“Are you on crack?” I say, craning my neck to see the top. “I’ll never make it.”
“Just try,” he says.
I shrug and turn to face the wall. At least I won’t get smacked as hard before falling down.
I bend my knees, coiling my muscles for the jump, and then push against the floor as hard as I can while reaching up as far as possible with my right hand. I’m still three or four feet shy of the top, as I knew I would be. But as I start my descent, I feel hands under my feet, pushing me up again.
I flinch in surprise and fall forward into the wall. But when I look down and see Joseph and two of the other interns—Blondie (Hayes?) and Gallagher—pushing me up, I force my knees to straighten and arms to reach up again. Three feet, two, one, and then I grab the top of the wall and pull with all my strength. I take a chance and swing my left foot over the top. I barely clear the wall with my foot, but once I do, I manage to pull myself up and over the edge to a platform a couple of feet lower than the top with a ladder going down to the floor.
I sit for a second to catch my breath, as well as the point Joseph was trying to make. The wall is supposed to be impossible to manage alone. Jerk. He’s trying to draw me in as much as I’m trying to draw him out.
I pop my head over the top to glare down at my audience. “Hey, why didn’t you tell me this side has a ladder?”
After that, our intern team hooks up to a team of initiates. Let me just say this, the trust fall freaking sucks. Or maybe I suck at it. But the rest of the obstacles are actually fun. The initiates are all surprisingly well adjusted for adults pretending that the green mat under the spider’s web is full of alligators. We end up laughing a lot and bonding over tasks set seemingly at random by Joseph and the other facilitator, who appear content to torture us in new and inventive ways.
Unfortunately, concentrating so much on the rules of the game has knocked my own internal walls down almost completely. It isn’t till we’re almost through the last obstacle that I remember I’m on a job. If this were a war, I’d have lost today’s battle for sure. But I can’t help feeling a measure of relief. Today was fun. Even Ackley dialed down his obnoxious tendency to micromanage as we made it through each challenge. And just for a moment, I felt a little less alone.
“All right, interns,” Joseph says after our debrief of the last activity. “Time to meet the head honcho.”
Or maybe today’s battle isn’t over yet. Crap. Better put my game face back on.
We all troop up to the elevator, me tucking in my blouse and straightening my hair. I really should have read that packet they posted for the interns on the site more carefully. I missed that whole “come dressed for activity” memo.
The elevator takes us up to the executive floor. Stepping onto the plush carpet is a strange sensation after spending the day bouncing around on spongy foam flooring. But at least I’m dressed the part for meeting a CEO.
Joseph opens one of a set of frosted-glass double doors and enters the room behind it. Ackley and the others follow. I take a breath and head in last.
The office is huge, with bookshelves lining one wall and windows along another. There’s even a fireplace and a seating area with two overstuffed leather couches facing each other across a frosted-glass coffee table that matches the doors.
The high-backed chair behind the sprawling mahogany desk on the other side of the room swivels away from the floor-to-ceiling bank of windows to face us, revealing the man behind the curtain, so to speak.
He’s tall. I can tell even though he’s sitting, which means he’s at least as tall as Senator Richland, if not taller. His hair is sandy and styled in a classic executive cut. He’s not muscled like Joseph, but he must work out to maintain his trim frame. He’s in his late forties, but he looks younger. His eyes are an arresting blue, which probably helps him hold people’s attention. The grifter part of me wonders if he’s wearing colored contacts.
“Welcome to NWI,” he says, rising to his feet. He reaches his hand out for each of us to shake. “I’m delighted that each of you, leaders in your own right, have chosen the New World Initiative as your summer internship experience. I have no doubt we will learn a lot from each other. I encourage you all to explore every facet of our leadership program over the next few weeks. However, there is one rule that must be followed. The confidential information of our participants must remain confidential. Beyond that, help yourself to all the information we can offer. We want you to be invested in the program, and you can only become so if you thoroughly understand it.”
