Her Man Friday (2 page)

"No, Mr. Friday. We—" He gestured down the table. "—the board of directors, are the ones who are hiring you."

Interesting distinction, Leo thought. He'd been under the impression that the board of directors of a company sort of answered to the man in charge. What were these guys? A wandering band of rogue executives? "You want to clarify that for me?" he asked.

Cohiba Man puffed one more time before removing the cigar from his mouth. Then he settled it in a crystal ashtray and folded one hand over the other on the table, an action that told Leo he was in for a serious—and lengthy—monologue.

Just as he'd suspected, Cohiba Man inhaled a long breath, then stated, "The board of directors of Kimball Technologies is hiring you, Mr. Friday, not Schuyler Kimball. Mr. Kimball isn't currently aware of the theft, nor is he to be informed about it. In fact, Mr. Kimball isn't to be informed of your activities at all. He's much too busy to be bothered by something like this. He has the running of his company to see to, not to mention other, more personal, pursuits."

Leo studied the other man in silence for some time, shifting his weight again from one hiking-booted foot to the other as he contemplated what the true nature of
personal pursuits
might be in terms of a billionaire playboy. Then, when his thoughts started to get away from him, lingering far too long on scantily clad women and whipped cream, he shook his head hard and said, "You, uh, you want to tell me how you're going to explain it to Kimball when he finds out that someone—namely me—is poking his nose into every single file in the Kimball archives?"

Leo was really looking forward to the answer to that question, and shifted his weight again as he waited to hear what it might be.

Cohiba Man picked up his cigar and puffed some more. "No, Mr. Friday, I don't want to tell you that. It's immaterial."

"But—"

"Suffice it to say," Cohiba Man cut him off, "you are in no danger of Mr. Kimball discovering your presence or your activities."

"But—"

"And should you make your identity and the particulars of your investigation known to him—either voluntarily or involuntarily—then your work for this company shall be immediately terminated, and you'll never crunch numbers in this town again. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Friday?"

"Crystal," Leo replied without missing a beat.

But he stiffened under the other man's perusal, his back going up fast at the suggestion that he'd never work in Philadelphia again. Right. Like that was ever going to happen, seeing as how he had a national reputation for being the best at what he did. Leo was more than confident of his ability to stay in business, regardless of what these overblown egos thought of their own power.

But if they didn't want Kimball to know about the investigation, then he'd keep it under his hat. He could manage, as long as he had access to—and the blessing of—the board of directors, and the freedom to plunder all of the company files. It might take longer than it would if he'd been able to sit down with the big boss and ask a few questions, but Leo could still do his job quite nicely, thanks, without Kimball's input.

He was about to say something more, to ask the first of many questions, when Cohiba Man started up again.

"Unfortunately," the executive said, "Mr. Kimball keeps some of his records at his estate in Bucks County. Naturally, Mr. Friday, we'll expect you to begin your investigation at company headquarters here in town. But ultimately, this assignment could force you to do quite a lot of traveling, to other cities and countries where Kimball Technologies has holdings. A worst-case scenario would have you infiltrating Mr. Kimball's private residence, but in all likelihood—if you're as good as you claim—that will never come about, because you'll find the source of the theft right away. At any rate, we'll start here and work our way out, shall we?"

We
? Leo echoed to himself. Like these guys knew the first place to look for corruption. Then again, some corruption went pretty high up in the company. Just why, exactly, were they so reluctant to let Schuyler Kimball know what was going on?

While Leo was pondering the answer to that question, Cohiba Man added, "And because of the delicate nature of this investigation, it will, of course, be essential that you cover your tracks. No one other than the men present in this room right now is to know your true reason for poking around.
No one
. You'll have to make every effort to keep yourself invisible."

"That goes without saying," Leo said. "And, no offense, but I wouldn't be where I am in this business if I hadn't mastered discretion a long time ago."

"No, Mr. Friday," Versace Man piped up then. "You don't understand. It's not your discretion we're worried about. It's
you
. Your very identity is the problem. You're too well-known, even by some of the company's less, shall we say, important employees. You're not to go by Leo Friday. You're not to be an investigator of fraud. We'll have to come up with another persona entirely for you. This has to look like a simple, standard audit of the books. Period."

Great, Leo thought. This was just great. The wandering band of rogue executives were now Elliot Ness and the Untouchables.

He shook his head imperceptibly. This had happened to him before. A different company, a different board of directors, but the same damned thing. They'd been convinced that his reputation had preceded him, right down to the guys in the mail room, and they'd insisted he play a game of cloak and calculator. And not only had the charade been totally unnecessary, it had been annoying as hell.

"Well, can I at least go by my own first name?" he asked, masking his sarcasm as best he could, and telling himself that was
not
petulance he heard in his voice.

"Leonard?" Cohiba Man asked with a shrug. "I don't see why not."

