The Givenchy Code (24 page)

“T
here’s no birth or death date,” Mel said.

Stryker didn’t bother to answer. He pulled out the plot map, found the number and called the main office. The woman who answered identified herself as Cherise and asked if she could help him.

“As a matter of fact, you can. I’m just a little curious about plot C-456. Can you tell me anything about the man buried there?”

She asked him to hold, and he could hear her clicking keys at a computer. He drummed his fingers on his thigh while Mel paced in front of him.

“Are you there, sir?”

“I’m here.”

“Actually, that site is empty. Our customer purchased it and placed a memorial placard in honor of a friend or family member.”

That was interesting. “All right,” he said. “Who’s the customer?”

“Archibald Grimaldi.”

His surprise must have shown on his face, because Mel took a step closer, mouthing, “What?”

He held a hand out, indicating she should listen. “Do you know
when
Mr. Grimaldi bought the plot? Or when he purchased the marker?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t have exact information. But I can tell you that it was within the last two months.”

“Two? Are you certain?”

“Yes, sir. I input the information in the computer myself, and I’ve only worked here for two months. Why?”

“Did you talk to Grimaldi yourself?”

“No, sir. Sir, is there a problem?”

Just that Grimaldi had been dead for well over two months. Why impersonate the man?

To Cherise, he said, “No. No problem. Thank you. You’ve been incredibly helpful.”

As he was hanging up, Mel’s phone rang. She listened, her face going white.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

“That was my friend Sara. We used to study together.” She licked her lips, a tear spilling down her face. “My friend Warren,” she said. “He’s dead.”

“Y
ou don’t know that it has to do with you,” Stryker said, holding me close. “It could be coincidence.”

I nodded against his chest, my tears dampening his shirt. “I know,” I said. But I didn’t believe it. I knew the truth. In my heart, I knew. And I think he did, too.

“Stryker…” I pushed back, drawing in a breath as I looked at him.

“I know.” He took a strand of my hair and twisted it around a finger, his face as sad as I’d ever seen it.

“It’s worse,” I said. “Warren knows Todd. He’d trust him. If Todd asked him to decipher the thing, he’d give it his best shot.”

“And if we’re wrong about Todd, or if his little buddy Lynx did the dirty work, a gun can be pretty persuasive.” He frowned, thinking.
“Could
Warren solve it?”

“I don’t know. The anagram? In a heartbeat. The rest of it…?” I trailed off with a shrug. “I just don’t know.”

“The anagram could be enough. All he has to do is realize that‘resurrection’ is a cemetery.”

“Warren would get that. Secret roi urn. Dead kings. Mausoleums. Cemeteries. It’s not a huge leap.”

Stryker took my hand, tugging me back toward the car. “Come on.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice. If Lynx knew the cemetery name, he’d be on his way. Which meant I wanted to get the hell out of there.

W
e were on Highland when we passed him, a yellow taxi heading in the opposite direction. I saw his profile in the backseat and gasped, slinking down in my seat as I said a silent prayer.

Didn’t work. The taxi slowed, made a U-turn, and started moving in our direction.

“Go!” I yelled, but Stryker had already floored the thing.

I turned in my seat, looking back, hoping that a taxi driver wouldn’t be motivated to run lights or break the speed limit.

A ray of sun struck the barrel of a gun, and I kissed that hope good-bye. Lynx had a gun to the driver’s head. As incentive went, that was pretty damn good.

Stryker turned off Highland, and we were in a residential area. “Do you know where we are?”

“No clue,” he said. He weaved through neighborhoods and careened across parking lots, putting the little Aspire through her paces. I held my breath, willing the taxi not to keep up. So far, the force of my will wasn’t doing a hell of a lot of good.

Stryker made a few more turns, pushing the Aspire to her limits. The taxi stayed on our tail. Then Stryker cut across someone’s lawn and down their neighbor’s driveway to emerge on the street behind us. I saw the taxi start to follow, but it got caught up in the shrubbery—one of the benefits of driving a skinny little car.