“Yes, sir,” says Ackley.
Aadila, the girl in the hijab, surreptitiously rolls her eyes. I make a mental note of it. She might prove useful.
“Joseph started as an intern himself a few years ago. He knows this place inside and out,” Duke Salinger continues. “If you have any questions, any concerns, any suggestions, he’s your first stop. He can point you in the right direction. If for some reason you manage to stump him, come to me. My door is always open.”
That seems to be the agreed-upon signal for the end of his speech, as Joseph gathers us up like ducklings and ushers us to the door. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or bummed. The meeting went well enough, but I didn’t glean any actual intel from the exchange. I may have to devise some other way to get a one-on-one with NWI’s founder.
“Ms. Dupree, if you wouldn’t mind staying behind a moment.”
Or maybe I’ll get a one-on-one now.
“Sure,” I say, turning on my heel and reapproaching Salinger’s desk. He nods at Joseph and Joseph nods back, shutting the door behind him.
“Julep Dupree,” he says, coming around the side of his desk and gesturing me to the leather sofas. “Interesting name.”
I sit on one sofa, and he sits opposite me.
“Do you know what the purpose of our organization is?”
I pause, searching for the right response. I have to be careful. He’s a grifter, so he’ll see right through the wrong answer. “To give people the skills to make their professional lives better.”
“Professional and personal, actually. The two often go hand in hand. But that’s just the window dressing. What is our real purpose?”
I blink, confused. Is he admitting to me that there’s a hidden agenda for NWI? Should I be recording this conversation? Damn it. Where is Murphy when I need him?
“To help people grow?” I offer lamely.
He shakes his head. “It’s to help people connect. Too much of our lives is spent in mental and emotional silos. It’s what makes us most vulnerable. If we connect with each other, really connect, nothing external can break those bonds. We’re far stronger together than we are apart.”
“I’m not sure I follow. Why are you telling me this?” Sadly, that admission is simply the truth. I’m not playing him. I honestly have no idea where he’s going with this or why he singled me out.
“Building those connections takes time and trust. I need to preserve that trust by maintaining a safe space for the initiates and the other employees. I hope that you’ll respect that safe space during the course of your investigation.”
Wait. What did he just say?
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand what you mean by ‘investigation.’ ”
“I assume that’s why you’re here,” he says, his expression mild. “You look shocked. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize a fellow grifter?” He winks at me. “You’re not as anonymous as you like to think, in certain circles, at least. But don’t worry, I’ll keep this just between us. I want you to continue your search. I have nothing to hide, not anymore. I am exactly who I say I am.”
I gape at him.
“Would you like to shake again?” he says, smiling and taking my hand. “It’s good to meet the daughter of Alessandra Moretti.”
“How could he possibly know who you are?” Murphy asks as he drives me to NWI the next morning.
“I have no freaking idea. I mean, my dad told me he was a grifte
r. Maybe he heard about my dad somehow.”
“But he didn’t say, ‘Good to meet the daughter of Joe Dupree.’ ”
“I know. That’s what’s so weird. My mom wasn’t the grifter. She had no ties to the criminal world.” I say it, but I don’t believe it. A gun inscribed with her initials is a pretty good indication that I don’t know everything there is to know about my mom. Not to mention all the stuff my dad said about her family. Who are they? And what does any of it have to do with NWI?
“What are you going to do?”
“Now that my clueless-intern cover is blown, my options are limited. I need help. Inside help.”
“Who? The intern coordinator guy?”
I shake my head. “Too obvious. Salinger would have planned for that.”
“The other interns?”
I lean my head against the headrest. “Maybe. But they’re all so intern-y.”
“Meaning…?”
“They’re invested in the outcome, but not my side of it. It’s in their best interest that NWI stay up and running. They’re not going to be in a rush to expose and bring down their ticket to the Ivy League.”
“Could be one of them was forced by their parents.”
“That’s why I said ‘maybe.’ But it’ll take time to determine that.”
My grifter senses are tingling. I’m itching from the inside out, and it’s driving me nuts.
As we pull up to the curb, I consider my first line of attack.
“So. Crime?” Murphy says, reading my mind.
“Crime.” I shoot him a quick and dirty smile before hopping out of the van and into the gutter. He doesn’t wait for me to get inside and I don’t watch him drive away. For a sidekick, he shows an admirable lack of codependence sometimes.
“Hi, Brigitte,” I say, approaching the reception desk.
Without looking up from her computer she points down a row of cubicles. I veer in that direction, scanning the rows for wandering interns. It takes me all of three minutes to find them.
“You’re late, Dupree,” Ackley says when I slide into the only seat left within the fabric-paneled walls of the intern pen. “Joseph already gave us our assignments.”
I don’t bother to respond. Instead I pick up the assignment lying on my keyboard. Photocopying. Awesome.
The other interns are either chatting with each other or starting their assignments. I take a lap around our tiny pen, glancing over shoulders to see if there’s a better project I can trade for. There has to be something that will give me a legitimate reason to spend some unaccompanied quality time in the file room. Let’s see. Shredding, no. Spreadsheets, no. Ah. Filing. Perfect.
“Hey, Aadila,” I say, smoothly, eying her sizable pile of manila folders. “Quite the stack you’ve got there.”
She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Yes. It’s why they don’t pay me the big bucks.”
“Any chance you’d be willing to trade?”
“For what?”
“Photocopying and a Lunchable.”
She snorts. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“Photocopying and my undying devotion?”
“Please. Do I look like I just fell off the rainbows-and-cat-GIFs truck?”
“Photocopying, the Lunchable, my undying devotion, and fifty bucks?”
She hands me the first of several stacks of folders. “Better not be that pizza-with-pepperoni crap. I’m a turkey and cheddar girl.”
I’m starting to like this intern. She kind of reminds me of me. Well, before I got soft, anyway. I hand her the presentation packets I was supposed to photocopy, the Lunchable, and the fifty bucks I’d gotten from the ATM this morning in case I needed to bribe somebody. She counts it in front of me, which just makes me like her more.
“Nice doing business with you,” she says, then swivels back to her computer to check her email.
I heft the stack of folders and make my way deeper into the bowels of the building. After a few wrong turns, I end up at a heavy, solid door with several industrial-strength padlocks. Out of professional curiosity, I set down the folders and palm the nearest lock. A Brinks shrouded shackle padlock. Tough to pick. Very tight cylinder. You have to rotate it backward to get past the security pins. I’ve managed it only once, and that was at home under ideal conditions. The other locks are of similar caliber. Which makes me wonder what the hell is behind this door. Must be something worth seeing. I make a mental note of its location for future perusal.
After asking for directions, I finally track down the file room, tucked away on the third floor. There’s a file room attendant, a Filipina version of Brigitte with dark blue hair instead of bright red lipstick. This pretty much wrecks my snooping plans. I spend the next two hours filing Aadila’s folders and asking every stupid question imaginable to frighten off blue-haired Brigitte, whose name turns out to be, ironically, Scarlet.
I’m filing attendance records and accounting data. But without the personal records of the initiates, the info I have access to is meaningless. I need names to go with dates and numbers. Salinger says that the initiates’ profiles are confidential, which means if there’s anything to find, it’s probably in those files. Unfortunately, those files are locked in a file cabinet in direct line of sight from the attendant’s desk.
There’s no point in wasting my time checking into what Salinger says is fair game. Unless he knew I’d go for the forbidden stuff and therefore hid the smoking gun in plain sight. Unless he figured I’d figure that he’d figure I’d go for the forbidden stuff and hide the smoking gun in plain sight, so instead he put it in with the forbidden stuff. Ugh. Grifters. I may have to straight up ask him—pit my people-reading skills against his. I can’t tell you how much I do not want to do that. Which circles me right back around to the file room and that pesky attendant.
