Free The Manolo Matrix by Julie Kenner Page B

considered myself lucky to find a building I could afford that had the basic necessities like, oh, walls. I figured a bathroom was a plus. Doormen and concierge service were out of the question.
    I paid the driver, then got out. I took a quick look around, scoping out the neighborhood for bad guys lurking in the bushes. I didn’t see any lurkers, so I headed into the building, nodding Page 35

    politely as the doorman, bedecked in a dark green suit with military-style piping, opened the door for me. I marched across the gleaming marble floor to the concierge desk, where a dark-haired man (this one in a blue blazer) held up a finger, signaling for me to wait while he finished a phone conversation.
    So I waited. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, drummed my finger on the desk, and did everything short of writing “S.O.S.” in lipstick on my forehead to try and get him to hurry up.
    No luck.
    When he finally did hang up the phone, though, he was all smiles and attention. “May I help you?”
    “Yes, thank you. I’m here to see Devlin Brady.”
    He asked my name, I gave it, and then he picked up a nearby phone and dialed three digits. I expected him to say something into the phone, but he didn’t. Instead, he just hung it up and looked at me. “Is
    Agent Brady expecting you?”
    Okay, that wasn’t in the script I had running through my head. “I called and told him I was on my way over.” True. But what I didn’t mention was that Agent Brady may not have gotten the message.
    “I’m sorry, but there’s no answer now.”
    “Oh.” I’d known that was a possibility—I mean, the man hadn’t answered his phone—but the scenario
    I’d concocted had him coming home. Or screening calls. Or something. “So, do you know where he is?”
    Maybe I’d get lucky.
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Oh.” I thought for a while. “Maybe he’s in the gym? You guys have a health center, right?
    Could you check?” He just stared at me, so I added, “It’s really important that I talk to him.”
    Another long stare, probably as he tried to decide if I was a jilted lover, come to seek revenge.
    “Really,” I insisted. “It’s about one of his cases. Tell him it’s about PSW.” I had no idea if that would move Agent Brady to action or not. But it was the best shot I had. Not that it made any difference if we couldn’t actually get the guy on the phone.
    “About what?”
    “PSW,” I repeated. “You know. The computer game?”
    He raised an eyebrow.
    “Justtell him,” I begged.
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    The concierge eyed me up and down with a frown (I tried not to take it personally). Then he apparently came to a decision. Unfortunately, I wasn’t informed of what that decision was, so when he picked up the phone again, I didn’t know if he was once again trying to call Agent Brady, or if he was calling security to have me booted out.
    It turned out he was calling Marissa (whoever she was). “Is Agent Brady up there?” He listened to the response, then looked at me, shaking his head slightly. “I’m sorry, miss, he’s not in the gym.”
    I exhaled, torn between frustration and fear. What if he was in there rotting? I had to at least know. If
    Agent Brady was gone—or dead—then my last ally was gone. And since alone wasn’t an option I
    wanted to contemplate, I leaned up against the concierge desk, doing my best to look desperate.
    Which, under the circumstances, wasn’t too hard.
    “Could I just head up?” I asked, aiming my best ingénue smile at him. “It’s really important that Page 36

    I see him, and he’s probably just asleep. I’ll pound on the door, and he’ll let me in and everything will be just fine. Please?”
    “Lady, I’m sorry.”
    So much for the ingénue role. “His regular phone, then. Have you called his regular phone?”
    He nailed me with a squinty-eyed stare. “Haveyou ?”
    “As a matter of fact, I have. No answer. But