The Givenchy Code Read online

  “I just don’t think—”

  “Melanie Lynn Prescott?”

  Saved by a stranger. I whirled around to face the voice behind me, then gasped and took a step backward. Todd’s hand closed on my shoulder, and I didn’t shrug it off.

  Books always describe men as dark and dangerous, and now I know what that means. The man standing in front of me was positively gorgeous in a way that made me want to touch him and run from him, all at the same time. Total eye candy, with coal black hair and a movie star jawline.

  I almost moaned—okay, maybe I did moan—but I stifled the sound quickly enough. Swallowed it, actually, and then was even more grateful for Todd’s hand on my shoulder. There was something about the stranger’s eyes. They seemed cruel and hollow and, without any reason at all, they scared me to death.

  “You are Miss Prescott?” he said.

  “Oh, yes, me, right.” The man’s voice was like honey. If it hadn’t been for those eyes…

  “And who are you?” That from Todd, still behind me.

  “I have a delivery for you,” Mystery Man said, ignoring Todd. He took a step toward me, then held out a manila envelope.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  He smiled, but the gesture didn’t seem to fit his face. “I couldn’t say. I’d suggest you open it.” He touched a finger to his brow as if tipping an imaginary hat, then turned and walked away, leaving me holding the envelope and feeling more than a little perplexed.

  I frowned, my brow crinkling in a manner that really isn’t my best look. Too curious to wait until I got back home, I slipped a finger under the flap and ripped the envelope open. Inside was a thick piece of brown paper that looked like it had been torn from a grocery bag. I pulled it free and immediately saw the markings. Totally cool.

  Okay, I’m a geek, but I confess I was a little giddy. I had no idea why someone had sent me a coded message, but whoever it was knew me well. My B.S. is in math with a minor in history. That surprises most people. Apparently math majors are supposed to be surgically attached to their calculators and wear plastic pocket protectors. It’s an irritating stereotype. Like saying blondes have more fun. I’m a blonde, and believe me, that’s one old adage that simply doesn’t hold true. (I will say, though, that even when the hair falls short, the math comes in surprisingly handy. Take parties, for example. Whenever the conversation gets slow, I can amaze and astound the other revelers with fractals, Fibonacci numbers and Smullyan’s logic games. In those situations, I really am the life of the party.)

  Now that I’m working on my master’s, I’ve switched the focus to history. My thesis is on the derivation and primary characteristics of codes and ciphers used by prevailing nations during wartime. (And yes, I realize that’s way too broad. I’ve already had that conversation with my advisor, thank you very much.)

  The point is, the coded message on the thick brown paper really was right up my alley. If the sender was a guy, I was already half in love.

  “Somebody knows you well, Mata Hari,” Todd said, referring to his pet name for me. He’d latched onto it after our first date, when he’d learned about my fascination with the Enigma machine, along with my rampant lust for all things footwear. I’d told him I’d rather be Sydney Bristow, but he’d never taken the hint.

  Todd took the sheet from my hand and turned it over, examining it. “So who’s it from?”

  I examined the envelope for a return address. Nothing. “No idea. Weird, huh?” And it really was weird, no doubt about that. But something about the whole situation—the messenger, the coded message—seemed oddly familiar.

  “Probably an invitation to a party. Like a Mensa thing. If you’re clever enough to break the code, then you get the address. I bet Warren sent it. That’s right up his alley, isn’t it?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.” Warren is both a character and my sometimes study buddy. Less so now that I’ve moved to the history department and he’s working on his master’s in mechanical engineering. Or he says he is. Sometimes I think all Warren does is sit in his apartment, listen to obscure music by bands I’ve never heard of and work his puzzles. “His thing is crosswords and anagrams,” I said. “He was never really into codes.”

  “So it’s someone else. Or he sent it to amuse you. Or maybe it’s from some super secret spy agency and they’re trying to recruit you. If you figure it out in time, you’re in the agency and they’ll pack you on a plane for your first mission.”

