The Prada Paradox (25 page)

My grin stretches so wide it’s almost painful, and I pass him the paper without comment.

“Wow,” he says after reading it. “Have you got any leads on interpreting this thing?”

“Not a clue,” Blake admits.

“Me either,” Andy says. He looks between the two of us. “So how did you find it?”

“The girl I am now,” I explain. “I’m playing Mel. So I asked if there was a message for her—”

“And there was.” He nods approvingly. “Good job.”

I can’t help the little rush of pleasure. I may have been freaking when this damn game started, but now I’m at least holding my own. That’s good, I think, since the consequences of playing poorly are more than a little severe.

I shudder, thinking about the man against whom we’re playing.Janus. A man I’ve imagined around so many corners, but never once seen. And now here he is again, holding my life in his hand.

I give myself a quick shake, determined not to sink back into that quagmire of fear. I’m no good to anyone in that place, least of all myself.

I tap the note still in Andy’s hand, forcing my voice to sound calm. “So where do we begin?”

“The first line,” he says with a sigh. “What the hell is a do-si-do?”

At that, I manage a genuine laugh, because Andy really is a computer geek if he’s never heard of a do-si-do. “It’s a square-dance move,” I say. I look at Blake for confirmation, because I’ve never square-danced in my life. “Isn’t it?”

“Pretty sure it’s the part where you circle your partner,” he says. “But square dancing isn’t exactly all the rage in L.A., so what are we supposed to do with that information?”

“It will key in somehow,” Andy says. “That’s the way these clues always work.”

There’s a tap at the door, and both men move closer to me, their stances protective. “Guys,” I say, “I don’t think the killer is going to knock first.”

Just in case I’m wrong, though, I call out before opening. It’s the bellman, who has a new laptop for us, courtesy of the hotel and a local computer store. Our phones and clothes should arrive within the hour. I tip the guy a huge amount, give him the old laptop to pass off to housekeeping, then hand the new computer to our resident computer geek. He immediately gets it up and running, and we spend the next few minutes searching for information on movies and horses, ultimately learning that there were a lot of movies about horses made in Los Angeles. Some took place by the ocean (but not many) and some of the stars (in this case, many) lived near the beach.

Too bad we haven’t the faintest idea what to do with that information.

“Maybe we’re coming at this the wrong way,” Andy suggests. “After all, Devi could just as easily be getting L.A.-themed clues as movie-themed.”

“That’s true,” Blake says.

“But where does that get us?” I ask.

“Lets think about where in the area we’d find horses by the beach,” Blake says.

“Malibu,” I say right away. “And Santa Barbara. Didn’t Kevin Costner buy an equestrian ranch up there?”

“Santa Barbara’s probably too far away,” Blake says. “Unless you have a connection to it? Ever live there? Own a house? Shoot a movie?”

“None of the above,” I say, and we cross Kevin’s ranch off our list of possibilities.

“There must be some horses in Malibu,” I say, and Andy typesMalibu Horse Rentals into Google and ends up with a gazillion sites, none of which are screamingPick me! Pick me!

“What about the do-si-do thing?” Blake asks.

“What about it?” I ask, too sharply, but I’m feeling surly.

He holds up his hands in a classic self-defense maneuver, and I immediately feel contrite. He’s the one at immediate risk here. Well, I am, too, but at least I don’t have some poison in my blood.

“How do horses and square dances mix?” Blake asks, apparently forgiving my bitchiness.

“Hay rides, barn dances. Horses would be all over that kind of thing,” I say.

“Any barn-type dance halls around here?” Andy asks.

“Umm.” Honestly, I have no clue. I nod at the computer. “Give it a shot.”

Blake starts pacing as Andy tries this new search. “If we could just latch on to one part of the clue—”

“Horses,” I say, hoping to spark a flash of insight. “Near the ocean. And they’re old horses.”

“But still around,” Blake says, pointing a finger at me.

“Right…” I hold my breath. I know that look in his eye.

“Okay, this is a long shot, but what about the Santa Monica Pier?”

Andy’s head pops up. “How do you get that?”

“The carousel,” Blake explains. “Old horses. From a past age.”

“Hmm.” Andy frowns, clearly considering. “I think you may be on to something.”

“What about the square dancing?” I ask. “I’ve been to the pier hundreds of times, and trust me when I say that square dancing would not fit in.”

“Not square dancing,” Andy says. “Do-si-do.”

He stands up. I guess we’re ready.

I don’t move. “Explain, please.”

“That’s the circle-your-partner part, remember? That’s what he said,” he adds, pointing to Blake.

“Damn, Andy,” Blake says. “Good call.”

“Hang on, boys. I haven’t jumped on the do-si-do bandwagon yet.”

“The carousel moves in a circle,” Andy explains.

“Oh, man.” I reach down and grab my Prada bag, then tuck the computer and phone inside. “Let’s book.”

Chapter39

The Santa Monica Pier is a bustling, loud, boisterous, touristy hangout.

And I love it.

It’s like stepping into a carnival atmosphere, with street vendors lining one side of the wide wooden pier, and an actual amusement park on the other side, complete with roller coaster and Ferris wheel.

Blake and I had come here on our very first date, and I’d dragged him around to look at all the things I’d loved so much as a kid.

Today, we’d come under much less auspicious circumstances.

We’d left the Chateau via the concierge desk, and were lucky enough to arrive just as our phones and clothes did. We used the lobby restrooms to change, then raced to get the car and head toward the beach.

Blake parked Blue on the street, and this time I’d transferred the new phone to my back pocket and left my bag and laptop in Blake’s trunk. I’d already scratched it once; I didn’t intend to do that again. We’d backtracked down the street, then turned toward the ocean and walked down the paved roadway that leads to the entrance of the pier.