About the time we were turning off the road, I saw the taxi hit the driveway. Stryker made two more quick turns, and the taxi was long gone.

We pulled over, camouflaged by the crush of cars in a grocery store parking lot, and waited. Nothing.

Home free. At least for now.

I leaned forward and kissed the dash. “Good car,” I said. Then I planted a kiss on Stryker’s lips. “And good driving.”

“My pleasure.” He gestured toward the backseat. “Fire up the laptop and see if you can find Thomas Reardon. Whoever he is, he’s our next stop.”

T
homas Reardon wasn’t hard to locate. As it turned out, the man was a semi-celebrity, what with being Archibald Grimaldi’s attorney and all. His office was on 42nd Street in a high-rise that faced the public library. Stryker snagged an illegal parking place, and we made our way inside, then found his name on the building directory. The fortieth floor. I followed Stryker to the elevator in silence. It was almost over. This was the end of the road, I was certain of it.

I just wasn’t sure what waited for us in Thomas Reardon’s office.

The reception area was as bright and cheerful as the receptionist herself, and despite being after five, the place was bustling with activity. “May I help you?”

“We’d like to see Thomas Reardon,” I said.

“I’m sorry. Mr. Reardon is in a meeting. Could someone else help you?”

I looked at Stryker, who took a step forward. “Tell him it’s Melanie Prescott.”

“I really shouldn’t—”

“Trust me,” Stryker said. “He’ll want to see her.”

She made the call, her expression never shifting. “I’m sorry, he repeated that this simply isn’t a good time.”

“It’s urgent,” I said. “Tell him…tell him Peter Trent sent us.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but—”

“Please,” I said. “If he won’t see us, we’ll make an appointment. I promise. But,
please.”

She pursed perfectly glossed lips, then finally nodded. I held my breath. This time, the expression on the girl’s face shifted from mild irritation to deferential respect. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

She stood up. “If you’ll follow me.”

She led us down a rather spartan hall lined on one side with cubicles and filing cabinets and on the other side with offices, most occupied by harried-looking attorney types. We rounded one corner, kept going, then stopped at the next corner.

The office we entered was huge. No bare white walls here. Everything was warm wood and soft lighting. There was a wet bar, as well as a sitting area complete with magazines and a couch. A full-size map of the world completely covered one wall, which was otherwise bare and not blocked by even a single piece of furniture. A huge desk rested in front of the window, a collection of framed photographs littering the desktop, along with piles of papers.

The office gave the impression of money and power, and I’ll admit I felt a little awed.

“Can I get you anything while you wait?” the girl asked. “Mr. Reardon will be in as soon as he can break free.”

“We’re fine,” I said.

As soon as she left, I moved to the window and peered down at the people below. Stryker moved beside me and held my hand. We stood silently. We were still there when Reardon walked in ten minutes later. Short and just a little pudgy, Thomas Reardon was gray around the temples and bald everywhere else. His suit was Armani, though, and what he lacked in looks, he made up for in bearing and an aura of controlled sophistication.

“Miss Prescott, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”

I turned to face him. “Were you expecting me?”

“Not exactly,” he said. He looked at Stryker. “And you are—”

“Don’t bullshit me, Reardon,” Stryker said. “You know exactly who I am.”

Reardon took a step backwards, apparently not expecting aggression in his own office. “I’m sorry, sir, I assure you that I don’t.”

I laid a hand on Stryker’s wrist, a silent command to wait. We’d figure it all out in due course. “This is Matthew Stryker,” I said. “What did you mean by ‘Not exactly’?”

He gestured to his couch. “Would you like to sit?”

“I’d rather stand.”

“All right.” He took a seat behind his desk. “This is a bit unusual, but I perform many services for my clients, including the retention of private information.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Vaults,” he said. “I have some clients who would prefer not to utilize safe-deposit boxes.”

“And Grimaldi was one of those?” I asked, entirely baffled as to what that had to do with me.

“Yes. The vaults are on my property, but accessible only by the clients.”

“And…” Stryker looked less than patient.

“And when Archie died, he left several vaults still with contents.”