  I shot him a Drop it look. Todd is one of the few people who knows I secretly lust after a cool job doing cryptology on a day-to-day basis. But those jobs are few and far between. I’ve printed out the job applications for the NSA on more than one occasion, but I always seem to toss them without filling them in. It all seems so unlikely. I mean, I’m about as average as they come, and I couldn’t really see me doing code-breaking for the government, even as much as I’d like to. And the thought of applying and getting rejected was downright depressing. Most likely, I’ll end up teaching history to seventh graders. Oh, the joy.

  “Well, I’m sticking with my invitation theory. One of your friends is having a party. And knowing you, you’ll get to the bash years before anyone else.”

  “Thanks,” I answered, looking at him with a new respect. He’d never much complimented my brains, being much more interested in the softer, rounder parts of my body. So it was a welcome surprise to learn that maybe he’d seen more in me than I’d given him credit for.

  “So tonight, then?”

  I nodded. Why not? He’d bought me shoes, he’d complimented my brain, and now he wanted to buy me a drink. If I didn’t already know he was all wrong, I’d say he was the perfect man.

  “Great.” He snatched the envelope and code from my hand.

  “Hey!”

  “Collateral,” he said with a mischievous grin. “Just so you don’t change your mind and back out of our date. Come by around six.”

  “Todd, don’t you dare…” But he was already gone, waving at me as he headed back the way we’d come. And what could I do? I was stuck there with the dogs, and he knew it. By the time I gathered them up, he’d be long gone.

  Sometimes that man could be so infuriating.

  I was still fuming when I realized the rain had stopped. I checked the dogs, quickly seeing that they were a little muddier around the paws than I would have liked, but that was okay.

  Actually, right then, pretty much everything was okay despite Todd’s ridiculous posturing. I’d received an entirely cool encrypted message that might be from a secret admirer. (I can dream.) I now owned a stunning pair of this season’s Givenchy shoes. And to top it off, the sun was beginning to peek out past the gray wisps of cloud fluff.

  No doubt about it, the gods were smiling on me. Today, at least, I ranked as one of the chosen few.

  And you know what? That felt pretty damn good.

  Chapter

  2

  “D on’t kill me,” Jennifer said the second I walked into the apartment. She was on the couch, wearing my favorite pair of Seven jeans and a darling Tahari top that I’d had my eye on for weeks. The Post was on the cushion beside her, open to“Page Six.”

  “For borrowing my jeans or for Todd?”

  “Both,” she said. She moved the paper to the coffee table and gave me her full attention. “So what happened with him? He was desperate, and he said he had something for you, or I wouldn’t have told him.” She held up her little finger in a symbolic pinkie swear. “So what was it, anyway?”

  “Guess.”

  “Your denim D&G jacket?”

  “No, and thank you very much for reminding me.” I’d lost my favorite jacket months ago.

  “Well, what?”

  I held up the shoe box. “Ta-da!”

  “Givenchy!” she cried, ripping the lid off the box. “Oh, Mel! They’re beautiful.”

  “I know!” I said, still giddy. “And it’s quit raining, so I can wear them. We’re still going shopping, right?”

  “
Sure. Are we looking or buying?”

  “A little bit of both, I think.” My checking account was in dire need of life support, but if I ate ramen for the next two weeks and kept the dog-walking gig for the month, I could swing a new pair of jeans. And I might even lose a few pounds, too!

  “So you forgive me?”

  “I haven’t decided,” I said. I moved closer to get a better look at her blouse. “Is that the Tahari we saw at Bloomingdale’s?”

  Her fingers went up to graze the collar protectively. “Um, yeah. I grabbed it yesterday before work.”

  “It would look totally cute on me, don’t you think?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would.”

  “Come on, Mel. Not my Tahari.”

  “Jenn! You revealed information about my whereabouts to my ex. I think you’re getting off easy.”

  “You’re such a bitch. But in the nicest possible way, of course.”

  I laughed. “Not forever. Just let me wear it today. You can still borrow the jeans. I only want the top. It’ll look totally awesome with the shoes, don’t you think?”

