Her Man Friday Read online

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  HER MAN FRIDAY

  By

  Elizabeth Bevarly

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  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Epilogue

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  Other Avon Contemporary Romances by

  Elizabeth Bevarly

  My Man Pendleton

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  AVON BOOKS, INC.

  Avenue of the Americas

  New York, New York 10019

  Copyright © 1999 by Elizabeth Bevarly

  Inside cover author photo by Chuck King

  Published by arrangement with the author

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-94816

  ISBN: 0-380-80020-9

  wwwjvonbooks.com/romance

  First Avon Books Printing: June 1999

  AVON TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES, MARCA REGISTRADA. HECHO EN U.S.A.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

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  This book is dedicated very fondly to

  Cass Johnson, Michael Gregory,

  Mark Johnson, and Michael Williams,

  four of the smartest, cutest guys

  to come down the pike.

  Thanks for all the hours of

  literate (and literary) conversation,

  not to mention all those pitchers of Dark Stroh's.

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I have a few quick thanks to extend on this one. Thanks first to my editor, Lucia Macro, for her limitless patience and understanding, not to mention superior editing skills. Thanks next to all the writers on the Avon Ladies and Desirables e-mail loops for providing me with my daily doses of friendship and reality. You guys have no idea how important you've become to me.

  Many, many thanks to Laurie Jones for doing that promotional thing you do (and to your lovely husband Bailey for getting me to the airport on time).

  Special and profuse thanks go to my two—count 'em two—personal Mother Teresas. Thank you to Teresa Medeiros and Teresa Hill for helping me hold on to my sanity and good humor during a year when those grew increasingly difficult to hold on to. I simply do not know how I would live without friends like you.

  Musical inspiration for this book came from the incomparable Brian Setzer Orchestra and their CD entitled The Dirty Boogie. I will never, ever, tire of hearing "Jump, Jive and Wail" in the morning. It makes coffee pretty much redundant.

  And my apologies to Seiller & Hand maker, LLP, who, thanks to my lousy penmanship, were misidentified in the acknowledgments for my last book. I hope I got it right this time.

  And as always, thanks to my husband David and my son Eli for putting up with all the deadline dementia, the quickie meals, and the distracted staring off into space. I owe you guys big. Someday, I promise, I will give you the gift of time. Until then, know that I love you more than anything. Thanks, guys.

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  Chapter One

  Oh, man. A bunch of wrinkled old white guys wearing two-thousand-dollar suits. So it was going to be one of those jobs again, was it?

  As he tunneled fingers through his medium brown hair, Leo Friday shifted his weight from one foot to the other, arced his gaze around the U-shaped table that surrounded him, and eyed each of his new employers one by one. But even the fact that he was standing and they were sitting did nothing to relieve his tension. First in line was Versace Man, dressed to the nines in a black pinstripe number that put Leo's faded blue jeans, white T-shirt, and black blazer to shame. Beside Versace Man was Cohiba Man, puffing with much relish on the stump of a fat cigar. Beyond him was—oh, swell—Grecian Formula Man. Did old guys really think they were kidding anybody when they used that stuff? And after that came… ew, Halston for Men Man, way too close for comfort. Leo did his best to breathe shallowly.

  One by one, he took in the dozen or so members of the board of directors of Kimball Technologies, Inc., the pride and joy of Philadelphia's business community. And he thanked God—not for the first time—that he was self-employed and didn't have to answer to guys like these. Because guys like these definitely lived and played by a different set of rules than Leo did, rules that were doubtless engraved in twenty-four-carat gold somewhere.

  Okay, he amended reluctantly, when he recalled that these guys were his newest clients, so he was technically self-employed. Unfortunately, being self-employed meant he was also up for hire. Which meant he was pretty much answering to Kimball's board of directors. For now, anyway.

  They'd dispensed with the initial formalities, and he'd declined the obligatory cup of coffee. Might as well get on with it. "All right," Leo said halfheartedly. "Give me the particulars."

  "Someone is stealing money—a considerable amount of money—from Schuyler Kimball," Versace Man said.

  Leo had to admit that as particulars went, that one was pretty substantial. "Can you be more specific?" he asked.

  Versace Man shook his head. "No. That's the problem. We don't know how the money is disappearing, or from what branch of the business, or who might be doing the stealing. We only know that there should be quite a bit more money than there is. And we want you to find out where it is, and who's responsible for its disappearance."

  A man halfway around the table met Leo's gaze with what the old guy probably thought was a steely glare. Unfortunately, his expression only succeeded in making the man look nearsighted. "And then," he intoned with a voice reminiscent of God's, "we want to you hang the bastard out to dry by his nuts." Hoo-kay, Leo thought. So Charlton Heston Man had checked in, had he? Aloud, he said, "That's not much to go on. I mean, Kimball Technologies is a multinational, multi-billion-dollar corporation, with holdings in dozens of areas of industry. Couldn't you be a little more specific?"

