Her Man Friday (20 page)

"Nice glasses, Mr. Friday," Versace Man piped up cheerfully. "Ralph Lauren?" he guessed.

"Wal-Mart," Leo told him.

The other man appeared utterly shocked. "Truly?"

Leo nodded.

Versace Man scribbled a note on the pad before him as he muttered, "I had no idea."

"So what do you have for us today, Mr. Friday?"

This time it was Cohiba Man, speaking from behind a faint haze of cigar smoke, his expression as bored as ever, his voice offering no indication of what he might be expecting.

"Not much," Leo said.

"Not much?" echoed Thesaurus Man. "Nothing? Nought? Cipher?
Rien
?" he quoth further.

"Nada, zip, zero, zilch," Leo threw in for good measure.

"That was what you told us last week," Halston Man said shortly.

"Yeah, well, that's what you're getting this week, too," Leo snapped back. "Because I still don't have anything of significance to report."

"What's the problem?" Cohiba Man asked.

"The problem is that there are still a handful of files in Kimball's computer that I haven't been able to access, that's what. Unless you'd be interested in the man's top secret sangria recipe."

"Oh, I would be," Halston Man said, lifting a finger.

"I'll e-mail it to you," Leo promised shortly. He turned his attention back to Cohiba Man. "Aside from that, though, after two weeks of trying, all I've found in Kimball's other files at the estate are the kinds of things I'd expect to find there. What I've discovered that's business related is pretty mundane stuff. Although there are some financial records, they're all standard information, and none of them appears to have been tampered with, anyway. Certainly none of them has indicated that there's anything suspicious going on."

"Have you tried Mr. Kimball's laptop?" Cohiba Man asked.

Leo nodded. "After he returned from Bermuda, it was the first thing I did. And lemme tell ya, you're gonna get billed double for that day, because not only did I have to sneak around the man's private quarters to access it, but his laptop is a mine field of totally incoherent files. It's like the guy doesn't know the first thing about using a computer, which I find kind of odd, because he's such an alleged industrial wizard."

"Mr. Kimball's technology is mechanically oriented, not computer-oriented," Versace Man said. "And how do you know that what appears to be a mine field of incoherent files isn't actually some brilliantly designed booby trap device to keep people out of those files?"

Leo rolled his eyes. "Trust me. I know. It's my job to know. Nobody's brilliant enough to make files look that stupid. Kimball's no neatnik when it comes to his personal computer files, though, that's for sure. And his business ones aren't in great shape, either. Frankly, I don't know how the guy runs his business with things in the kind of shape they're in."

"Oh, please, Mr. Friday," Versace Man said. "It couldn't possibly be as bad as you say."

Before Leo could comment on that, Cohiba Man cut him off.

"So what, exactly, does all this mean, Mr. Friday?"

Leo hesitated before responding. Oh, God. He'd just been addressed by his own name for the fifth time in a row. He nearly dropped to his knees and wept with joy at hearing it. His ecstasy was short-lived, however, when he realized he had no idea how to answer the man's question.

"It means…" He sighed fitfully, running a hand restlessly through his hair. "It means my work at Kimball's estate isn't finished yet, I guess."

Cohiba Man nodded, but he didn't look happy at all. "Then I suppose you'll be returning to Ashling now."

Returning to Ashling now
, Leo repeated to himself. Why did that sound so much like,
Last night, I dreamed I returned to Manderley
?

"But just so you know, Mr. Friday," Cohiba Man added with a substantial puff of fragrant smoke, "you're on a timer now."

"What?" Leo asked, certain he'd misunderstood.

"We can't afford to let this investigation go on indefinitely," he said. "We can't wait around forever. We're going to need to set some parameters."

"Parameters?"

"Circumscription," Thesaurus Man piped up. "Rubicon. Boundaries. Time frame."

"I
know
what parameters are, you—" Leo curled his hands into tight fists. "Look, I told you guys from the get-go that this could take some time."