  “True.” She nodded, then peeled off the top. That’s why we’re such good friends. We both understand the important things.

  She abandoned her place on the couch to go find a new shirt, and I sat down in front of the coffee table and started to untie my sneakers. Cindy Adams’s column caught my eye, and I skimmed the day’s gossip. Nothing too scintillating, but I have to say I love the Post. I skimmed the important stuff first—the gossip—then flipped back to the first page. The headline was huge—“Byte King Bites the Dust at 34”—and, in typical Post fashion, was splashed across the entire front page, the article taking up most of the leftover space.

  A memorial service was held yesterday for computer mogul Archibald Grimaldi at the New York office of PSW, Inc. The world-renowned computer genius made his millions writing computer code, but he made his name by applying that code to the Internet gaming community over a decade ago in a way that made multiplayer online games accessible to anyone with a computer, a modem, and a desire to play. As the popularity of such games grew, so did Grimaldi’s wealth.

  His most popular game, Play. Survive. Win, has more than 3 million registered users world-wide. All players complete a detailed User Profile, which the game’s operating system then utilizes to select the role to which the player will initially be assigned (Target, Assassin, or Protector), and to craft the clues which the Target must interpret in order to survive, rendering each game uniquely personal to the players involved.

  Another innovative attribute of PSW is the cash prizes awarded to the winning players, the amount of which varies, depending on the number of players online at any particular time.

  According to reliable sources within the PSW corporate structure, a new version of the popular game is currently undergoing beta testing.

  I skimmed the rest of the article, which contained the usual stuff about Grimaldi’s life leading up to his untimely death in a boating accident. He started out destitute, an abused child who’d grown up in foster homes. He’d run away at fifteen, he’d never gone to college, and by twenty he’d been hot and heavy in the computer industry, doing okay moneywise, but then he’d invented PSW, and it had rocked the online gaming world. Not long after, he’d become a billionaire several times over.

  And here I was struggling to make my rent. I needed to seriously reconsider my chosen career path.

  “Did you see this?” I asked as Jenn came back in the room. I passed her the paper, pointing to the lead article. She’d traded the Tahari for Juicy Couture and looked hot. Jenn has green eyes and coal black hair that falls perfectly into place even after she’s slept on it. She’s as tall as I am, and we’re both a size eight, which means we each have double the wardrobe, since we can share everything.

  But whereas I’m convinced I look like a gangly colt, Jenn resembles a graceful cat. She’s so striking that she could be a model, but she’s actually a singer. Well, a singing waitress, anyway. But she’s got the most amazing voice, and I’m totally convinced that she’ll be on Broadway one of these days. Actually, I suppose she technically is on Broadway, since she works at Ellen’s Stardust Diner, a really loud, totally cheeseball restaurant at Broadway and 51st. All the waiters and waitresses have pipes to die for, and the milk shakes are just as awesome. The place is a total tourist trap, but it’s also a lot of fun. Just being there makes me want to belt one out, and I’ve got the worst voice on the planet.

  Jenn finished scanning the article and looked up. “How freaky. Didn’t I play this once or twice?”

  “Years ago. We both did, remember?” Back when PSW was brand-new, I’d logged in and played for weeks before getting bored with it. I’d played every role and aced them all. Grimaldi had even sent me a congratulatory email. Of course, that had been back when Grimaldi had just been rich, before he’d become Rich. Or, rather, Obscenely Rich.

  Before the game had paled for me, I’d even convinced Jenn to try. She’d played one game, been killed off quickly and had decided it wasn’t her thing. Jenn’s idea of fun and fast is fighting over a $75 Miu Miu blouse at a sample sale. Frankly, I’m in total agreement.

  “Hmm.” She tossed the paper aside and looked me up and down. “So you’ve got the top and the shoes. What are you doing about pants? Or are you going with a skirt?”

  I pulled my Gap T-shirt over my head as I considered the problem. “My black Diesel jeans?” I suggested as I grabbed the Tahari.

