The Manolo Matrix Read online

  “We got it right. And if it makes you feel any better, I still won’t spill anything. The book may not be four hundred years old, but it’s still old and spectacular.” He closed the book and inspected it. “I don’t know how much this baby is worth, but considering its condition, I’m thinking a lot.”

  “A lot? How much a lot?”

  “Enough that you and I just committed a felony.”

  “Oh. Great.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not. Unless we find the clue, I’m going to be dead before they arrest us, anyway.” I blinked, and sat back in my seat, the reality of the situation blindsiding me. I’d stowed it away, pretended I was playing a part, but this was real. Real and deadly, and I was scared.

  “Jenn? Are you okay?”

  I looked at him, my eyes unnaturally wide as I tried to keep myself from crying.

  “It just hit me. Something bad is going to happen to me. In just a few hours. It’s not a drama. It’s not the theater. And nothing’s going to swoop down in the third act to save me.”

  “I will,” he said, with such conviction that I actually managed a smile. He pressed his hand over mine. “I like happy endings, Jenn. And I promise you that you’ll get one, too.”

  I swear I almost melted on the spot. But I gave myself a little shake and tried to come to my senses.

  “Right. You’re right.” Brooding wasn’t going to get us anywhere. And I didn’t have time for self-indulgent depression or momentary lapses into lust.

  “Right,” I said again. “I’m fine.” He didn’t look convinced, but I pointed to the book. “Do you see anything in there?”

  He paused, but then shook his head. “Not yet,” he said, still flipping pages.

  “Do you think maybe it’s some combination of words? Something from the first message? Do we have to use that code key to unscramble something else?”

  “If that’s the case, we really are screwed.” His eyes met mine. “Are you up to translating all of these words using that code?”

  I shook my head.

  “Me neither. But I don’t think it matters. The code we had before turned nonsense into legitimate words. I can’t fathom how it would work backwards. And even if there’s a word or two in here that would become something else if we applied the code, how are we supposed to know which word to use?” He shook his head. “No, I think the key has to be somewhere in this book.”

  “Or in another one,” I said. “Oh, shit, Devlin. What if the bar had more than one copy of Don Quixote?”

  “No panicking,” he said. “And no making up worst case scenarios. The clue’s here,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it says so.”

  I gaped at him. “It says so? What are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t you read the card?”

  “The notecard? Yeah. Sure.” I frowned, trying to remember it. “It was just a card.”

  “Not exactly,” he said, and then he smiled, reaching into the back of the book to pull out a card and pass it to me. “Lucky I snagged it, too.”

  “ ‘Privately Printed for the Members of the English Bibliophilist Society and Printed by Morrison & Gibbs Limited, Edinburgh,’ ” I read. “No date, but it says that it was probably published between 1892 and 1894. It’s part of a limited edition of one hundred copies, and this one was donated by Paul S. Winslow.” I looked up at him, definitely missing the big picture. “So?”

  “Paul. S. Winslow,” he said, slowly. “PSW.”

  “Oh my gosh!” I said. “That can’t be a coincidence.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.” He tapped the book. “Let’s see if we can’t prove it,” he said, and then we started going through the book, page by meticulous page.

  Flip. Nothing.

  Flip. Nothing.

  And then—

  “Shit! Devlin! Look!”

  Right there, tipped in between the pages about two-thirds of the way through the volume, was an almost transparent sheet of onion-skin paper.

  “I can barely read this,” I said, leaning closer and trying to make out the words.

  Devlin leaned close, too, but admitted he couldn’t do a much better job. The clue had been typed on what must have been an antique manual typewriter with the original ribbon. Coupled with the dim lighting, it was almost impossible to see.

  He held it up, and we both squinted at it, finally making out the text:

  VISIT THE HOME OF THE CREATOR OF FUNNY

  BOY, THIS TOO SHALL PASS, THE KIDNEY STONE,

  AND 100 DOLLAR LEGS

  “The Producers,” I said. I love that show, and I recognized the list of titles right away. “Those are all shows that Max Bialystock produced,” I added, naming the musical’s lead, a shyster Broadway producer involved in an elaborate scheme to produce a flop.

  “Yeah,” Devlin agreed. “But what does it mean by ‘the home of the creator’?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Maybe we’re supposed to go to the St. James Theater? That’s where The Producers is running, right?”

  “It’s worth a shot,” he said. “I sure as hell don’t have a better idea.”

  I didn’t waste time pointing out that it was well after midnight now. In my experience, everyone clears out of the theaters pretty fast. I was afraid we were going to find the place dark, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t willing to try. Maybe we’d get lucky. Or maybe there’d be a message for us graffitied on the side of the building. I don’t usually hope for vandalism, but in this case, I’d make an exception.

  Since we couldn’t find an empty taxi, we ended up walking the few blocks back to the theater district, and then over to the St. James on 44th Street. Like I’d expected, the theater was deserted, and even though we pounded on the stage door, no one came to answer. Not even a security guard.

  “Closed up until morning,” Devlin said.

  I didn’t say anything. I was too busy telling myself that it didn’t matter, because the clue was somewhere else. But where?

  “Mel Brooks’ house?” I suggested.

  “How would we know where that is?” He looked back at the theater. “And I still think it’s Bialystock. Otherwise, why not say the creator of Bialystock.”

  He had a point, and I certainly didn’t have any ammunition for arguing. So while Devlin dialed the number for the theater, hoping to find some night manager to come let us in, I tried to think about all the various possibilities where the clue could be hidden. If this was a musical, and I was the female lead, I’d probably have a big solo right now, bemoaning the fact that we were stuck. I figured this would come somewhere around the end of the first act, and I’d bust a gut belting out how frightened I was and how I couldn’t find the clue. And then I’d throw myself up against the wall—which I did right then, just to get in the spirit of the thing—and then, when I looked down, I’d see the clue etched into the glass covering the theater posters.

  I stopped, considering that, and checked the glass. No etchings.

  So much for my playwriting skills.

  Or maybe the heroine drops her purse, and something rolls out, then down into a grating, and that’s where she finds the clue.

  I half-considered dropping my tote just to test that theory, but I wasn’t inclined to torture my Marc Jacobs bag that way. Plus, my laptop was still in the bag, and if I dropped it, I’d surely smash it, and then where would we be? From what I could tell, even stuck in the real world, most of this game played out on the computer, and—

  That was it!

  “Devlin!”

  He rushed to my side, his face painted in concern. “What? Are you okay? What happened?”

  I didn’t even bother to reassure him. “A web page,” I said, tugging at his arm. “Come on. We don’t need to be here. We just need to get onto the Internet.”

  Fortunately, that was easily arranged. Since my parents—bless them—express their love through expensive technological gifts, I’m the happy recipient
of an air card. Which basically means I don’t need anything but my computer in order to snag an Internet connection. No phone lines, Internet cafes, or T-Mobile hot spots for me. (And if I sound like a commercial, it’s because I love my computer. More, I love my mom and dad.)

  I dragged him around the corner to the Howard Johnson’s, and as I booted up my laptop, I explained what I was thinking. “It says the home of the creator, right? Well, that’s Max Bialystock. So I bet we’re supposed to go to the Max Bialystock home page!”

  The waitress was looking at us funny, but Devlin ordered two coffees and a plate of french fries, and she vanished up the aisle. He came around from his side of the booth to sit next to me.

  “What do you think?” I asked, since he’d been quiet, and I was starting to descend into insecurity.

  “I think you’re brilliant,” he said.

  “Yeah?” My descent changed directions, and I was almost grinning as I pulled up the browser and typed in the web address, http://www.maxbialystock.com. I pressed ENTER. “Here goes nothing,” I said.

  And, in fact, I was right. Not a damn thing happened. Nothing except a DNS error, anyway.

  “Try it with an underscore,” Devlin said, leaning over me to type it himself: http://www.max_bialystock.com.

  Again, nada.

  “Well, damn,” I said. “I was so certain. Maybe melbrooks.com?”

  “Try Bialystock.com first.”

  I did and seconds later, we knew that we’d hit it right. “Shit,” I said, looking at the words on the screen. “What do we do now?”

  If Memory serves, the answer is Practical-ly on the knight’s production.

  And will be found by following One Thing After Another

  to the gathering place

  of the patroness of Candide, as she dances among the Italian canals, and of those who dine on the meal named by Morgan and Catiline when they sat on The Love Set and When [they were] In Rome.

  Chapter

  26

  BIRDIE

  I don’t wait well. I find boredom tiresome. Lines and queues only irritate me, and so I often find myself not attending any function that requires me to wait.

  In that particular aspect, I found prison especially unappealing.

  Now, I have my freedom, but I am still waiting. And even though I have had some lovely diversions, those tasks are now complete, and I’m left waiting for the main event to begin.

  My computer is open, the browser pointed to a GPS map with no indications of activity showing on it. I glare at it, then pick up my PDA. It shows the same map and, also, the same lack of activity. I sigh. How much longer will it take for them to figure out the qualifying clue? Am I dealing with idiots here?

  I hope not. And once the game begins, I want them to be clever. I want to win, of course, but not too easily. There’s no fun in a slaughter. The fun is in the chase. In the game.

  I return to the bed and open the bottle of nail polish. I’ve decided to go ahead and splurge on Devilish Red this time, and I think that’s appropriate. I prop my feet up and go to work on my toes. Just something to keep my mind occupied while I wait.

  After all, the tracking software was truly a gift. I think about the message I received along with the email that included the software: Your vision will be clearer as you track them through the town, but keep in mind, my pretty, inconsistencies will abound.

  I don’t know exactly what that means, but from the software alone, I’d been able to tell that I was installing a tracking system. Considering the microchip I’d placed earlier, that made perfect sense. The reference to inconsistencies will, I assume, become clear over time. My guess is that the software is designed to work only intermittently, with random periods of blackouts where I won’t be able to track my quarry’s location.

  If I were running the game, that’s what I’d do. True, it makes it harder for the assassin, but it also increases the fun. Adds to the thrill of the chase, the beauty of the hunt.

