The Manolo Matrix

by Julie Kenner

  I hesitated, then sat beside him and took his hand. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No. Suffice it to say I learned that he’d gone dirty. And he knew that I knew. And he was setting me up.”

  “So the shooting was self-defense.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Then why did they take away your badge? Is that like standard operating procedure?”

  His face tightened. “No, not at all.”

  “Well?”

  “Jenn…”

  “I want to know, Devlin.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Randall was trying to blackmail me into not turning him in. So he did a few things that made it look like I’d thrown in with him.”

  “And even after you shot him, they still thought you were bad?”

  “Essentially. I’ve spent my whole adult life with the FBI and have a service record as clean as a whistle, but still they pulled my badge and sicced OPR on me.”

  “Opie what?”

  “O. P. R.,” he repeated, rubbing the back of his neck. I almost offered to give him a neck massage, but my hold on my libido was still too tenuous. “Office of Professional Responsibility. Like Internal Affairs for cops.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. So am I.”

  “What about your job?”

  “Suspended pending investigation.”

  “But you’ll be cleared? I mean your partner really was dirty, so it’ll all be okay in the end.”

  “ ‘Okay,’ ” he repeated, as if he were exploring the sound of the word. “I’m being investigated for the very thing I deplore and have spent over a decade fighting against. My former partner’s dead—by my gun—and his little girl doesn’t have a father. So I’m not really sure that it’s ever going to be okay.”

  “His choices,” I said. “Not yours. And you’ll get your job back.”

  “I’m not so sure I want it anymore.”

  “You could always go back to the theater,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “No thanks. Although it would certainly thrill my mother. She’s always said my biggest mistake was leaving the theater. She’d consider my current situation God’s way of balancing the scales.”

  “She doesn’t know?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “We don’t exactly have a warm, fuzzy relationship.”

  “Oh.” Okay, so we weren’t dealing with my overly involved, overly boisterous family. “Haven’t you got anyone to dump on about all this? I mean, if it were me, I’d be on the phone to my mom or my sister or Mel in a heartbeat. Surely you’ve got someone. Father? Siblings? Friends?”

  “Dead, none, quiet.”

  “Quiet?”

  “After a while on the job, you realize that all your friends are agents, too. And when something like this happens, the bulk of them scatter.”

  “Then maybe they aren’t really your friends.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “You picked a hard life,” I said, once again wondering why. I couldn’t get that Tony award out of my head.

  “So did you. Theater’s brutal.”

  “So far, I haven’t had the pleasure of suffering for my art.” I met his eyes. “I promise, I’ll drop it if you don’t want to talk about it. But I’m really curious. Why the change? You were on the stage. You won awards. That’s just so, so incredible.”

  “It is,” he agreed. “And I loved it in a way. But it wasn’t in my blood. My mother’s blood, yeah. But not mine.”

  “Stage mother.”

  “To the nth degree. Don’t get me wrong, I did enjoy the work. Stayed in it even after I’d fired my mom. But once I hit college, I knew it wasn’t the life I wanted. My mom considered it a slap in the face. It would have been bad enough if I’d just given up theater. I had to pursue my dad’s career.”

  “He died in the line of duty?”

  “Cancer,” Devlin said. “But their marriage was over even before I was born. There was so much bad blood between them it was like a thick red curtain. It—” He cut himself off with a shake of his head. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. I am who I am today, and I don’t regret any of it. I worked my ass off in the theater, but I wanted something more. Being an actor is amazing, but I wanted…I don’t know. I wanted to be out there fighting the fight, not just playing a part. My mother always said I had an overdeveloped sense of justice, but I think hers was just on the puny side. But maybe she was right. Maybe that’s what the pull was. Some corny need to get out there and save the world.”

  “Serve and protect,” I said. “Sure worked in my favor.”

  At that, he actually smiled a little. “All I know is that it hurt like hell when the whole goddamn agency turned on me. All those years, all that work, and then it’s just fuck you, your hearing’s in a month. Fucking bastards.”

  “You’ll be reinstated, right?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, his expression tense. “Will I? If I fight and pull together the evidence to prove Randall set me up, yeah. I could probably get back in.”

  “If?”

  “Awful lot of goddamn hoops.”

  “Jesus, Devlin. You just told me how much you love the job. More than Broadway, which I find so hard to believe. And all this stuff you’re talking about is just bullshit. It’s not the job. It’s bureaucracy. Like getting a bad review or having to go to cattle calls. That’s the sucky part. But it’s not the job. And if the job’s really in your blood, you need to fight for it.”

  Even as I spoke, I had to wonder if I’d been following my own advice. I frowned. This was about Devlin. “I’m right,” I said to him. “I know I am.”

  “Maybe.” He drew in a breath. “But I still have to deal with killing Randall.”

  “You need time,” I said. “But I’m sorry your friends haven’t been there.”

  “Just as well. I haven’t exactly been in the mood to talk about this.” He met my eyes, his hard at first, and then softening. “I can’t believe I’m talking about it now. I’d say it’s the situation, but I think it’s you.”

  My face burned and I focused on the carpet. “Yeah, well, I’m glad you can talk to me, but I still feel bad for you. I mean your friends—”

  “I’m a reminder of what can happen.”