  “Perfect. Now get changed and let’s get out of here. I’ve got to be at the airport by seven-thirty.” She checked her watch. “That only leaves us about seven hours to shop before I have to book.”

  Chapter

  3

  >http://www.playsurvivewin.com<<<

  PLAY.SURVIVE.WIN

  PLEASE LOGIN

  PLAYER USER NAME: SemperFi

  PLAYER PASSWORD: ********

  …please wait

  …please wait

  …please wait

  >Password approved<<<

  >Read New Messages<<< >>>Create New Messages<<<

  …please wait

  WELCOME TO MESSAGE CENTER

  You have one new message.

  New Message:

  To: SemperFi

  From: Identity Blocked

  Subject: Funding

  Advance payment deposited your account, 09:00 hours. Amount: $20,000.

  Client name: Melanie Lynn Prescott. Additional funds to be delivered upon successful completion of mission.

  Game commences: 12:01 a.m.

  Good luck.

  >Player Profile Attached: MLP_Profile.doc<<<

  >Click to Download<<<

  Matthew Stryker read the message four times, but each time it stayed exactly the same. It was starting again.

  He’d been drinking beer and eating leftover lasagna when he’d logged on, and now the food roiled in his stomach, threatening to come right back up. He stumbled to the kitchen sink and twisted the tap, letting the cold water flow. He stuck his head down and drank straight from the faucet, then tilted his head and let the stream pummel his face.

  The blast of cold water got his mind off his stomach, so that was a plus. But nothing he did could make the real problem go away.

  He thought of Jamie Tate, dead on the floor in a pool of her own blood. Because of him. Because he hadn’t believed.

  His gut clenched again, and he pressed the back of his wrist to his mouth until the nausea passed. Then, with his hands still clutching the Formica countertop, he turned his head just enough so that his laptop came into view, the blue screen seeming both ominous and uniquely important. Something that compelled and commanded him.

  This time, Stryker knew, he would obey.

  With trepidation, he approached the machine, like a hunter stalking a wild and dangerous beast. He bent down and put his finger on the trackball, then maneuvered over until he could click on the attachment
: MLP_Profile.doc. He held his breath and clicked.

  The computer hummed, then a Microsoft Word file opened. Innocuous enough, the document could easily have been a résumé. Name, address, phone. Educational background. Hobbies. A photo, too. A striking girl standing in front of a cage, a lion stalking in the background. The sun had caught her hair just right, and it sparkled like spun gold, vivid even on his computer screen. She was tall and poised and looked straight at the camera, her smile reflecting both confidence and joy.

  Whenever that picture had been taken, it had been a good day.

  Stryker focused on the name at the top of the page: Melanie Lynn Prescott. He rubbed his temples, the headache returning with full force. For Melanie Lynn, he knew, the good days were fast coming to a close.

  “You’re next, Melanie,” he whispered. “And God help us both.”

  Chapter

  4

  “W ant to grab a cocktail next?” Jenn asked. We were in Bloomingdale’s, perched on stools in front of the MAC Studio counter.

  I made what I hoped was an affirmative sound—I couldn’t actually speak because the salesgirl had her hand on my face and was concentrating on lining my lips with MAC’s latest variation of burgundy liner.

  So far, we’d been shopping for almost four hours. We’d started on Fifth Avenue, window-shopping our way past Tiffany’s, Gucci and the like. Then we’d backtracked to57th and headed east, rehashing the whole Todd situation as we walked—“I know you have to go there tonight to get the message, but do not sleep with him!”

  Since I had absolutely no intention of sleeping with my ex, we’d run through that line of conversation pretty quickly, and we’d moved on to other important topics: the new waiter at Stardust that Jenn thought was cute, my prospects (or lack thereof) in the dating world, whether we had any chance in hell of finding a pair of Manolos on eBay for less than a hundred and fifty. We’d had a moment of reverential silence in front of Prada, then we’d continued our chatter all the way into Borders at 57th and Park, where we’d both bought lattes at the second floor café (our first purchases of the day) before heading back outside.