Free The Manolo Matrix by Julie Kenner Page A

Brady lived on the Upper East Side on 77th near John Jay Park, and that meant a thirty-minute taxi ride from Andy’s place. I spent the first ten minutes calming myself down, then Page 34

    the next ten trying to think. As much as I didn’t want it to be true, I knew that I was on the run now. And that meant I needed cash. The truth may not have sunk in before, but after watching Andy get shot, it totally had. This game was for real. And I needed all the resources I could get.
    I leaned forward, told the driver to take a detour, then sat back until we reached my bank.
    During the short ride, I pulled out my cell phone to call the hospital, then realized I didn’t know which one Andy was at.
    But surely he was okay. I’d got the dart out, and his heart was beating—and strongly—when I left. He had to be fine. He had to be, because I wasn’t willing to believe anything else.
    The cab pulled up in front of the bank, and I paid, then got out, telling the driver to wait. Then I went in and flashed my ID at the nearest teller. And that, despite everything, was actually kind of fun. A girl only has so many times in her life when she can withdraw twenty grand in cash.
    Blood money, maybe, but that didn’t change the fact that I totally intended to spend it. I watch television. I know not to use my credit cards. The bad guys can always find you if you use a credit card.
    You use cash if you want to disappear. And that’s exactly what I wanted to do at the moment.
    As soon as the girl returned with my money, I headed to the ladies’ room. I stuffed two grand into my wallet, another three into my laptop case, then put the rest of it into my jeans’ pocket, my bra, and my tennis shoes. The cash (especially the shoe cash) would end up rumpled and stinky, but that wasn’t something I intended to worry about.
    And then, once I was loaded down with cash in much the same way a scarecrow is stuffed with straw, I
    hurried back out to my cab. While the driver whisked me through the streets of Manhattan, all the while mumbling into the hands-free set on his cell phone, I tried to locate Andy again, finally succeeding on the third try. Since I knew that hospitals hardly gave any information out these days, I pretended to be his sister. “I know you’re not allowed to release information,” I said.
    “But it’ll take me a few hours to get there. Can you just tell me if he’s going to be okay?”
    I heard the hesitation, and when the nurse spoke, her words were soft, like someone who knows they’re breaking a rule. “The prognosis is quite good. He’s in observation, and they anticipate he’ll be discharged in the morning.”
    I sagged back against the seat, a little giddy with relief. A ridiculous emotion, I suppose, since I was exactly where I was before. Andrew might be fine (thank goodness) but I was still alone.
    And ten tomorrow was coming as fast as ever.
    A few minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of Agent Brady’s place, a completely refurbished and totally stunning pre-war building, complete with art deco masonry and the original mullioned windows. I
    stared at it and decided that FBI agents made a better living than struggling divas marking time working as singing waitresses. Which, again, probably comes as no great surprise, but I like to tally these things up. So far, I’ve got to say that in the relative NYC hierarchy, I’m pretty low on the pole. The notable exceptions being homeless people and busboys. (That’s notentirely true.
    On any given night I earn pretty good tips. Sometimes, though, you just have to bitch about the status quo.)
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    An elegant porte cochere fronted the building, under which stood a white-gloved doorman.
    Inside, undoubtedly, I’d find a concierge. And unless I was seriously mistaken, there were elevators in that building. I felt a little tinge of jealousy.My flat was a sixth-floor walk-up, and I