“What?”

“I have no idea.” He nodded at me. “That’s where you come in.”

“Me?”

“Archie arranged for the vaults to be claimed by the individuals designated by him, who would identify themselves in various ways.”

“And one way was by saying that Peter Trent sent them.”

“That’s right.”

“And that’s all you know,” Stryker said.

Reardon cocked his head and studied Stryker. “What else should I know?”

“The assassin, the target. The game.”

Reardon leaned back in his chair. “PSW? I’m quite familiar with PSW. How does it—?”

“Goddamn it! We’ve been playing the fucking game across the streets of Manhattan. There’s a killer out there stalking her. Our lives have been completely turned upside down, and you’re telling me you have no idea what we’re talking about?”

Reardon looked from me to Stryker and back to me again. I nodded. “I…I’m astounded. You’re saying that you’ve been playing PSW? The game? In the real world? That makes no sense. It must be a hoax. A copycat. Someone playing off Archie’s good name.”

Stryker bent low and looked him straight in the eye. “If it’s a copycat, then how did they know that everything ends with you?”

“I…” A look of complete befuddlement washed over Reardon’s face. “I don’t know.”

Stryker studied him, then took a step back, nodding slowly. “All right,” he said. “Let’s just see the vault.”

Reardon looked dubious for a moment, then he stood and moved toward the map. He laid his hand on Texas. A moment later, we heard a metal grinding noise, and the wall started to scroll upwards, like an old-fashioned home movie screen, revealing a bank of miniature vaults, each with an electronic panel displaying a row of zeroes.

“Holy shit,” I whispered.

Stryker squeezed my hand, and I was certain his thoughts mimicked mine: Reardon had said he’d been given a list of “various” entry codes, “Peter Trent” being one. There were at least fifty vaults there. How many were Grimaldi’s? And how many were prizes for the“various” players in the game?

“Here you go,” Reardon said. “Miss Prescott’s box is 8A.”

“Open it,” Stryker said.

“Oh, no,” Reardon said. He looked right at me. “I understood that you would have the code.”

“O
h,” I said. “Right. The code.”

I moved forward tentatively, as if the wall might close behind me, locking me forever in a small room with a wall full of vaults. I brushed my hand over the front of vault 8A, my fingertips dancing over the line of sixteen zeroes. I didn’t enter any numbers.

“You do have the code, don’t you?” Behind me, Reardon looked concerned, as if he wasn’t prepared for this turn of events.

“Fuck the code,” Stryker said. “Just open the thing, Reardon.”

“I can’t,” the lawyer said. “I’m afraid I’m not privy to the entry codes.”

“No, no, no,” Stryker said. “That’s bullshit. No way I’m going to believe that you—”

“It’s okay,” I said, interrupting. “We don’t need Reardon. All we need is your phone.”

That surprised him. “My phone?”

I held out my hand. “Give it here.”

He handed it over without question, and I started pushing buttons until I found the stored pictures. I pulled up the picture of Peter Trent’s grave. Tiny. I poked around some more, feeling slightly ill until I finally managed to locate the zoom feature. There. I could just make it out….

I moved back to the vault and entered the sixteen digits. The door swung open, revealing a single manila envelope.

I took it, feeling salvation under my fingers.

“How?” Stryker asked.

“Peter Trent,” I said. “He holds the key. 081919220-1111980. August 19, 1922. January 11, 1980. Good thing you took a picture.”

“Good thing,” he said.

We opened the envelope, and when we saw what was there, Stryker went immediately to Thomas Reardon’s coffee table and fired up the laptop.

The envelope held two things: an access code to an offshore account and instructions for ending the game.

We took care of the game first, logging on, navigating to the Special Instructions page, and typing 817PQWXT8 in the appropriate box. The computer flashed and beeped and generally went through such machinations that I was certain we’d completely screwed up and fed the thing a virus.

When the pyrotechnics were over, the screen held one message:

Under the circumstances, the message seemed a bit dry, but I wasn’t inclined to complain. I pressed Send, and the message dissolved, re-forming into a new one: