FAKE FRIENDS
“I thought you were leaving,” Luke says grumpily as soon as Horatio leads him into the library. I’m already knee-deep in my preparations, sitting on the floor with my laptop open and contracts and printouts spread out around me.
“I changed my mind,” I say simply.
“What do you want?” Luke asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Your help.”
He looks taken aback. “My help?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the only one I can trust right now.”
He thinks about this for a moment and then, after seeming to decide it’s a good enough reason for him, joins me on the floor in the center of the room. “What’s going on?”
Excitedly, I turn the Fortune magazine around so that he can see the page it’s open to. “See this guy?” I ask him, pointing to the picture that inspired this whole crazy plan.
He nods. “Sure. It’s Pascal LaFleur. The CEO of LaFleur Media.”
“Well,” I say importantly, “he’s also a liar.”
Luke blinks. “Excuse me?”
“I saw him at the party I was working. I served him a tuna-seviche cucumber cup!”
Luke’s eyes widen with disbelief. “And that makes him a liar?”
I wave my hand. “Listen,” I tell him urgently, “he was speaking to this group of people.” I search through the scattered paperwork around me until I locate a photograph that I printed from the Internet. It shows ten people standing behind a large conference table. I’ve already circled three of their faces in red marker.
“These people,” I say, pointing to the circled heads. “And he was speaking to them in French.”
“Well, he is French,” Luke points out.
“I know,” I say, growing impatient. “Just listen. He said something about a plan to evict the chef.”
Luke looks at me as though I’ve clearly cracked.
I ignore him. “I didn’t think anything of it because I was like, what? Evict the chef? Whatever, crazy Frenchman.”
“Is this going somewhere?” Luke interrupts.
I grit my teeth and try to hold on to my dwindling patience. “Yes!” I take a deep breath and continue. “But it wasn’t until I saw his face in this magazine that I realized I misunderstood him. You see, my French is pretty much limited to talking about fashion and food and celebrity gossip.”
“Really?” Luke jokes. “You don’t say.”
I slap him with the piece of paper in my hand. “Anyway, I totally forgot that le chef doesn’t mean ‘the chef.’ It’s a faux ami!”
“A what?”
I sigh. “A faux ami. It means a false or fake friend. A word that you think would be the same in French and English because it sounds the same in both languages, but it’s not. Like librairie. It doesn’t mean library. It means bookstore. Or napkin. You would think it means napkin but it’s actually a French word for sanitary pad.”
“Okay, okay!” Luke says, putting up a hand to stop me. “I get it. So if chef doesn’t mean chef, what does it mean?”
I inhale deeply and hold his gaze. “It basically means CEO.”
It takes Luke a moment to catch up with my frantic thought process and when he does, I see his expression start to shift. “Evict the CEO?”
I nod eagerly. “Expulser,” I explain. “That’s the word he used. It means to evict. But I looked it up and it also means to expel. To oust. To cast out.”
Luke doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The look on his face says everything.
“So I started reading about the upcoming merger,” I continue, nodding at all the paperwork around me. “I even found a few corporate e-mails about it in my spam folder.”
He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at me.
“It’s a long story,” I reply, with a hasty wave. “Anyway, after reading all this stuff, I discovered that once the merger is complete, the plan is for my father to be the CEO of the new entity and this Pascal guy to serve under him. But if you take into account the five new board members that are coming in from LaFleur Media, you would actually only need three additional votes to gain a majority.” I tap again at the three circled heads in the photograph. “These three votes.”
Luke regards me in sheer astonishment. I have no idea if it’s the information itself that’s so shocking or the fact that I’m the one who discovered it. Perhaps a little of both.
“I don’t believe it,” Luke says finally, after finding his voice again. “LaFleur’s going behind your father’s back to control the whole company?”
I nod. “Apparently he’s the faux ami here.” Then I spell it out in even simpler terms. “If this deal goes through, my father is out of a job.”
I SPY
Luke is immediately up in arms. He jumps to his feet and starts pacing. “So we call your dad and warn him not to recommend the merger to the shareholders tomorrow,” he thinks aloud.
But I immediately shake my head. “Won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“He won’t believe me! He’ll talk to Caroline and think I’m trying to sabotage him after they exposed me to the press.”
“Wait, what?” Luke stops pacing and stares down at me. “Your father was the one who tipped off the press?”
“I told you my family was complicated.”
He ponders this for a moment and then seems to be content to store it away for further reflection later. “Okay, fine, then I’ll tell him.”
I shoot him a dubious look. “What will you say?”
“I’ll just tell him he can’t trust LaFleur and not to make the recommendation. If the stockholders don’t vote it through, your father’s job is safe.”
“Sure,” I say sarcastically. “My father is going to call off a billion-dollar business deal because his twenty-year-old intern has a hunch.”
He knows I’m right and that’s why he breaks my gaze and continues pacing.
“We need proof,” I tell him. Although I’m sure he doesn’t need to be told. He has to have come to this conclusion himself by now. “My father will only respond to hard evidence.”
Luke throws up his hands. “How the heck are we supposed to get proof? And in only a matter of hours? The vote is tomorrow morning!”
“Don’t worry,” I tell him calmly, scooping up the paperwork around me. I pull everything into my arms and stand up. “I have a plan.”
Grabbing Luke by the elbow, I lead him upstairs, into my room, and close the door behind us.
He glances uneasily around before taking a seat on my chaise longue. Holly yips and jumps up next to him. He cautiously pets her head. Like he’s afraid he’s going to break her. “Uh … nice room,” he says awkwardly.
“Thanks.” I disappear into the closet and start peeling off my clothes.
“So what is this big plan of yours?” he calls anxiously.
There’s a knock on the door and I hear Horatio come in. “What’s this?” Luke asks him.
“A request from Miss Larrabee,” Horatio replies cryptically and bows out of the room.
I poke my head out of the closet to see that Luke is holding a small, unmarked cardboard box, struggling to get the top open.
“What’s this?” He repeats the question to me as he finally manages to remove the lid. Then he reaches into the box and pulls out a black headset with a microphone attached and a tiny earpiece. He holds each item in one hand and stares at them questioningly.
I draw my head back into the closet and scour through the back shelves, behind all my evening gowns, until I find the dress I’m looking for. “It’s our spy gear!” I say excitedly as I pull the frock over my head and push my arms through the sleeves. The fabric feels familiarly uncomfortable and I cringe slightly at the memory of wearing this hideous thing.
God, it feels like forever ago!
And staring down at the blue-and-white pinstripes and white collar, I realize how much has changed since this whole
thing began. I feel like an entirely different person from the girl who first donned this outfit more than four months ago.
“Our what?” Luke’s voice questions skeptically.
I pull the dress taut and slide my feet into my shoes. “LaFleur is renting a house in Palos Verdes,” I call back. “It’s where the party was last night. I noticed an office on the first floor. He’s got to have something in there that proves he’s in cahoots with those board members. So I’m going to sneak into the house and find it.”
“You’re going to do WHAT?” Although I can’t see his face, I can tell from his panicked tone that he’s starting to doubt the efficacy of my plan.
“Relax,” I say, rummaging through my box of wigs until I find the perfect one. The tag calls it Nikki. It’s a dark chocolate-brown, asymmetrical, chin-length cut. I tie my hair up in a rubber band, tilt forward, and squeeze the wig onto my head. “I’m going in disguise.”
“Huh?”
With all the elements of my costume now in place, I make a grand, sweeping entrance back into the bedroom and sink into a little curtsey.
He looks me up and down in confusion, taking in every inch of my ensemble. “Is that your Majestic Maids uniform?”
I nod. “Uh-huh. I’m going as the maid.” I strut over to him, grab the small earpiece from his hand, and wedge it into my ear canal. “You’re going to wait outside with this”—I tap on the headset in his other hand—“and tell me what I’m supposed to be looking for.”
He shoots to his feet and starts backing away from me like I have some kind of infectious disease called insanity. “No way,” he vows. “That’s breaking and entering. You’ll be recognized. We’ll totally get busted.”
“I’m not going to be recognized in this.” I gesture to my outfit.
“Um, hello!” he says, dumbfounded. “You’re Lexington Larrabee. The daughter of the man who’s brokering this deal. You can’t just walk into LaFleur’s house and expect to go unnoticed.”
I step toward Luke and place a reassuring hand on his cheek. “Oh, Luke,” I say in a sympathetic voice, “you’re forgetting one of the most important lessons I’ve learned throughout this whole journey.”
“What’s that?” he says, eyeing me suspiciously.
I flash him a wry smile. “No one notices the help.”
ESPIONAGE 101
I pin the tiny microphone brooch to the lapel of my uniform and whisper, “Testing, one two three. Can you hear me?” A surge of giddy electricity jolts through me. This is too cool.
After a soft crackle, I hear Luke’s voice come through my earpiece. “Yes, I can hear you.”
“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.”
I hoist myself up onto the low-hanging branch of the tree then push to my feet. I grab hold of the balcony railing to steady myself and toss my legs over. Once I’m on the other side, I lean over and give Luke a thumbs-up. I can see him watching through the windshield of his car parked down the street.
I quietly push on the sliding glass door and squeeze through. I find myself in what appears to be an unused guest room. I open the door to the hallway and tiptoe toward the stairs, leaning over the banister to see if there’s anyone in view on the first floor.
The coast is clear so I start down the stairs, trying to keep my footsteps as silent as possible. I recognize the large entryway and salon—after all, I was just here—and silently make my way to the study.
The door is closed. I knock gently and when there’s no answer I twist the handle and enter, shutting the door softly behind me.
“Okay, I’m in,” I whisper, leaning my head toward my brooch.
“What do you see?” Luke asks through my earpiece.
I hurry over to the desk and start riffling through paperwork. “I don’t know,” I tell him. “It looks like reports of some kind. Lots of charts. Revenue projection,” I read from the top of the page in my hand.
“No,” Luke replies decisively. “Those are probably stock reports. You need to find some kind of contract, a written agreement, between LaFleur and those three board members. Something that outlines their promise to vote him in as CEO when the deal goes through.”
I put that page down, exhale loudly, and start sifting through more paperwork.
