The Givenchy Code Read online

  “Can we find out where?”

  “Possibly. With some poking around. Or if we get the authorities involved.” Warning bells went off in my head as I remembered what the Mystery Man had said. But I needn’t have worried. “Right now,” he continued, “I’m more concerned about keeping you alive.”

  “Oh.” The reality of the situation smashed against me, making me light-headed. I stood up and moved toward the window. I shoved the sash up and stuck my head out, suddenly desperate for air. “A target. I’m a target.” I whispered the words, as if by not giving them voice, I could make this all go away.

  “It looks that way.”

  He stepped up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. I whipped around, aiming the gun at his chest. “Wait just a fucking minute,” I said.

  He backed away, hands in the air, his face placid. All of which confirmed to me that this was not a stupid man.

  “Calm down, Melanie.”

  “Calm down? I really don’t think the situation calls for calm. I’m thinking it calls for abject hysteria. Too bad for me I’m not the hysterical type.”

  “More the sarcastic type,” he said, and the tiny smile that lit his eyes made me feel a little better.

  “Or the careful type.” I kept the gun on him, but I nodded toward the computer screen. “For all I know, you set this up. Carried some cash you could whip out for my benefit. Sent yourself this message from a different player profile. You haven’t said one thing that makes me want to trust you.” Although I did want to trust him. At the moment, though, I’d willingly trust Attila the Hun if I thought he could give me a moment’s peace.

  Todd’s murder was still hanging over me. I wanted to curl up and cry. I wanted to grieve. Mostly, though, I didn’t want to be next. But at the same time, I would have given everything I owned for the chance to hide under the covers and let someone else cope for a while.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “But how would I have gotten your profile?”

  “What profile?”

  “You didn’t read the whole message.”

  I looked back and, sure enough, the message included a link to a player profile. I swallowed, fighting off a wave of bile. I didn’t want to click on that link. I really, really didn’t want to….

  “Go on,” he said. “We might as well be sure.”

  I drew in a breath and nodded, then moved his finger around the touchpad and clicked. A profile came up. All my various stats and interests. All the silly little life stuff that made PSW such a cool game—Grimaldi had used nascent artificial intelligence technology in such a way that the game was different depending on who the players were that filled each role. Each of the clues, tests and game levels were constructed from the information set forth in the player profiles.

  “Is it your profile?”

  I nodded, the queasiness being replaced by anger. “Yeah.” A lot of folks make up personal stats when filling out various online profiles. For PSW, I hadn’t, and if the media coverage was accurate, neither did most of the game’s players. PSW’s appeal was that it incorporated a person’s real-life interests into the clues. What incentive would I have had to lie? None. I’d told the truth, and look what happened. There’s a lesson there somewhere, I think.

  “This doesn’t make sense. My profile should have been deleted years ago.”

  “Mine should have, too,” he said. “But it wasn’t. And there’s nothing we can do about it now. We’re playing the game, Melanie. Whether we want to or not.”

  Chapter

  16

  I couldn’t sit still. I paced the room, the gun still in one hand, as I tried to process everything that was going on. My head pounded with the beginnings of a hellacious headache, my eyes burned with unshed tears, and my feet ached and burned. I wouldn’t let myself cry, though. I had to stay sharp, because for all I knew, I was still in danger.

  I sat on the edge of the couch, then bounced back up again.

  I paced some more.

  I opened a Diet Coke, then spit it out, too tense to swallow.

  “Melanie?”

  “Quiet,” I snapped. His voice was soft, calm and soothing, but I reacted as if he’d just shouted at me. I drew a breath and tried to calm down. “I just need a minute.”

  He didn’t push again, and I gave him points for that.

  After a few deep breaths, I tried sitting down again—this time at the little table in the tiny area that the real estate agent had called a dining room (with a straight face, no less). “Okay,” I said, managing to stay put. “Let me get this straight. You got this message with my profile attached, and you immediately raced to my apartment looking to protect me? Forgive me if I find that more than a little curious.”