  At the moment, though, I don’t give a fuck whether it’s continuous or intermittent. I just want the chip to turn on. I just want the location to register on the screen. I just want to start the game. I only have ten toes, after all, and I can change the color of my polish only so many times.

  I finish my toes and I’m moving on to pissed off. Don’t they know I want to get started? Don’t they know that time is of the essence? There’s a toxin in the girl’s blood, after all. Why the hell aren’t they moving faster?

  I’m working myself up into a full-blown snit—staying on the bed, of course, so I don’t smear my polish—when a wondrous thing happens. My computer and my PDA both chime. A high-pitched tone that brings me such joy that I leap off the bed. Screw my toes, this is what I’ve been waiting for.

  I race to the far side of the room, but pause just in front of the desk, my eyes cast down at the floor. What if I was wrong? What if the noise meant something else? An email, perhaps, or simply another message from PSW.

  I almost don’t want to look, because I need this so much.

  But I have to know and so, slowly, I lift my head. And there, flashing on the screen, is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen: a single red dot, marking with an accuracy within fifty yards the location of Agent Devlin Brady within the island of Manhattan.

  I smile. I twirl. I let myself dance giddily around the room.

  And then I take the PDA and my gun and slide them into my brand-new Fendi bag. Without worrying about my toes, I slip on socks and a pink pair of sneakers. Comfortable, fashionable, and practical.

  Then I slide my purse over my shoulder and head out of the hotel. Time to go meet an old friend.

  Chapter

  27

  DEVLIN

  D evlin stared at the words, wishing the meaning would leap from the screen. But instead, all he was seeing was nonsense.

  If Memory serves, the answer is Practical-ly on the knight’s production.

  And will be found by following One Thing After Another to the gathering place

  of the patroness of Candide, as she dances among the Italian canals, and of those who dine on the meal named by Morgan and Catiline when they sat on The Love Set and When [they were] In Rome.

  “What on earth does that mean?” Jenn’s eyes were wide and concerned, and he made an effort to seem reassuring.

  “We’ll figure it out,” he said. And then, just for extra measure, he reached over and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Don’t worry.”

  “Easy for you to say. Your neck isn’t on the block. Yet.” Her brow furrowed as she spoke. “Or is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Qualifying clue.”

  He knew where she was going with that. In PSW, the target had a free pass until he (or she) solved the qualifying clue. Once that happened, a signal was sent to the assassin, who was then allowed to begin the hunt.

  On the computer, it was all done electronically and signals were sent instantaneously. In real life, it was a bit dicier. In Mel’s case, they’d realized that an electronic signal had been triggered when she’d handled one of the clues. But he had no way to know for certain if that’s the way the signal was always transmitted. For all he knew, they had a tail; someone who was reporting back their every movement to the psychopath who was running this show.

  He glanced around the restaurant, memorizing the faces of everyone looking his way. And, more important, of everyone who’d turned away the second he’d met their eyes.

  “Devlin?” She closed her fingers around his wrist. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” He drew in a breath, made a decision. “Ever take a class in self-defense?”

  “Sure. Nothing major. Just a Learning Annex thing.”

  “One of the things they should have taught you is to always be aware of your surroundings.”

  She looked around, perhaps not as subtly as he’d done, but he wouldn’t fault her for that.

  “Take note of who’s around you. Try to remember things. And if you see a
familiar face somewhere else, don’t shake it off as coincidence.”

  She nodded, her face deadly serious. He felt a twinge of guilt for scaring her, then immediately quashed it. She needed to be scared if she wanted to stay alive. She also needed to be smart. And they needed to get off the stick and interpret a seemingly uninterpretable clue.

  “This,” he said, tapping the paper. “We need to focus.”

  “Answer my question first,” she said. “Have we solved the qualifying clue? Is the assassin after you? Could he be one of the folks in the diner? Or do you think one of them is hanging out, waiting to take a sniper’s shot at me?”

  “I don’t know who’s in here with us,” he admitted. “But yeah. The first clue gets the game going. And the second clue is the qualifying clue. Solve that, and the target emerges from the woodwork, ready to take a shot at you. And I’m pretty sure we just solved the thing.”

  She looked around, clearly alarmed. “Then we need to get out of here. The killer might be out there. Watching us.”

  “Could be,” he said. “But if so, he’s after my neck. You’re safe until ten tomorrow, remember?”

  “Today,” she said, then pointed to her wristwatch. “It’s already tomorrow. Besides, I’m fair game now, too, remember? I contacted the authorities. And Andy took a dart probably meant for me.”

  “You’re right.” He shifted in the booth, felt the familiar comfort of his spare piece in his ankle holster, then stood. “Let’s go.”

  She finished packing her things, then moved quickly in front of him. He pressed a light hand to her back as she headed for the front door. “Back,” he said, steering her toward the kitchen.

  “What?”

  “We’re going out the back way.”

  She nodded, and her sudden acquiescence warmed him. His life might be a total mess, but at least he could still earn the trust of a beautiful damsel in distress.

  They wended their way through the kitchen, picking over the rubber mat flooring and easing around waiters with trays of food and busboys with tubs of dirty dishes. A few people shot them curious glances, but no one seemed interested enough to stop them. More important, no one was following.