  “Maybe. But that’s not an excuse. Friends should be there for you. That’s the whole point of having them. And good friends want to be there no matter what.”

  He didn’t answer, but I saw him look toward the cell phone he’d dropped to the bed.

  “Mel can help,” I said. “More, she wants to help.”

  “All right,” he said slowly. “Call her.”

  I felt ten pounds lighter, as if he’d just wrenched an anvil off my heart. I pretty much leaped toward the phone.

  “But just remember that you’re pulling her into the game and putting you both at risk. She survived once. If she doesn’t survive this time, who’s going to have to carry that guilt? It’s a heavy burden. Believe me. I know.”

  My finger was over the TALK button, but I stopped, the anvil dropping back down on my chest. My finger trembled; I really wanted to push that button. But Devlin’s words…

  “Explain,” I said.

  He reached out and plucked the phone out of my hand. “Two things. Call in the authorities and the protector can get picked off, remember?”

  “Yeah, but I already did that, remember? Pulling in Andy was a huge mistake. But it means that the assassin’s already after me. I’ve got a big, fat bull’s-eye painted on my back, and getting Mel’s help won’t make it any worse now.”

  “All right,” he said. “But what if she’s not an authority?”

  “Andy said she was.”

  “She’s not a cop,” Devlin countered.

  “She works for the NSA. That sounds pretty authoritarian to me.”

  “She’s only an analyst,” he pointed out. “And if she’s not an authority, and she steps in to help us…”

  He trailed o
ff, but from the tone of his voice, I could tell he expected me to pick up the thread. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure of the pattern he was weaving.

  “Outside help,” he said. “The rules.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, dread icing my blood.

  He looked at me sideways, his expression curious. “A player can pull in help,” he said. “That’s allowed by the rules. But once they do, the help is tagged, too.”

  “Tagged?”

  “They’re fair game,” he said. “I thought you knew that.”

  “No, I…” My mind churned, processing the information. “Then that dart might really have been meant for Andy,” I said slowly. “Not for me at all.” And then the worst hit me. I clapped my hand to my mouth, fighting back a wave of bile. “Brian,” I whispered. “Oh, dear God. Brian.”

  Chapter

  31

  JENNIFER

  “P lease be okay, please be okay, please be okay.” I just kept repeating that over and over during the entire taxi drive to Brian’s house. It was just after three in the morning, and the streets were clear, so the cab driver was moving fast. Not fast enough to suit me, though. Especially since Brian wasn’t answering his cell phone.

  I wanted to lose myself in a role—the ingénue who believes her friend is dead, only to discover he’s alive—but I couldn’t do it. The reality was too close, and as much as I wanted my fantasies to help me cope, I couldn’t do it.

  All I could think about was Brian.

  “He has to be okay,” I babbled. “Because how could they know? So what if I asked him to help solve a clue? I was in your bathroom for Christ’s sake. No one could know. They couldn’t.”

  But as soon as we turned the corner into Brian’s Chelsea neighborhood, I knew that I was wrong. Everything shifted, the world seeming to change into black and white, and I heard myself whimper. Devlin’s arm went around me, and I leaned in close, turning my face away from the spectacle we were approaching: flashing lights, crime scene tape, and dozens of gawkers.

  “I killed him,” I whispered. “He’s dead because he helped me.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Devlin said. But I knew it was. And I think Devlin knew it, too.

  He pulled away from me, then turned me so that I was facing him. He pressed his hands against my cheeks. “Jenn. It’s not your fault.”

  He spoke firmly, his eyes never leaving mine, and I so desperately wanted to believe him. I couldn’t, though. I’d opened my big mouth and Brian had died.

  “Come on.” Devlin took my hand and tugged me out of the taxi. He leaned back in to pay the driver, who was mumbling something under his breath and looking a little too excited to suit my taste. I wanted to lash out, to shout at him, to tell him that someone was dead in there. But I didn’t. I just kept quiet and let Devlin lead me away.

  “Maybe he’s not dead,” I said. “Maybe it was just an attempt. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. One of his neighbors dealing drugs. Someone falling off a balcony.”

  “Maybe,” Devlin said, but I could tell he didn’t believe that. I didn’t believe it myself.

  He held tight to my hand as we walked the short distance to the crime scene tape. Even though it was silly, I craned my neck and tried to see—as if I could somehow channel an image of the inside of Brian’s flat. Of course, I saw nothing. Nothing to make me feel better, anyway. I did see an ambulance, pulled up close to the door. And I watch enough television to know that an ambulance just sitting there is a bad thing. Moving ambulances mean that someone is alive. They might be in trouble, but they’re alive.

  When you’re dead, there’s no need for the ambulance to move very fast.

  I heard a whimper and realized it came from me. Devlin must have heard it, too, because he squeezed my hand. I squeezed back, grateful for the support. Then Devlin raised a hand and signaled for one of the uniformed officers. She came over, her face tight, as if she was expecting trouble from some neighborhood asshole.

  “What happened?” Devlin asked.

  “Sir, are you a resident of the building?”