Leo cringed at the sound of his given name. He
really
hated being called Leonard. No one but his great-aunt Margie got away with calling him that anymore, and the only reason she did was because she was ninety-two years old. Weil, that and the fact that, even though at six-foot-two, Leo was a solid one-hundred and ninety-eight pounds, Aunt Margie outweighed him by a good fifty pounds.
And
she watched way too much Championship Wrestling.

"No, not Leonard," he started to object.

But Halston Man cut him off. "Leonard Freiberger!" he exclaimed. "That's who you could be. It would be close to your real name, but not really. And you won't be an investigator. You'll be a… let's see now… a bookkeeper! Yes, that's perfect. A mousy little bookkeeper who's been hired to double-check the files for a few minor discrepancies. And I think Leonard Freiberger is the perfect name for a mousy little bookkeeper. I went to school with a Morton Freiberger," he added parenthetically. "Trust me. This will be perfect."

"That's interesting," Leo replied blandly. "I went to school with a Butch Freiberger. Son of a bitch beat the hell out of me one day during PE."

Leo also thought about telling Halston Man that he had bookkeeper friends named Trixie LeFevre and Jamal Jefferson, and not a single one with a name like Leonard Freiberger. But the old guy seemed to be having so much fun that Leo didn't have the heart. Unfortunately, when he said nothing to counter the man's suggestion, the other executives, incredibly, seemed to warm to the idea.

"Yes, yes," Versace Man chimed in. "That's a wonderful idea. You'll need glasses, though." He whipped his own pair of delicate, horn-rimmed spectacles from his face and held them out to Leo. "Here, you can wear mine. Don't worry—they're not prescription. They're mood glasses. Women
adore
them on men."

Mood glasses? Leo wondered. Now what marketing genius had come up with
that
idea? One who had never had to wear real glasses, obviously. Leo should know. He'd been wearing contact lenses for half his life—since he was nineteen years old.

"I don't think—" he began to object.

But this time Grecian Formula Man interrupted him. "And you absolutely must wear tweed," he threw in. "Not the good kind—the Lauren or the Hilfiger—the absent-minded professor kind. Like Peter O'Toole wore in
Goodbye Mr. Chips
. That would suit the charade beautifully."

Leo pinched the bridge of his nose—hard—and tried not to panic. "Uh, I think you guys are getting a little too—"

"It's just too bad we can't do anything about your physical makeup, Mr. Friday," Charlton Heston Man piped up, frowning as he considered Leo from head to toe. "There aren't many bookkeepers who look like football linemen. Perhaps if you slouched a bit…"

All right, that was enough, Leo thought, dropping his hand back down to his side. He owed it to bookkeepers everywhere to put a stop to this egregious stereotyping ASAP. Otherwise, he'd have Trixie and Jamal up here kicking corporate butt in no time flat.

"Look," he bit out, barely able to contain his growing outrage. "You guys are out of line. There's no reason for me to affect any kind of damned stereotype. I'm perfectly capable of handling this assignment the same way I've handled hundreds of other assignments over the years. Just sit back and let me do my job."

"Oh, we'll let you do your job, Mr. Friday," Cohiba Man said. "But don't forget who's paying your salary here."

"Fine," Leo conceded sharply. "I'll play by your rules,
to an extent
." He emphasized those last three words as much as he could. "I'll go by another name, and I'll be the simple, lowly bookkeeper doing a perfunctory and very standard survey of the records. But I
won't
be a buffoon."

"We never asked you to be that, Mr. Friday," Cohiba Man said. But he smiled as he puffed his cigar.

Leo shook his head once more, not bothering to be imperceptible about it this time. These guys were flat-out nuts. Too much living in the corporate ivory towers would do that to a person, he supposed.

Fine, he thought. He'd play a part. Whatever it took to get these guys off his back so he could do his job, collect his paycheck, and leave them in the dust. One thing, however, was absolutely certain. He
wasn't
going to go by Leonard Freiberger, and he
wasn't
going to slouch, and he
wasn't
going to wear tweed or mood glasses.

He didn't care who was paying his salary.

"Leonard Freiberger, ma'am. We spoke on the phone yesterday afternoon?"

Lily Rigby gazed at the man standing on the other side of Schuyler's front door, blinked a few times in rapid succession, and realized she had no idea what to say in response. His appearance simply left her at a loss for words. She reminded herself that Mr. Freiberger
had
identified himself over the telephone the day before as a bookkeeper, but still… She hadn't thought anybody wore that
Goodbye, Mr. Chips
tweed stuff anymore.

"Lily Rigby," she finally said, extending her hand toward him. "I'm Schuyler Kimball's social secretary. It's nice to meet you, Mr. Freiberger."

Actually, she was quite a bit more than Schuyler Kimball's social secretary, she thought. She and Schuyler had, after all, gone to college together. And he had, after all, been her first lover, however briefly. And they had, after all, lived together for years and years and years. But that was undoubtedly a bit more than Mr. Freiberger wanted to know, wasn't it?