by Julie Kenner
He waved at the couch. “Sit if you want. We should probably talk.”
“Well, duh!” She turned and glanced at the couch, then moved to his desk and pulled out the hard wooden chair and sat there.
He shrugged and moved to the sofa, shoved aside the take-out containers, beer bottles, and crumpled bags of chips, then sat in the space he’d offered her. Then he stared at her.
She managed to keep still for a good sixty seconds. Then she got up, went to the curtains, and pulled them open. Since it was late afternoon, the light was dim, but it was still more than his apartment had seen in weeks. His pupils shrank to the size of pinpricks, and he flinched, squinting even as he glared at her. “Come on, lady! You want to ask next time!”
“It’s like a tomb in here.”
“Maybe I like it that way.”
Her brow furrowed. “I remember you,” she said. “What happened to you?”
“Shit happened,” he said. A pretty accurate assessment of the situation, he thought. Pithy. To the point. And a lot more direct that blathering on about a drug deal gone bad. About discovering that his partner had thrown in with the assholes they’d been tracking. About the FBI thinking maybe he’d gone dirty, too. About shooting his partner, so his buddy wouldn’t shoot him first. Except maybe Randall wouldn’t have shot him at all. He didn’t know, not anymore. Not for certain. Especially not after he’d seen Randall’s daughter, three years old and dressed in black, coming up to him after the funeral and hugging him. Loving him still, even though Devlin had killed her daddy.
What was left of his heart had just about ripped in two.
“Shit happens all the time,” he said.
She stared at him, then slowly shook her head. “Nice philosophy.”
“I can’t claim that it’s original.” He watched her, then tried to pull something resembling social skills up from the depths of his gut. “Look, just go.”
“I can’t do that,” she said. “I don’t have anyone else to help me. And something’s going to happen to me. Tomorrow. The voice said I had until ten tomorrow.”
Hysteria had crept into her voice. The last thing Devlin wanted to deal with was a hysterical female. He had to give this one credit, though. She’d been thrust into an untenable position. Worse, she’d ended up stuck with him. Right now, that was a fate he wouldn’t wish on anybody.
So maybe he could understand her mood.
His mood wasn’t particularly chivalrous, but that didn’t mean he had to be an ass. Especially since there was apparently more to the whole story than she’d told him so far.
And before Devlin even realized what he was doing, he was standing in front of her, his hand on her shoulder. He led her to the couch, then sat her in the clean spot. He sat himself on the coffee table in front of her, first using his arm to wipe all the detritus to the floor. “Tell me,” he demanded.
“I got a message,” she said.
“That much I gathered. So what was it? Transferred money and my profile?”
“No. I mean, yes. I got all that. Then later, when I was trying to figure out what I should do, I got another message. It…it was Rocky Horror.”
“Excuse me?”
“A phone call. It was a line from Eddie’s song in Rocky Horror. The voice on the phone was singing Eddie’s line about hurrying, or he might be dead. Only the line was different. It was a warning to me. Hurry, or you might be dead. Talking about me. Talking to me. And then after that, there was this freaky ticking noise and a computerized voice told me I had until ten tomorrow.”
“Shit.”
That actually earned him a grin. “That was pretty much my reaction. And the thing is…” She trailed off with a shake of her head. “Never mind.”
“You figured that even if you weren’t cut out to be my protector, at the very least I could help you.”
“It seemed reasonable. But then I couldn’t get ahold of you. So I called Andy.”
He felt an absurd pang of guilt for erasing the messages, then quashed it and focused on what she was saying now. “Who did you call?”
“Andrew Garrison. He works with Mel on all the PSW research she does on the side. You know about that?”
He nodded, and she continued, telling him about how she contacted Andrew, then went to his apartment. When she got to the part where Andrew got shot, he winced.
“I called the hospital,” she said, summing up, “and he’s doing okay. But I still needed help.”
“And I was all that was left.”
“Pretty much. So I came here.” She looked around his apartment. “But I didn’t know.”
“Know what?”
“That shit happened.” She stood up, then hauled her huge tote bag over her shoulder. “I’ll be fine. I’ll get ahold of Mel. I’ll figure this out. And right now, I’ll just leave you alone. So sorry to have bothered you, Agent Brady.”
She started to take a step, but he caught her arm. She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.
“Call me Devlin,” he said.
“Fine. Good-bye, Devlin.”
“And stay.”
“Why?” she asked.
Redemption, he almost said. But he didn’t. “I’ll help you,” he said. “And then we’ll see where we are.”
Chapter
19
JENNIFER
“A nd that’s all the phone call said?” Devlin asked.
I nodded. I was pacing his apartment again, a trash bag instead of a Diet Coke in my hand as I used the tip of my forefinger and thumb to pick up all the crap and toss it in a bag. Honestly, the man should arrest himself. The apartment was stunning—all gleaming wood, expensive furniture, and fabulous artwork—and he’d totally trashed the place.
I didn’t know what had happened to this man, but I did know that he’d come over to my side. Or maybe his cop instincts had just gotten the better of him. I didn’t know the reason, and I didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was going to help me.