  Versace Man plucked at his perfectly knotted necktie, an accessory that had probably set him back more than Leo's poker losings for a whole year. "No. That's the problem. Whoever is doing the stealing is damned good at it. We can't locate the origin of the theft at all."

  Grecian Formula Man nodded his agreement. "We only know that the annual report for Kimball Technologies just came out, and although there was a nineteen percent rise in gross earnings, total profits fall short of what they should be. It's a pattern that's been plaguing the company for a few years now—a rise in gross earnings, yet a drop in total profits. This year, however, the discrepancy is a bit too big to ignore. It's causing us some concern."

  "How much is 'a bit'?" Leo asked.

  The men all exchanged wary glances, as if they weren't sure how much to reveal to the very man who was supposed to uncover
the alleged theft. Ultimately, they all turned their attention to Cohiba Man, who puffed once on his cigar, then cleared his throat indelicately before meeting Leo's gaze.

  "More than fifty million dollars," he said.

  Fifty million dollars? Leo gasped inwardly. These guys were missing fifty million dollars, but they couldn't even say from where? Just how much money was Kimball Technologies bringing in annually?

  Okay, granted, Schuyler Kimball, Philadelphia's most notorious native son, was one of the world's leading billionaires. Even without doing his research on the company—and the man—before taking on his current clients, Leo knew that much about Kimball. As did nearly everyone else on the planet. And it wasn't like Leo had never been exposed to extremely large sums of money in his time. Recouping massive corporate losses was part of what he did for a living. But this…

  This was a hell of a lot of money they were talking about. And the fact that it was only a small percentage of Kimball's annual take just made it that much more astonishing.

  Leo swallowed hard, pretending he wasn't completely awestruck, and said, "More than fifty million bucks, huh? Gee, that really sucks."

  Another member of the board narrowed his eyes and glared at Leo. "Yes, Mr. Friday, it does indeed… suck," he agreed. "It's unfortunate. Inconvenient. One might even say ruinous. But that's why we wish to utilize your preeminent faculties and aptitudes. We comprehend that you are unequaled in the business when it comes to unearthing white-collar crime and harvesting the illicit fruits of that felonious labor."

  Oh. Wonderful. Thesaurus Man, Leo decided. He shrugged off the compliment—once he understood that it was, in fact, a compliment. Hey, he was the best in the business when it came to ferreting out embezzlers, appropriators, abstracters, and outright corporate thieves. With degrees in accounting and finance, and a government background with both the government's General Accounting Office and the FBI, he'd left public service five years ago to start his own investigative agency—one that specialized in white-collar crime, particularly theft.

  And boy, had he seen a boom in business, right out of the gate. Today's executives seemed to think their six-figure incomes and full medical coverage and luxury company cars and golden parachutes didn't begin to cover their needs. It never ceased to amaze Leo how greedy people could be. People who had it all still wanted more. And more. And more.

  "I'm going to require total and unhampered access to the Kimball Technologies files," he said flat out. That was always the hardest thing the corporate big shots had to get used to—surrendering all their dirty little business secrets. But if these guys didn't give him unlimited access, they'd have to find another man for the job.

  Cohiba man puffed once. "You'll have it, Mr. Friday," he said.

  Leo arched his brows in surprise. Okay, so maybe Kimball's board of directors wasn't going to be so hard to deal with after all. "And I'll need for all of you to be available to me for questioning."

  "Done," Cohiba man agreed without even consulting his colleagues. The other men nodded.

  Well, hell, Leo thought. They were taking all the fun out of it. "And I'll require full and unhampered access to Schuyler Kimball, as well," he added.

  Cohiba Man shook his head resolutely. "Absolutely not."

  Scratch those earlier observations. "Excuse me?" Leo said.

  "I said you won't have access to Schuyler Kimball," Cohiba Man repeated. "You're not to bring him into this. He's a very busy man."

  Leo eyed the other man warily. "Let me get this straight. I'm trying to find fifty million dollars that someone has stolen from Kimball, but I can't have access to the man because he's too busy to see me?"

  "That's correct."

  "Excuse me for seeming a bit, oh… shall we say … miffed about such a development, but I'm gonna kinda need to talk to the guy."

  Cohiba Man puffed some more. "No, you won't."

  "Why not?"

  "Far be it from me to miff you, Mr. Friday, but you won't need to speak to Mr. Kimball because Mr. Kimball doesn't know the money is missing, and he's not to know of your investigation. That's why."

  Leo squinted as the billows of smoke grew trucker around the other man. "Isn't he the one who's hiring me?" he asked.

  "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.