"Mr. Friday, it already
has
taken some time. Too much time." Cohiba Man doubled his own fists on the table and leaned forward in a pose that was surprisingly menacing, considering he resembled the Pillsbury Doughboy. "And now, you're going to wind things up, and find out once and for all
what the hell is going on
."

If he hadn't seen it himself, Leo would have thought those last words had been uttered by Charlton Heston Man, so God-like had they been.

"And how do you suggest I step up the pace, huh?" he demanded, reaching the end of his own none-too-long fuse. He couldn't quite hide the frustration that had been building for weeks when he said, "I've tried everything I know to get to the bottom of what's going on with Kimball's files. I've looked everywhere I can possibly look to find out where fifty million bucks might have disappeared, and where it might show up again. I don't know what else to do."

It was true. Never in his entire career had Leo found himself up against a wall like this one. He had tried every maneuver in the book—and had invented one or two new ones—trying to breach Kimball's private records, trying to figure out how someone could steal fifty million dollars from one place and put it in another. Either the man was even more brilliant than Leo suspected, or else Leo had missed something somewhere along the line. And the thought that he may have missed something somewhere really didn't set well with him at all.

Plainly put, Leo Friday was just too good at what he did to ever make mistakes. He
didn't
make mistakes. Ever. At least, he never had before. Whatever was going on at Kimball Technologies, whoever was stealing tens of millions of dollars annually… He bit back a ragged sound. Well, whoever was doing it was smarter than Leo was.

There. He'd admitted it. For the first time in his career, he was working against someone with a superior intellect. Which was yet another reason to suspect Schuyler Kimball of the act. Of course, from the start, Leo had suspected the billionaire was the one who was behind the amazing disappearing millions. And there wasn't a human being alive who was more intelligent than Schuyler Kimball. In spite of that, Leo resented the whole notion of being outsmarted.

And he still hadn't proven for sure—or at all—that Kimball was the one stealing the money from himself. There continued to exist an outside possibility that there was someone else behind the theft, someone who was in no way entitled to the money. Now all Leo had to do was figure out how to outsmart the sonofabitch. Which he could probably do eventually, if he could just finger who, exactly, the sonofabitch was.

"What about Miss Rigby?"

Leo blinked once, uncertain who had even posed the question, so lost had he been in his thoughts. "I beg your pardon?" he said.

"What about Miss Rigby?" Cohiba Man asked.

"What about her?"

"Have you checked her files? You might find something there." This time it was Versace Man who asked the question.

"Why would I want to check her files?" Leo said. "Do you really think I'm going to figure out who's filtering fifty million bucks annually by trying to find out where Kimball's next tea party is taking place?"

Cohiba Man shook his head. "No, Mr. Friday. But Miss Rigby has been with Mr. Kimball for a long time, and is privy to other areas of his life. It's not beyond the realm of possibility that he may have entrusted her with some of his responsibilities."

Oh, right, Leo thought. Like keeping track of his tennis balls and which call girl was due at the estate that evening.

"You never know, Mr. Friday," Cohiba Man added in a voice that was rife with speculation. Evidently, Leo wasn't the only one who wondered just what, exactly, the
duties
of a social secretary involved. "Perhaps Miss Rigby might shed some light on what's going on. Not that you need to ask her anything specific, mind you. But, through her, you might be able to discover a few more things about the situation than you know now."

Through her
? Leo echoed to himself. Now why did that sound like a really pleasant activity to undertake?

"Check Miss Rigby's computer," Cohiba Man said. "See if you can find anything there."

Leo's lips parted fractionally in surprise, and he narrowed his eyes at the man. "What did you say?"

"I said check Miss Rigby's laptop. You might find something there."

For a moment, Leo didn't—couldn't—say a word. Never in his life had he felt more stupid than he did at that moment. Why had it not occurred to him earlier that Miss Rigby would have her own computer, and her own files? Like, oh, say… on day one? Of
course
Lily Rigby would have a computer, he thought now. Even if it was just to keep track of Kimball's social engagements. And hadn't she herself stated that she kept in touch with the billionaire through e-mail? She certainly hadn't checked it from Kimball's big computer in the office, because Leo had been in there every day. And even with Kimball in residence, he suspected she would need the use of a computer on a fairly regular basis. It made sense that she would have one at her disposal.