He passed by me, taking the trash bag from my hand. I was about to argue—I really didn’t intend to hang around in that mess—but then he started picking up the trash himself. Good. I didn’t come here to be his maid, and I settled myself back in front of his window, looking out onto the terrace that overlooked the East River.
“A few lines from Rocky Horror, a warning that you might be dead if you don’t hurry, and then a voice telling you the clock is ticking and that your drop-dead deadline is ten tomorrow.”
“Except for the fact that I’m not crazy about the term ‘drop-dead,’ yeah. That about sums it up.”
“It’s the Rocky Horror thing that I think is really interesting.”
“Well, gee, me too. Who doesn’t love a great transvestite musical?” I was dripping sarcasm now. I think he could tell.
“My clue,” he said, “is overflowing with Broadway musical references.”
Okay. He was right. I was interested. “Let me see.”
He disappeared back into the hallway and returned with a manila envelope I’d seen before. He handed it to me, and I pulled out the single sheet that was inside. When I saw it, I gasped:
PLAY OR DIE
Annie
Brigadoon
Cabaret
Damn Yankees
Evita
Falsettos
Gigi
Hair
I’d Rather Be Right
Jesus Christ Superstar
Kiss Me, Kate
Lady, Be Good
Mary Poppins
Nine
Oklahoma!
Pippin
Quilt
Rent
Show Boat
Titanic
Urinetown
Vanities
Wonderful Town
You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown
Ziegfeld Follies
If the understudy becomes the lead, then: ANA RNERNEN AKKI NAIVA IEKAVHHDKINAAO & HVNEAAVA AKE AVE OADIV IIDIAI KI IAV EDAVE, HAV OKRAA ANAV AKRIA AVE NIHOVE ADAA
VI DI N ANAV ODIA AKREIARA VOVH
“We’ve definitely got a Broadway theme going here,” he said.
“No kidding. But why?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“The whole point of PSW is that the clues are based on the target’s profile. Right?”
“Right.”
“But my Rocky Horror message and your Play or Die message all have Broadway musical references.”
“So?”
“So the clues are supposed to be related to you. But Broadway’s my thing. That’s why I’m in New York. I don’t intend to be a waitress forever. One of these days I’m going to win a Tony award.”
“Good luck,” he said, and I didn’t think he was being facetious. “But that’s not a mystery.” He turned his head toward the massive mahogany entertainment center. And right there, above the television on the center shelf, stood the familiar statuette. I think I started to whimper.
“You have a Tony award?”
“Got it when I was thirteen,” he said. “That was my seventh production, I think. Second nomination.”
I swear I had to manually shove my jaw back into place. “You were on Broadway when you were a kid? Holy shit.” I was gaping at him, but that was just too damn bad. “Wait. Wait a second. Devlin Brady. Of course! I just never made the connection. Oh my God! Oh. My. God.”
He just stood there staring at me. I had a feeling he’d been subjected to the gushing fan thing a few times before. I wasn’t a gushing fan so much as an envious wannabe. But I could still see why Devlin wanted to keep his distance.
I cleared my throat and tried to calm down. “So why do you work for the FBI?” I couldn’t imagine quitting Broadway. Not in a million years. And especially not if I’d won a freaking Tony award.
What kind of planet was this guy from?
“I wanted a low-stress career,” he said.
“Ha ha. Seriously, why—”
But he cut me off with a wave of his hand. “We can discuss the pressures and foibles of a career in theater after we keep you alive. Right now, all you need to know is that Broadway musicals fit my profile, too. Except, of course, I never submitted a profile.”
I blinked. “You must have.”
“Nope. I’m not into computer games. And after I landed the case, I wasn’t inclined to jump on the PSW bandwagon, you know?”
“But I saw it!”
“Fake. I entered one in the course of the investigation in order to access the game, but no legitimate information was used. Second of all, even if I had submitted a profile, I would never have included my address and phone number. I may be fucked up, but I’m not stupid.”
He had a point, actually. I know I hadn’t put that kind of information on my PSW profile. For that matter, I wasn’t even sure the profile form had asked for those kind of details. Except it must have because that’s how I got Devlin’s address and phone number.
I lifted a finger. “Just hang on a second.” My tote bag was at my feet, and now I rummaged inside and pulled out my laptop. I started it up, cursing it softly to try to make it boot up faster. Since that wasn’t happening, I shifted gears, moving on to other things while the computer warmed up. “And here’s something else that’s off. Don’t you think it’s a little freaky that I’m involved in this game? You, too.”
“I’ll bite,” he said. “Why?”
“Because we know the score. We know that Mel and Matthew actually won. Plus, we know about that lawyer you guys suspected for a while.” By “you guys” I meant the FBI. Since Devlin was nodding, I figured he knew that.
“Thomas Reardon,” he said.
“That’s the one. I can’t believe you didn’t arrest him.”
“No proof,” Devlin said.
I snorted. From what Mel had told me, Archibald Grimaldi’s attorney had been at the very end of the game she’d played. And somehow—I’m not quite sure how—he’d been the catalyst for both Mel winning her prize money and for calling off the assassin. That seemed to me to be proof enough.