“It’s probably not going to be right there on his desk,” Luke suggests.
I nod. “You’re right,” I whisper, and start pulling open drawers. But there’s nothing even remotely similar to what Luke described.
Then I reach the bottom drawer of the desk. It’s locked. I tug on the handle, trying to yank it open but it won’t budge. And I can’t very well take the whole desk back out the window with me.
This has to be it, though. Why bother locking a drawer unless it has stuff in it that you don’t want people to find?
I just need a freaking key! But that could be anywhere. Including on LaFleur himself. And as far as I know, he’s probably with my father at his office right now. At least I hope that’s where he is right now. Although anywhere but in the house would suffice.
“Dang it!” I swear.
“What’s wrong?” Luke responds, sounding panicked.
“There’s a locked drawer. It has to be in there. But I can’t get in it.”
“Can you pick the lock?” he asks.
“Listen to Mr. Goody Two-shoes now,” I jest. “Encouraging me to pick locks.”
“What can I say? You must be a bad influence on me.”
“Or a good one.”
He laughs. “So, can you pick it?”
“No!” I cry back. “I don’t know how to pick a lock. Do you?”
“What do you think?”
“You mean they don’t teach you that in college?” I ask snootily.
“I must have been sick that day.”
“Wait,” I say, getting an idea. I glance down at my uniform. The last time I was wearing this thing, I couldn’t figure out how to turn on a vacuum cleaner. Or even how to use one. But I figured that out, didn’t I?
I hastily pull my cell phone out of the pocket and open up YouTube. I type in How to pick a lock and get about a hundred results. The first one, however, has three million views and a four-and-a-half-star rating so I figure it’s probably my best bet.
I select it, turn the volume down low, and press play, scouring the desk for the two paper clips the video says I’ll need. Watching the woman in the video closely, I unbend the first paper clip and then tweak the end to create a small hook. Then I completely straighten the second paper clip, kneel down, and insert it in the bottom of the lock, turning it clockwise. Following the step-by-step directions in the video, I slowly slide the hooked paper clip on top and feel around for something called the pins.
I grunt in frustration as I struggle to pop each pin but after a few minutes of trying, I don’t think I’ve even gotten one.
“What are you doing?” Luke’s voice comes through my headset, causing me to lose my concentration.
I sigh. “Trying to pick this stupid lock. Hold on.”
I take another deep breath, lean in closer, and try again. My hook finally makes contact with the first pin and I’m able to push it upward. I hear a tiny click. “It’s working!” I whisper excitedly.
I follow suit with the second one, then the third, turning the bottom paper clip slightly as I go until the last pin pops and the lock turns all the way to the right. I pull on the drawer handle. It opens.
There’s only one thing inside. An unmarked manila folder. Eagerly, I pick it up and flip it open.
“Agreement to elect Pascal LaFleur to the position of CEO of the new Larrabee Media Corporation.” I read the top line of the first page aloud.
“That’s it!” Luke squeals so loudly into the headset, it nearly bruises my eardrum. “Is it signed?”
I flip to the last page and find four signatures. The first three I recognize as the names of the board members from the photograph I printed from the Internet and the final signature belongs
to Pascal LaFleur himself.
“Yes!”
“Okay,” Luke says authoritatively. “Now get the heck out of there.”
With a huge grin, I fold up the documents and stick them down the front of my uniform. I return the empty manila folder to the drawer and push it closed with the side of my leg. I start back to the door but just as I reach for the handle, it begins to turn, seemingly on its own.
I gasp and search for a place to hide but there’s no time. The door opens and in walks the man of the hour himself. Pascal LaFleur.
Our eyes meet for a brief moment and as soon as I’m capable of reacting, I cast my head downward, breaking our stare.
I sink into a shallow curtsey. “Hello, Mr. LaFleur,” I say, trying my best to remember and imitate Katarzyna’s distinct Polish accent. “Welcome home.”
He stands there glaring at me for a moment, and then glances suspiciously around the room. I keep my head down, avoiding eye contact, trying to quiet my breathing. I pray that he can’t hear the way my heart is thumping in my chest.
“Holy crap!” Luke says in my ear. “He’s there? I didn’t even see his car pull into the garage. What are you going to do?”
I want to whisper back that screaming into my ear is not helping but obviously that’s out of the question.
“What are you doing in here?” he says, his French accent harsh and nasal.
I plaster a clueless expression onto my face and motion to the room. “I was to clean the room.”
What I wouldn’t give to have a feather duster in my hand right now. Or even a bottle of all-purpose cleaner. I really hope he doesn’t realize how hard it is to clean a room empty-handed.
He continues to stare down at me, his eyes burning into the top of my head.
Please believe me, I implore silently. Please.
“I told the maid service I didn’t want anyone in here,” he finally says, and I feel my lungs exhale.
“I’m so sorry,” I offer, scooting past him to get through the door. “Is my first day, sir. I will not make same mistake twice.”
He lets me pass but his eyes follow vigilantly as I hurry down the hallway toward the salon. I make a show of fluffing the couch cushions in the salon until I see him disappear behind his office door.
52 Reasons to Hate My Father Page 23