Now we stand there, looking up at the arched sign at the entrance announcing that we’ve reached “Santa Monica. Yacht Harbor. Sport Fishing. Boating. Cafés.”

Ya gotta love it.

“Which way?” Andy asks.

“That’s the carousel house,” I say, pointing to the yellowish building in which is a real, honest-to-gosh old-fashioned carousel. Someone told me it’s one of the few surviving all-wooden carousels in the world, and it dates back to the early 1900s. It’s romantic, a shadow of a past age, and I never come to the pier without visiting it.

Fortunately, it’s not very far out on the pier, either. The whole place bustles, but the amusement park part is near the beginning, before the pier turns into what you’d traditionally think of as a pier—wood planks extending over the water. Down at that end is a restaurant, sightseers, and fishermen. The vendors are mostly down with us, where we’re still over sand and parking lot.

The place is a crush, and as we move, I’m jostled from all sides. Blake takes my arm, and we ease through the crowd, aiming for the horses. I’m searching the crowd, looking for anyone who seems suspicious, but there are just too many faces. I’m about to tell Blake to hurry when I overhear a kid talking.

“No way that’s a real gun.”

“Dude! Hit the deck.”

I spin around, terrified. And through the crowd I see a face I haven’t seen for years—Janus.

I can’t help it. I freeze. And then I scream.

Chapter40

“Dammit, Blake, you’re running out of time.Go .”

We’re racing through the pedestrians, both men beside me like bookends. Andy pulled me into a throng of tourists even as my scream hung in the air, and now the place is chaos.

“Devi!” Blake yells.

“Go!”I screech, even as we start shoving our way through the crowd. Janus is behind us, so we head down the pier, hoping to lose him in the crowd. “Just go. I’ll be fine.”

I’m not actually so sure that I will, but if Blake doesn’t get that antidote, Iknow he won’t. And Janus isn’t going to follow him to the carousel. That man is all about killing me.

The thought puts an extra little zip in my step.

“Do what she says,” Andy yells, keeping a tight grip on my arm. “I’ve got her.”

Even as Andy speaks, he’s pushing through the crowd, roughly shoving pedestrians into our wake, and trying to trip up the kids on Rollerblades and skateboards. People are screaming and cursing, but there’s no stopping us.

I chance a look back over my shoulder, terrified, but hoping that we’ve lost Janus.

No such luck, and I can see him raising a pistol, heedless of the innocent bystanders between us and him.

Screams erupt, and the crowd mostly drops to the ground.

We can’t, though. We have to run.

And we do, racing pell-mell down the pier, zigzagging in the hope that Janus won’t be able to get a clean shot.

All around us, tourists are either on the ground or scurrying out of our way. Street performers are backed up against the edge of the pier. In the distance, I hear the welcome scream of a police siren.

Welcome, but not nearly close enough.

To our right, a mime with a trunk full of balls and other props looks like he’s seen better days. Andy grabs my wrist and pulls me that way, then dumps the trunk over, sending a dozen or so small balls rolling over the wooden planks of the pier.

Doesn’t even slow the son of a bitch down, and I cry out as a bullet screams past my ear to lodge in the wooden barrier lining the edge of the pier.

“Jump!” Andy yells.

We’ve zigged to the other side, moving as far away from that bullet as possible, and although I want to keep moving, I can’t help but stop and gape at him.“What?”

He indicates the side, and the water below. We’re almost to the restaurant at the end of the pier, so we’re pretty far out, and in my gut I know the water must be deep. Still…

“Dammit, Devi,now! ”

I swing my legs over, take a deep breath, and jump.

The Pacific is not a warm ocean, even in the summer, and the chilly water stabs at me like so many little icicles. I go completely under, the weight of my jeans and shoes pulling me down. It’s midday, but all I can see is a greenish blur. The water is murky, pollution and sand mixing to completely bar my view.

I’m trying to get my bearings—knowing I need to get under the pier if I want to be safe—when there is a splash and flailing beside me. My fears spike again as someone grabs my wrist, and I’m being tugged up. We break the surface, and I open my mouth to scream, but a hand is there.

Andy.

He meets my eyes and nods in question. I nod back, still on edge but with the program.

I chance a look above us and see bystanders peering over the railing, calling down and snapping pictures.

What I don’t see is Janus.Thank God.

“Is he gone?” I hazard the question as soon as we’re safely under the solid wooden pier, fighting the current even as we hang on to the barnacle-covered posts.

“I’m guessing he is,” Andy says. “That siren was coming fast, and if he’s still around—”

“The cops,” I say. “Andy, there are rules. What are we going to tell the cops?”

“We’re not going to tell them a thing,” he says. “Can you swim over there?” he asks, pointing to the far side of the pier. Out in the sun, we see some guys boogie-boarding.

“Sure,” I say, because it’s not that far.

“Be careful. The current will be stronger than you think, and with our clothes on…”

He’s right, of course, and I’m tempted to strip down to my undies. The only reason I don’t is because it’s just as hard getting out of wet jeans as it is swimming in them.

Well, that and the fact that as soon as I peel off my clothes, some reporter from theEnquirer will magically appear and snap a photo.

I almost ask Andy what his plan is, but then I decide not to bother. He obviously has one, and as we swim out the other side of the pier, it becomes obvious enough. Above us, a few people are looking down, but nothing like the throng that had been gathered on the south side. I see one girl wave behind her—presumably to the cop whose car is on the pier, if the sound of the siren is any indication.

“Andy…” I say, managing to swallow half the ocean at the same time.

As I choke and spit, he grabs me and tugs me toward the shore.

Now, the crowd on the north side of the pier has increased, and I hear “Please stop!” coming from the cop’s megaphone. That overly polite official “request” that most people are trained to follow.