I guess my disbelief showed on my face, because Devlin kind of half-smiled. “We had no proof that the attorney was doing anything except holding materials for Grimaldi. Since Grimaldi is dead, if he’s behind all of this, then obviously someone else was helping him. It might be Reardon, it might be someone else. We just don’t know. And we can’t arrest without sufficient evidence.”
“Fine,” I said. I wasn’t a lawyer; how was I supposed to argue with that? “But it still seems weird to me that you and I are sucked into this. We know stuff. And if we were chosen randomly, then it’s really weird.”
“Especially since I’ve never played the game.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Except according to that, you have.” I pointed to the laptop, which had finally finished doing its thing. I hunched over and pulled up the document, DB_Profile.doc. I turned the machine and pointed. “Take a look.”
He did. “You’re right,” he said. “This is fucked.”
“You really didn’t do it?”
“I really didn’t. And look at this.” He tapped the screen and I leaned over to see the photo embedded in the document. “That’s a candid shot.” He met my eyes. “Someone’s been scoping me out. And someone knows me well enough to put together a profile.”
“Someone wanted you to be the target,” I said. “Wanted you enough to make sure you had a profile in the system.”
“Looks that way.”
“Have I mentioned I really don’t like this?”
He smiled, but didn’t answer. Instead, he just said, “What else?”
“What else is weird? Other than the whole situation? Well, the insinuation that I’m going to be dead before lunch tomorrow is a little off-putting.”
“I can see that it would be.”
“It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Considering the whole game is about killing people off, I think it makes a lot of sense.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Your support is overwhelming.”
He just smirked. I tell you, I was starting to like the guy.
“Look,” I said. “Killing the target off is what the whole game is about. But I’m not the target. That’s you,” I said, poking him in the chest to make my point. “So why am I the one with the ticking clock?”
“I don’t think I’ve got a free pass here. For one thing, we don’t have any idea what that message says. I can’t even pronounce it, much less interpret it.”
“Devlin! That’s not the point. I’m supposed to be the protector. I may be entirely lacking in qualifications—sorry ’bout that—but that’s still my role. And the protector isn’t supposed to be the target. That’s the whole point of having those nice descriptive names.”
“Kill switch,” he said.
Since that seemed like a total non sequitur, I stared at him. “Kill who?” I finally asked.
“The twenty-four-hour kill switch,” he said, this time speaking slowly, like I had a learning disability or something.
That ticked me off. “Okay, Agent Brady, let’s get something straight, okay? I don’t play this game. And I didn’t spend months investigating some psycho who shoved the game into the real world. So don’t treat me like an idiot just because I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Okay?”
He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “In the online version of the game, if you don’t start playing in twenty-four-hours, the target is terminated and the players can all move on to another game. The point is incentive. So that the protector and the assassin aren’t waiting around waiting to play a game with some target who’s dragging his ass.”
“Nice,” I said.
“Not so nice in the real world,” Devlin said. “What kind of incentive is there to play, after all?”
I cocked my head, remembering. “Kill the target,” I said, remembering what Mel had told me. She’d been poisoned. And she had twenty-four hours to interpret the clues that led her to the antidote. And let me tell you,
according to Mel, that was some slam-bang incentive to getting her ass in gear.
I frowned, then, because the pieces still didn’t fit. “But that’s just what I’ve been saying. Mel was the target. I’m not. So why am I being threatened?”
“Because it wouldn’t do any good to threaten me.”
He spoke nonchalantly, his voice level. I didn’t have to ask what he meant.
“So whoever’s pulling our chains knows us both really well. Knows enough to fill out a profile for you. And knows enough to know that threatening to kill you right off the bat isn’t going to get you up and moving any faster.” I kept my voice as flat as his, but I have to admit my heart was breaking. Something had happened to Agent Brady. The one time I’d met him before, he’d seemed vibrant. Now, he just seemed broken. I wanted to ask, but I didn’t want to offend. I needed him to keep me alive. But he didn’t need me at all.
“Threatening you, though…” He trailed off with a shake of his head. “Well, welcome to my weakness.”
“Serve and protect,” I said, dully.
“That’s the police. But yeah, the sentiment’s the same.” He stood up then, and moved to the window. He stared out over the city, his hands shoved deep into the pocket of his jeans. “So what’s going to happen to you tomorrow at ten, Jennifer Crane?” he asked.
I didn’t know. And so help me, I didn’t really want to find out.
Chapter
20
BIRDIE
I arrive at the white stone skyscraper after most of the staff has cleared out. The quarry I’m currently tracking will still be there, though. Of that, I’m sure. That’s the lovely thing about lawyers; they don’t keep bankers’ hours.
I sign in—with a false name, of course—then walk the short distance to the elevator banks. The inside of the car is mirrored, and during the express ride, I take the opportunity to check my wig and freshen my makeup. This isn’t a job where I expect to call upon my feminine wiles, but one can never be too careful.
A receptionist still mans the desk, probably counting the minutes until she can leave or counting the dollars in overtime she is earning. I identify myself, then sit down and start to riffle through a copy of The New Yorker while she announces me.