But where?

And how was he supposed to gain access to it, when he hadn't even been able to access the woman yet?

Not that he was honestly expecting to find anything significant among her files regarding the missing money. Hey, after all, Miss Rigby was no rocket scientist—or computer programmer, for that matter. But there still might be something in her files that would direct Leo to another place to look.

"Uh… okay," he said, trying to mask his utter humiliation at having been so sideswiped by Miss Rigby's physical attributes that it had never occurred to him to investigate her professional ones. "I can see where it might be beneficial to check Miss Rigby's computer. I'll do that right away. As soon as I figure out where she keeps it."

"Oh, it's in her room," Halston Man offered. "On the left-hand side of her writing desk, which is just across from the door. It's actually kind of easy to miss, because she has a few Beanie Babies stacked on it. Prance, Pounce and… Snip, I think. She likes cats."

Every man in the room turned to look at Halston Man, but he seemed not to understand why. "What?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"How do you know so much about Miss Rigby's room?" Leo asked.

The other men nodded in silence.

Halston Man smiled and swiped a hand negligently through the air. "Oh, we trade books from time to time, and on occasion, when I've been at the estate, she's offered me free access to her book shelf. We're both
huge
Anya Seton fans. And," he added a bit sheepishly, "I'm the one who gave her the Beanie Babies. When you're a collector, you frequently wind up with duplicates, you know."

Leo nodded but decided not to comment. Evidently, the other members of the board of directors were inclined to do likewise, because no one said a word.

"Uh, fine," Leo finally managed. "I'll, uh… I'll check it as soon as I can."

"Good," Cohiba Man said. "Because you have two weeks to find out who's taking that money, how they're doing it, and where the money is going. Two weeks. Do I make myself clear?"

"What happens if I don't find it?" Leo asked.

"Oh, you'll find it, Mr. Friday." Cohiba Man swept his gaze down the length of the table, where each of the other members of the board was nodding his head in slow agreement. "We have faith in you. Because if you don't find the missing money, as I said before, you'll never work in this town again. And that, I promise you, is a threat you should take seriously."

For some reason, Leo was suddenly inclined to agree with the man. Not just because Cohiba Man had uttered his assurance with such conviction, but because Leo was getting the impression that the board of directors knew something that he didn't know himself. Like, for example, lots of other boards of directors, all across the country. Other boards of directors who might be persuaded to hire somebody other than Leo Friday for any future investigative needs they might have. Because, frankly, Leo was beginning to doubt that he was, in fact, the best in the business.

And for that, as much as anything else, he vowed to find the thief. "Two weeks," he repeated. "Fine. In two weeks, gentlemen, I promise you… you'll have your culprit."

Lily was already having a bad day when the doorbell rang downstairs and nearly shattered what fragile grip on her sanity she had left. A lack of sleep the night before had caused her to awaken with a terrible headache and a volatile disposition, and nothing—absolutely nothing—had gone right since. Chloe hadn't shown up at school—again—and Mrs. Puddleduck was complaining about her salary—again—and Miranda was wandering through the garden with Claude Rains—again—and Janey was in a snit—again. And Schuyler…

Ooh, Schuyler. Lily gritted her teeth hard. Well, suffice it to say that Lily was
this close
to throttling the life right out of him. Again.

And now the numbers on her laptop computer screen were making no sense whatsoever. And no matter how hard she tried to make them do what she needed them to do, they simply and adamantly would not cooperate. And that, she decided, was going to present a bit of a problem for a bank deposit she desperately needed to make.

The bellow of the doorbell downstairs again precluded her from fixing that problem anytime soon. With a final, longing look at the tea that sat cooling near her laptop, she rose from her writing desk and hastened from the room, to respond to the summons that was seemingly acres away from her present position. And as she hurried down the gallery, it occurred to her, not for the first time, that they really should hire someone to see to the more simple aspects of running Ashling—like, say, answering the door, for example.