  I still hadn’t told him about Todd, and he hadn’t said anything. I’d locked my grief away to deal with later, and now Todd’s death was information—a cold, hard fact that, when revealed, would hopefully reflect on my Marine companion’s face. Guilt, surprise, sorrow. I didn’t know. I just needed Todd as the last piece of the puzzle. I was playing off my boyfriend’s death to hopefully save my ass, and I felt like shit doing it.

  I didn’t think I had a choice.

  Marine man was at the kitchen counter, popping the top on another soda. So far he hadn’t answered my question, but I wasn’t inclined to prompt. Let’s see what he fabricated.

  When he turned around, his expression was hollow, guarded, as if he feared he might reveal too much. It wasn’t an expression that encouraged me to warm to him.

  “A girl named Jamie Tate,” he said. “Recognize the name?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “I don’t know. With all this…” He trailed off, then shrugged, leaving me to guess what “all this” was. “I just thought perhaps your paths had crossed.”

  “Not that I know of. I suppose she could have some classes with me, but I don’t know her.”

  He nodded toward the computer. “Look her up.”

  “In the game? I can’t access her profile unless we’re assigned to the same game set.” I frowned, something else occurring to me. “So how did anyone get my profile? I mean, surely PSW didn’t really send someone out to kill me.” I laughed, the sound more of a cackle, which is my usual unattractive nervous laughter. I figured I had reason to be nervous. “I mean, that would be taking reality shows to the extreme. Reality computer games?”

  “Snuff games at that,” he said, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think PSW’s behind it. But maybe someone who works there is. Or maybe one of the players is just taking the game a little too seriously.”

  “But he has my profile.”

  “If he plays PSW, most likely he knows his way around computers. He could have hacked in. Or maybe he’s played against you before.”

  I stifled a shiver as I tilted my head back to look at him. “You could have hacked in. I could have played against you before.”

  “But I didn’t. And you haven’t.”

  I stared at him, my mind mush. “What did you mean when you said your profile should have been deleted a long time ago?”

  “I meant that I’ve never actually played the game. I figured the system would cull inactive profiles.”

  “If you never played, why are you in the system at all?”

  “A buddy of mine played all the time. Convinced me to sign up. I filled out the profile but never got around to actually playing a game. Got shipped off to Iraq instead. By the time I got back, I’d had my fill of danger and intrigue in the real world. I wasn’t really interested in killing or being killed on the Internet, too.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to say. Should I ask him about the war, about what it was like and what he was doing now? I wondered if combat had given him the hardness I saw in his eyes, or if that had been there before. And I realized I was thinking way too much about this man I barely knew. I was rattled, and my mind was bouncing all over the place, trying to process every tiny piece of information simultaneously. That’s my typical reaction to
stress. I multitask. Great when the stress is caused by final exams. Not so great at the moment.

  I drew a breath, determined to stay on track. “You seem like you know a bit about the game.”

  He shrugged. “Like I said. My friend played a lot, so I knew the basics. And it’s no trick to go to the website and read through the FAQs.”

  That made some sense, but I still saw one gaping hole. “But if you aren’t a player, how’d you get the message about me?”

  “The system sent a message to my regular email address. Told me that there was a message waiting for me in the PSW user area. I figured it was my friend, so I clicked over. The rest you know.”

  I believed him. Not enough to tell him I believed him, though. At the moment, I wasn’t exactly trusting my judgment. “Prove it.”

  “What? That I’m telling the truth? That I didn’t set you up?”

  I nodded. A tense moment passed, and I was afraid he was going to say he couldn’t. Not a good answer. My scientist’s mind wanted proof. Otherwise I might believe him just because he was so damn good-looking.

  “All right,” he finally said, and I stifled a sigh of relief. He pointed to the computer. “Jamie Tate, remember?”