  “No, I’m—”

  “Then I’m going to have to ask that you stand back and let us—”

  “I’m FBI.”

  Her eyes widened, and I decided that she was actually quite pretty despite the too-severe haircut and the complete lack of makeup. “Got identification?”

  “Not on me.” He nodded at me. “I was delivering my girlfriend to her friend’s place. He lives here. She’s concerned.”

  I could see the tension play out across her face. Should she believe he was on the job? Did it really matter?

  After a moment, her face cleared. She turned to me. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Brian Reid,” I said. “Apartment 7G.”

  “We’ve been trying to reach him,” the officer said. “Have you been in touch? Does he have a cell phone?”

  “I…what?” I heard the words, but my brain didn’t quite process the information. I blinked. And I must have looked particularly befuddled, because a whole array of expressions flashed over the officer’s face. Confusion, irritation, surprise. And then, finally, mortification.

  She reached over the tape and put her hand on my shoulder. “Your friend’s not in there, honey. It’s his apartment, but a neighbor confirmed that Mr. Reid isn’t the victim.”

  Relief ripped through me with such fury I felt my knees go weak.

  “Who is?” Devlin asked.

  But I knew. Dammit all, Brian might be safe, but I still had blood on my hands. And even before the officer told Devlin the answer, I could hear her voice echoing in my head: Felix Donnelly. Aka Cousin Fifi.

  Chapter

  32

  DEVLIN

  D evlin held up a hand, signaling the officer to wait. She could have told him to go fuck himself, but she didn’t. Instead, she was looking at Jenn with the same compassion he was feeling.

  “Honey, are you okay?” she asked.

  Jenn nodded. “Yeah. I’m…yeah.” She looked up at Devlin. “I’m going to go sit down a sec, okay?”

  He pointed to the curb. “Right there,” he said. “Don’t go where I can’t see you.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  If the officer thought their exchange was odd, she didn’t say anything. But when he turned his attention back to her, she launched in with, “Are you really a Fed?”

  “I really am,” he said. He didn’t bother to announce that he was a Fed without a badge or a gun. Well, except for the clutch piece he’d tucked into his ankle holster before they’d headed for the Hudson. He nodded toward the building. “What can you tell me about what happened in there?”

  “You a friend of the vic?”

  “Never met the guy.”

  She considered that, then nodded. And then she turned slightly, giving Jenn her back. It was a considerate move, ensuring that Jenn didn’t overhear the gory details, and Devlin realized with a start how grateful he was. Anyone who went out of their way to protect Jenn was okay in his book.

  “A clean slice across the throat. Someone got close. And they had a steady hand.”

  “Shit.”

  “Lot of folks looking for your girl’s friend.”

  “A lot of folks, and one killer,” Devlin said.

  She nodded. “Yeah, I heard the detectives talking. They’re working that angle, too. The vic is an out-of-towner. They’re thinking the perp got the wrong guy.”

  “Fuck.”

  “You said it.” She turned away to chastise a drunk who was leaning too heavily on the crime scene tape, then returned her attention to Devlin. “Get the cell number from your girl,” she said. “And leave me your names and numbers.”

  “No problem,” he said. He gave her his boss’s name instead of his own, then gave her the name of the first girl he ever kissed. For phone numbers, he gave her the numbers for the Thai place down the street from him, as well as his neighborhood pizza place. Why not? She was surely going to be hungry when
this was all over. He got Brian’s number from Jenn and gave that to her as well, though he did transpose two numbers. They’d track down the number soon enough, but maybe this would slow them down. In the meantime, he wanted to track down Brian himself. He needed to tell the guy to be careful. Cooperate with the cops, but watch his back. Better, get the hell out of town and stay there. At least until he or Jenn called and told him it was safe to return.

  Good advice, and he hoped Brian would take it. Even more, he wished that Jenn could take it. She couldn’t, though. Because hell had already started to descend on her.

  And until they put the brakes on that, nothing else mattered.

  Chapter

  33

  >http://www.playsurvivewin.com<<

  PLAY.SURVIVE.WIN

  >WELCOME TO REPORTING CENTER<<<

  PLAYER REPORT:

  REPORT NO. A-0003

  Filed By: Birdie

  Subject: Status update

  Report:

  I failed.

  I still cannot quite believe the magnitude of such failure, and I have only myself to blame.

  I was so anxious, so eager, that I didn’t take into account the effect of the crowd around me. I took my weapon out too early, hid it under my jacket, expecting that it would remain concealed, and I would have the warm security of its weight in my hand.

  I hadn’t anticipated the crowds—bumping and banging and stumbling, drunk on youth and alcohol.

  And the one bitch who shoved me. Who pushed my jacket aside.

  Who saw the gun. Then screamed.

  I tell myself the failure stemmed from a lack of practice—five long years during which my skills atrophied. But in my heart, I know the fault is entirely my own. I was careless. I was sloppy. And in the end, I was discovered before I could get a shot off.

  A failure, yes. But also a lesson.

  And so now I’ll wait, patiently biding my time until the tracker blips again. And this time, when I go after my quarry, I will not fail.

  >End Report<<

  Send Report to Opponent? >>Yes<< >>No<<