When Scarlet pulls out her lunch bag to eat at her desk, I finally give up and go for plan B. I unlock my phone, dial the main NWI number, and ask to be transferred. Scarlet gives me a dirty look for talking on my phone, so I move into the hall where she won’t hear me.
When the person at the other end picks up, I say, “Hi, it’s Julep. How would you like to make another fifty bucks?”
Five minutes later, Aadila hobbles into the file room with a giant stack of folders that she can barely see over. A foot or so from the attendant’s desk, she fakes a trip and spills the folders all over the floor, the desk, and the attendant. Scarlet scrambles to save the papers from her lunch, or her lunch from the papers, or both. Aadila floods Scarlet with apologies, straightening her hijab as she picks herself up from the floor. She’s either a consummate stage performer or she really wants the money.
Attendant distracted: check. Locked file cabinets picked: check. I try to move as little and as quietly as possible to avoid attracting Scarlet’s attention. I have minutes at most to work with, so I’ll have to snap pictures of the names on the folder tabs and look them up later. Lucky for me, the folders are labeled with first, middle, and last names, as well as a thumbnail-sized picture of the initiate.
I’m working from the bottom of the file cabinet up to avoid being noticed as long as possible. I’ll probably make it only about halfway or so before they’re done refiling all the mixed-up paperwork, or Scarlet notices me, whichever comes first.
I’ve gotten entirely through the Rs when I hear renewed cursing from Scarlet and even more effusive apologies on Aadila’s part. Something about a drink spill. Excellent. I may have to permanently recruit Aadila.
I’m just about to the Js, feeling the rush of getting so much classified information in one fell swoop, when I see a name that kicks the breath out of my lungs.
SAMUEL L. JACKSON
It’s the alias I gave Sam when I made his fake ID last year. I look at the thumbnail picture, and it’s Sam, all right. That idiot. What the hell is he doing? I filch his folder and slip it in my stack of random files. I slide the drawer shut and relock it. Then I gesture at Aadila to wrap it up a
s I walk out.
Time to torture my meddling ex–best friend.
• • •
I don’t manage to sneak away from the intern pen again until after three. Joseph rounded us up after lunch for some weird “relaxation exercise” that only fueled my rage fire. Aadila fell asleep during the exercise, cushioned, no doubt, on the mattress of cash I’d had to cough up for her help this morning. Ackley was relaxing so hard that he probably gave himself a headache. The others followed the assignment correctly enough, though, that Joseph seemed satisfied.
The moment Joseph leaves our cubicle area, I slide Sam’s file out from the middle of the stack and go through it. His application reads like a grifter’s dream—executive vice president of a securities company with money to burn and connections that lead all the way to Capitol Hill. No matter what Salinger is looking for—money, secrets, blackmail fodder—Sam has built himself up to be able to deliver it. If Salinger is shady, he won’t be able to resist trying to fleece Sam.
But how could Sam have even known about the NWI job? I sure as hell didn’t tell him.
I’m torn between furious and impressed. This took planning. Not to mention, he has to pull off executive vice president. His height and confidence help, but he’s still only seventeen. Even in an age full of Google and Facebook, it’s hard to sell such power so young. And he’s not selling it to just anyone. If Salinger takes one look at him, he’ll see right through him.
I flip through a few more pages to get Sam’s leadership workshop schedule. Five minutes later, I knock on a fifth-floor conference room door.
“Come in,” says a lilting voice with a slight Indian accent.
I poke my head into the room. “Sorry to disturb you, Dr. Raktabija, but may I speak with Mr. Jackson for a minute? I need a little more information for his file.”
“Of course,” she says, nodding at an almost unrecognizable Sam. Tailored, pin-striped suit pants with a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to midforearm. Glasses, dominating posture, the whole enchilada. He’s a different person, even from the new Sam who came back from military school.
Trust Me, I'm Trouble Page 10