  “What about her?”

  “Look her up.”

  I was tempted to argue. I didn’t know the woman, and I couldn’t see what she had to do with me or Todd’s death, but the Marine’s expression was grave enough that I knew better than to argue. I took the gun and crossed back to the computer. About a minute later, I was looking at a list of hits pulled up from a search on the name Jamie Tate.

  “Try that one,” he said, leaning over me to tap the screen. I clicked on the link, and an article appeared.

  November 18, 2004

  Brooklyn, N.Y.—Thirty-eight-year-old Jamie Tate was found dead in her Brooklyn Heights apartment yesterday afternoon. Tate, a copy editor with Machismo Publishing, was discovered by former Marine Maj. Matthew Stryker. Though Stryker refused to comment, sources close to the investigation confirm that the Marine allegedly received a tip about the woman’s death over the Internet. Details were unavailable at press time, but the same sources have confirmed that Stryker has been ruled out as a suspect in Tate’s death.

  The article went on from there, but I didn’t want to read any more. I felt cold and hot all at the same time, and didn’t much like the feeling.

  I concentrated on breathing, and when I had that under control, I turned to look at him. “What’s your name?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

  “Stryker,” he said. “Matthew Stryker.”

  Chapter

  17

  “T hey ruled you out as a suspect,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “They could have been wrong.”

  “They weren’t.”

  I just stared at him.

  “If I had killed her, would I have sent you to that article?”

  Maybe. Maybe not. I wasn’t sure. I cocked my head to one side and squinted at him. “Did you get money for her, too?”

  From his expression, you’d think I’d kicked him in the stomach. “Yeah,” he said. “Twenty large.”

  “And?”

  “And she died anyway.” He practically spat the words. “So much for money well spent.”

  “Dammit, Stryker. You want me to believe you? Then tell me the truth.”

  “The truth? I didn’t do a damn thing for her. I thought it was some sick joke, some perverse scheme. And I guess it was. I just didn’t realize how sick until I got a second message saying that she’d been terminated. That’s when I went to find her…and found her too late.”

  I closed my eyes against his pain and forced myself to focus. “The money,” I pressed.

  “It’s gone. I had buddies who died in combat. They left widows. Kids.” The look he shot me was filled with remorse. “I figured they could use the money more than I could. And maybe I figured it was a tiny bit of retribution.”

  I drew in a breath and nodded. His pain was palpable, and my interrogation came to a halt. I had nothing left to say.

  “You asked me why I raced over here to help you, and that’s why. I didn’t race to help Jamie. I didn’t know. I was too late.” He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, his entire expression seemed steely calm. Oh yeah, I trusted this guy. More than that, I was glad he was on my side.

  I reached out and took his hand, finding comfort in the fact that I’d been right. His skin was calloused and rough, his large hands strong and sure. A fighter’s hands, and I needed a fighter right then. “Thank you,” I whispered. And then—damn it all—I started to cry.

  He knelt in front of me, pulling me over so that I was leaning against his shoulder. I slumped off the chair and let him cradle me as I cried. I cried out of fear and frustration and grief. I cried for Todd and everything he’d lost. I cried for myself and for everything I might lose. And I cried for this man, who, for whatever reason, had shown up to help me.

  I’m not sure how long I cried, long enough to reach that point where it’s not easy to stop, and where your gasps for air turn into loud, painful hiccups. When I hit that point, he backed away, then returned momentarily with a glass of water. It was a nothing gesture, but to me it seemed incredibly sweet, and the damn tears almost started up all over again.

  I sipped, trying to slow my breathing and get my body back under control, feeling both grateful for his comfort and mortified that I was falling apart in front of him.

  “Did Jamie play PSW?” I asked, once I was pretty sure my voice would cooperate.

  “Yeah. She did.”

  “Why was she killed?”

  “I don’t know, but I can guess.”

  “Guess,” I said.

