Brian said.

  “A statue,” Devlin said. “Surely there’s a statue of Irving Berlin somewhere in this city.”

  “Right. Right. Sure,” I said. “There has to be.”

  We all looked at each other. Finally, I shrugged and checked the computer. “Nothing,” I said. “I’m not finding anything.”

  “Try ‘patriotic statue,’ ” Devlin said. “Actually, try ‘patriotic statue Broadway.’ ”

  I did and—well, what do you know? “You’re brilliant,” I said, smiling. Because three hits down on the list was a reference to George M. Cohan, who wrote a whole slew of patriotic musicals, and has his statute right in the middle of Times Square, where he can watch over them all.

  But that still didn’t answer the more important question. What the hell was the password that was on display beside good old George?

  “Let’s go look,” Brian said. “Probably something on the statue plaque, right?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, it says ‘beside.’ The plaque would sort of be underneath George.”

  “Duffy Square’s not too big,” Devlin said. “We’ll spread out and each walk the area. Hopefully one of us will figure out what the password is.”

  “And if we don’t?” I asked.

  “We will,” he said, with a firm look in my direction.

  I nodded. He was right. We would because we had to.

  Brian checked his watch. “It’s still early, so hopefully the line at TKTS won’t be too long. I’d hate for them to be standing on some brick or something with the clue etched on it.”

  “Good point,” I said. “Maybe we should start at that end of the square and work our way down to George. This might take awhile, after all.” TKTS is the discount ticket booth that’s set up at one end of Duffy Square, and pretty early in the day, tourists flood the area, all trying to snag cheap seats to a hot show. It’s madness, but a controlled-queue madness, and one I’ve been a part of on more than one occasion. I mean, why pay full price if you don’t have to?

  I started to pack up the laptop again so we could get out of the theater and head over to the square. I was just about to close the browser and shut the thing down when I had a little flash of inspiration. “You guys,” I said, “what if…” But I never finished. My fingers were already way ahead of me, and as I’d been talking, I’d typed “TKTS” into the little box on the screen.

  My finger paused over the ENTER key, startled by the low drone of the elevator, once again moving the ghost of David Belasco up and down.

  “Devlin?” In front of me, Devlin had pulled his gun, had aimed it at the still-closed doors.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” he said firmly. “But I do believe in Birdie.”

  Oh, hell.

  My first reaction was to run, but then I remembered. I had the key to ending this whole thing right in front of me. If I was right, we could end this right now.

  My finger didn’t even wait for me to finish gathering those thoughts. I pushed the ENTER key, and as Devlin kept steady aim on the door, I kept a close watch on the screen. The hourglass whirred and the computer purred. The elevator creaked to a stop. And then, just as the doors started to slide open, the computer beeped and a message appeared.

  GAME OVER

  THE ASSASSIN’S ASSIGNMENT HAS BEEN TERMINATED

  OFFSHORE BANKING INFORMATION FORWARDED

  TO YOUR MESSAGE CENTER

  CONGRATULATIONS.

  AND HAVE A NICE DAY

  “It’s over!” I shouted. “You bitch, it’s over!”

  But I didn’t trust Birdie to have gotten the message…or to comply even if she had. The doors squeaked, Devlin braced himself, and I ducked.

  The elevator was empty.

  I started to breathe once again.

  Behind me, I heard Brian exhale, too.

  “She’s not here,” I said. “God, maybe this place is haunted.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Devlin said, his jaw tight, his body tense. He stalked to the elevator, making sure it really was clear, then turned back to me. “Something’s going on, Jenn. Why is this elevator moving?”

  “It moves by itself all the time,” Brian said. “That’s why the place has the rep for being haunted. Personally, I think it’s a short in the system.”

  “It’s over, anyway,” I said. I turned the laptop so he could see. “We won. Birdie’s been pulled off. The game’s done.”

  He scowled at the screen, but didn’t do anything.

  I put my hand on his arm. “Devlin,” I said. “It’s over. She’s not here. How would she have even found the place? We tossed the tracking device.”

  He still didn’t look convinced, but after a moment he nodded. “Even so. Let’s get the hell out of here. Haunted or not, this place gives me the willies.”

  I had no argument with that, and I moved to shut down the laptop again.

  “Hang on,” he said. He nodded at the machine. “May as well check the message center.”

  I nodded, and we navigated over to the PSW site. Sure enough, there was a message for Devlin, complete with all the information about how to access a Cayman Island account with a balance “in excess of twenty million U.S. dollars.” Nice.

  We were just about to head over to my message center (I wasn’t expecting nearly as big a reward from my role as protector) when another message came in for Devlin.

  I stared at the screen, my entire body going cold. “That’s got to be from her,” I said. My finger hovered over the key. “Should I?”

  Devlin nodded, and I clicked. And sure enough…

  >http://www.playsurvivewin.com<<

  PLAY.SURVIVE.WIN

  >WELCOME TO REPORTING CENTER<<<

  You have one unread message.

  New Message:

  To: G-Man

  From: Birdie

  Subject: Playing by the Rules

  Congratulations. I just received the news of your success on my PDA, and considering our close, personal relationship, I thought I would personally alleviate any concerns you might have regarding your continued safety.

  I play by the rules, Agent Brady.

  I had my chance at you during the course of this game, a game at which I’m sorry I failed
. I would have liked watching your brains splatter on the wall.

  But I keep my commitments. It’s a point of honor with me. If you’ve read my file, as I know you have, you already know that’s true.

  Just one other thing: You’re safe now, because you won the game. But come after me, seek me out, try to find me again so you can put me back in a cage, and it’s no longer about the game. Then it becomes personal. And then, I will kill you.

  XXOO

  Birdie

  Chapter

  57

  DEVLIN

  T hey rode down the elevator in a silence, but this time it wasn’t the morose silence of people trying to figure a way out of the mousetrap. This was a happy, contented silence. In fact, beside him, Jenn was doing a little jig.

  She caught him looking at her, then reached over and squeezed his hand. “We did it,” she said, then pulled herself up onto her tiptoes and kissed him.

  He returned the kiss with enthusiasm, then stroked her face. “It’s over. For you, anyway. You can concentrate on getting famous.”

  One eyebrow arched. “For me,” she repeated. “You mean that you’re—”

  “Going after her,” he said, but he was watching Brian, not Jenn.

  “Fifi,” Brian said in a whisper. “Thank you.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. It’s what I do,” Devlin said. “Or at least I will, as soon as I get my badge and gun back.” He shifted as he spoke, feeling the comfortable heft of his clutch piece back at his ankle. Oh yeah, once he had a badge and a gun, he was going to make sure the bitch went down.

  “Good,” Jenn said simply, and then she kissed him again. “I’ll worry, of course. But this time you’ll be the one chasing her. And you’ll have the FBI to back you up.”

  “Exactly.”

  The elevator groaned to a halt and they stepped out, then maneuvered the short distance to the stage. They’d just stepped on and were heading across when Jenn stopped, then turned and stared out into the house. “Wow.” She drew in a breath, then started in on “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” from Spamalot, bouncing around the stage as she did until she finally goaded him into joining in the silly song with her. She had a wonderful voice, clean and pure and big. So big it seemed to fill the theater. It sure as hell surrounded him, and as they blew through the last lines of the song, he swung her around, then gathered her in his arms and pulled her close for a kiss.