Page 37 of Devil's Due

Manny flush faded from hot rose to a dull pink. “I can’t. I can’t have strangers here right now. Please, Lucia. I need you to go away.”

His gaze kept moving from Lucia to Susannah in the SUV, irresistibly drawn, and then snapping back as if what he saw frightened him. It probably did. Manny had some bad, bad images in his head, and a trauma that had hardwired him against ever risking himself again. He didn’t like criminal cases, avoided them at all costs, and he put his personal security ahead of most everything else. Including, sometimes, his friends.

Still, he seemed uncomfortable at Lucia’s silence. “I don’t mean to be—look, I’m sorry. I know she needs help. But—Lucia, Ican’t.”His green eyes held hers, willing her to understand. “I can’t.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry, Manny. That’s all right. Can I go up to see Jazz?”

“No.”

That, she didn’t expect. “You’re kidding. Manny? You know me!”

He shuffled uncomfortably. “Okay, come with me. But theystay here.”

She sighed, and without even asking—or waiting for Manny to demand it—she pulled her gun out of its holster, made it safe and handed it to Omar. It disappeared into his leather jacket.

“I’m all yours,” she said. “Omar, Susannah—wait here.”

“And don’t touch anything,” Manny said. “I mean it.Anything.”

Omar looked around at the utterly featureless space. “I’ll try to hold back.”

Manny led her through pools of harsh industrial light and velvety shadows to a steel door. This one had a keypad. He covered it with his hand and typed in a string of at least a dozen numbers, then opened the door for her. It made a hydraulic hiss. She stepped inside, he crowded in behind her, and they were in—what the hell was this?—a kind of secured room. Presuming somebody got past the security on the previous door, this room would stop them cold. It was about six feet square, and—she rapped the wall—seemed like solid steel, with some vents in the ceiling.

Manny pointed up. “I can drop knockout gas,” he said. “In emergencies.”

“You scare me sometimes.”

“Yeah, that’s what Jazz says, too. But I’ve never been robbed.”

“I’ll bet.”

Manny edged past her to the other end of the room and slid aside a well-concealed metal panel. Inside was another keypad. This sequence was longer, and was probably—knowing Manny—completely different and randomly generated. She thought about Jazz, coming in and out of here, and knew her partner well enough to realize that, regardless of Manny’s instructions, she would have had all of these pass codes written down somewhere. Probably on a sheet of paper labeled Secret Codes.

That made Lucia smile, thinking of Manny’s probable reaction if he knew. He’d definitely move. Again.

“Where are we going?” she asked. The door opened, and on the other side was an openwork metal staircase. For a man who’d been buried alive, Manny seemed to have an affinity for small spaces—but, she realized, they were small spaces he controlled. It made a certain cockeyed sense.

“The office.”

“Is Jazz there?”

“No.”

Two flights of stairs, another key-coded door, and she was in another world. The office was a big, spacious place, all windows on one side, with thick, off-white carpeting. Modern art hung on the walls, and she could tell instantly that it wasn’t lithography; those were originals. He seemed particularly partial to the cool logic and simplicity of Mondrian, but he was eclectic. She spotted a Kandinsky, then a Miro. The colors glowed in the soft natural light.

Gradually, she realized that there was furniture, as well—all pale, spare, unobtrusive. A desk with two chairs on either side. A huge expanse of pale oak cabinets.

“Wow.” It was all she could manage. Why was Manny never what she expected? He looked as if he might live behind a sewer grate.

How in thehelldid Manny Glickman, former government employee, have the cash to live like this? Consulting was profitable; it wasn’tthatprofitable. Then again, she hoped nobody would ever force her to explain the funds in her bank accounts, or the penthouses in New York and Madrid. Even though she’d come by the money legitimately, if not perfectly honestly …

Manny seemed to relax as he walked to the desk. His shoulders straightened, his muscles loosened. By the time he eased himself into the suede chair behind the desk, he looked only a little worried.

“Sit,” he said. His green eyes were level on her as she silently obeyed. “Do you have a fever?”

It wasn’t what she expected. Again. “What…? No. No, of course I don’t.”

He stood up, took a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocked a desk drawer. She couldn’t quite see what he’d palmed. He walked over and, with deceptive quickness, slapped his hand over her forehead. For a ludicrous instant she thought,That’s it, he’s gone insane, he thinks he’s a faith healer, and then he took his hand away and stared at her forehead intently. She reached up and touched plastic.

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