  “She wouldn’t play the game. This game.”

  I thought of the message Todd had thrown into the trash. “What exactly do you mean?” I asked the question slowly, carefully. I was pretty sure I knew the answer. But until I heard it out loud, I could pretend it wasn’t true.

  “Someone’s taking the game to the streets. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. And I damn sure don’t know who. He killed her.” He half shrugged. “Or, rather, the assassin did.”

  “How do you know she wouldn’t play?”

  “The police found a message balled up in her trash. It was in code. They showed it to me—probably wanted to gauge my reaction in case I’d written it.”

  “What did it say?”

  “I didn’t know at the time. I found out later. The police investigated for a while, but the case went nowhere. And budgets being what they are, the detectives eventually turned to cases with hot leads. Since the police investigation was going nowhere, I decided to do some poking around on my own. One of the detectives in the precinct nosed around and got me a photocopy along with the interpretation.”

  Once again, he held me rapt. “Exactly what do you do that you have detectives running around doing your bidding? Or is that a perk enjoyed by all ex-Marines?”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched, and I really didn’t think he was going to answer me.

  “Does it really matter what I do?”

  Okay. That pissed me off even more than if he’d just stayed quiet. “Hell yes,” I said. “You show up in my apartment and announce that you’re there to protect me, and then you tell me that some other woman’s dead because of you—”

  He winced, but I was on a roll. And, no, I didn’t feel guilty. This was my life I was dealing with.

  “So yeah,” I went on. “I think I have a right to know why you think I should listen to you. I mean, other than that you served your time for God and country. Or are you still one of the few and the proud?”

  “I got my discharge papers three years ago,” he said, his voice tight. “Honorable, since I’m sure you want the full résumé.”

  “And now?” I hadn’t had the upper hand all day. I wasn’t about to drop it now.

  “Now I’m in the private security business. Freelance wor
k.”

  I thought of the gun on the table, and the gun I assumed he’d kept hidden. “What exactly does that mean?”

  He fixed me with a hard stare. “It means it’s private. And that means it’s none of your business.”

  He must have read my reaction on my face, because he held up a hand, effectively stopping me from spewing a string of invectives all over him.

  “It also means that I’m more than qualified to protect you. And as for Jamie Tate…” As he trailed off, a shadow crossed his eyes. I, of course, felt guilty as hell.

  He shook his head like someone shaking off sleep. “Let’s just say that you can rest assured I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

  A sarcastic retort flew to my lips, but I managed to hold it back with my tongue. I did want this man on my side. I’d be wise not to insult him. Or piss him off.

  Slowly, I nodded, letting the matter drop. “All right,” I finally said. “Do you still have it? The photocopy of the message, I mean.”

  “Burned it. But I read it first. You can guess what it said.” His gaze was tight on me, and I squirmed a little under the attention.

  I opened my mouth to speak, realized my throat was too dry, and took a sip of water. “‘Play or Die,’” I said.

  His eyes narrowed just slightly, but otherwise his expression didn’t change. “Okay, Melanie,” he said. “I think it’s your turn to fill me in on just what happened to you today.”

  Chapter

  18

  M elanie didn’t answer right away, and Stryker didn’t push her. She had to take her time. Reach her own conclusions. Learn to trust him and realize that he could help her. He couldn’t help her if she didn’t trust him. Or, rather, he could. Hell, he intended to help the girl whether she wanted him or not.

  He just hoped that she wanted his help. Working together would make this whole thing so much easier.

  Now she looked up at him, her eyes sharp despite fear, and once again he got a peek at that core of strength.

  “All right,” she said. “You want my story? Here it is.” And then she told him. Running into her ex-boyfriend. The note in the park. Going back to her ex’s place last night. Translating the code, then scoffing at the message. “I was pissed,” she said, “and Todd calmed me down.” Her cheeks colored a bit. “We had our problems, but in some ways we were good together, too.”