Chapter 14
Monday morning, Greene household
I t was Monday morning and Gabby’s first day on the job as an undercover spy after three days of training. The EOD made it sound like the easiest thing since sliced bread. It was like the opposite of the Army’s “Be all you can be!” tagline. The EOD was like, “Be a spy, anyone can do it!”
Make coffee, eavesdrop, enjoy her new red hair—that’s all she had to do. Still, Gabby was about to crawl out of her skin from nerves. It was bad enough starting a new job, but a job where the last woman was killed was on another level entirely. She’d watched a special about how they keep the cows calm and happy on their way into the chute to be slaughtered. With every “you got this, girl” or compliment for her pretty red hair, she couldn’t help feeling that everyone was petting her on her way down the cattle chute.
Gabby shoved a water bottle in Lucas’s backpack and handed Kyle an overdue library book. “Don’t forget to turn this in today, and remember, Sienna’s mom is picking you up. I won’t be home until dinner so Dad is going to—” She stopped short of saying “babysit.” That was not the word to use when a parent watched their own child, but that’s how it felt.
“Mom, you told me like twenty times.” Kyle made a face like she just bit into something bad as she grabbed a juice glass from the cabinet, ignoring the one she’d used for milk two minutes ago.
How many glasses could one person use? It wasn’t the time, but seriously, this was getting to be a problem. If Gabby was going to be a spy, Kyle had to start reusing a water glass here and there.
“It’s fine, Mom. Seriously, no big deal.” Nothing like an ungrateful teenager to make you feel worthwhile.
“Okay. Just making sure,” Gabby said. Asking Phil for help rankled. Why couldn’t she just smugly walk past him, successful and radiant, a paragon of virtue and sexiness?
Like Gabby was a fifteen-year-old skateboarder, Kyle said, “Chill, dude.”
Dude—the word bounced off Gabby’s forehead like a Nerf bullet. “I’m not a dude, Kyle. I am your mother.”
“Just go to work, Mom. It’s fine. We’ll see you tonight.” Kyle drank half her glass of juice, setting it on the counter nowhere near the sink. She slung her backpack over her shoulder and called for Lucas.
Elsa was going to be her guiding light. Let it go, Let it go… and she forgot the rest of the lyrics. At one point, Kyle had watched that movie on the daily and had worn an ice blue gown with a cape everywhere. Gabby hadn’t thought she’d be able to forget that song if she tried. Now she could barely imagine Kyle that small.
The kids, that’s all she’d had for fourteen years. Elsa gowns, snacks, playdates—that was literally the fabric of her life. Everyone was so chill about her going back to work, acting like all she did was trivial stuff that anyone with two thumbs and an IQ of seventy could accomplish. She wanted to hang on to her babies and the duties that defined her, even if she hated half of them.
But Gabby had a fake nose to glue on, so there was no time to be moody about a life transition, even if it was major. Before the bus was out of sight, she ran to the bathroom and pulled out the pouch with the fake nose and silicone glue. The makeup person had told her it was easy. Just clean your face with some astringent. Clean the prosthetic, apply a thin layer of glue, hit it with the hair dryer, and voilà! She’d done it three times at the office, no problem.
Her hands shaking, Gabby wiped her nose with a cotton ball and smeared on the glue. A little extra adhesion couldn’t hurt. Just like the time she’d wallpapered the laundry room on her own, and damn if that didn’t look fresh and cheerful. She stuck the nose on and hit it with the blow dryer. If only she put this much effort into her hair regularly, she would be a different woman.
Camille Walker’s gray sedan waited for her in the garage just as Markus had promised. In a blazer, driving a clean car—no wrappers or broken toys on the floor, no stick figure family on the back window—she was an undercover agent for the EOD. She was Darcy Dagger pretending to be Camille Walker. Really, it was a lot to remember.
She searched Spotify for a pump-up spy music playlist. The 007 theme song blasted through the speakers as she headed toward eStocks. It was a little much, but once she hit the freeway, there was no going back. Messing with her Spotify choices while driving in LA traffic was not a risk she was willing to take. A half hour later, she pulled into the eStocks parking lot and grabbed a ticket from the parking meter, the London Symphony Orchestra blasting “Goldfinger” at volumes that seemed normal at eighty miles per hour.
She tucked her earpiece in.
Before she realized he was there, Markus started laughing. “What is that you’re listening to?”
“Uh… I was trying to get pumped up?”
“Slow your roll, Jane Bond,” he said, voice dry as a generic-brand Keebler cracker, because why pay for brand-name?
At least he couldn’t see her blushing, because her cheeks were flaming.
“You don’t need pumping up, Agent Greene. You got this. All you need to do is walk in, make coffee, take notes, answer the phone. You could do that in your sleep.”
Could she, though? She itched around the edge of her nose. “Is this fake nose supposed to be itchy?”
“Just relax. You’re gonna be fine.”
He was probably right. It was all in her head, nervous fixation. Like when she was in a plane and spent the entire time imagining crashing to the ground in a fiery blaze and double-checking where the life vests were located, as if they would help. Today that was her nose. The plane never crashed, and her nose was fine. As she walked through the parking lot, she murmured, “You can do this, Gabby!”
Markus cleared his throat on the other end.
“I was going to remind you not to talk to me in front of people, but I guess, don’t talk to yourself either.”
“Gotcha.” She’d spent the last couple of years narrating her day to Mr. Bubbles like he was listening. At the moment, she would give anything to be safe at home with her dog, nothing to worry about but some dirty dishes and kid pickups.
eStocks was the kind of place that Gabby would drive by and never think twice about. Glass doors with a tasteful sign announcing its very boring name. Inside, a receptionist sat behind a sleek desk. A small lobby had black leather chairs and artwork that looked like it came from a bin labeled “artwork.”
It was the kind of place that would activate Justin’s claustrophobia. Last year, they’d had drinks at Shelly’s house, and he had started breathing too shallow and sweating. “Justin, are you okay?” she had asked.
“No.” He had fanned his face.
She had been ready to call 911, sure he was having a heart attack.
“I just need some air.”
Turns out, he had felt “trapped by the décor.” Like his spirit was literally being crushed. She understood that it wasn’t just the bad art. It was the implied expectation that he fit himself into the box with it.
Justin couldn’t be undercover at eStocks. He wasn’t hardy enough. Gabby could handle bad wall art and a badly behaved finance bro. Hell, she’d been married to one.
She squared her shoulders, while casually walking past the receptionist desk. Carmen Delgado, twenty-five, one kid, loved clubbing. “Hi, Carmen.”
“Camille, you’re back!”
She smiled involuntarily. Her disguise had worked.
“That is Carmen Delgado,” Markus whispered into her ear. “It was her birthday last weekend.”
Gabby already knew. “How does it feel to be twenty-five?” Gabby ribbed.
“Ugh!” Carmen groaned and pointed to a half-empty gallon of Gatorade. With a pouty face, she announced, “I’m too old to drink now.”
Gabby laughed and said, “I think you have a few years of carousing left in you.” It was so funny when people who had just become adults complained about aging. Her granny could drink Carmen under the table any day.
“Your desk is down the hall and to the left. Bathrooms are on the other side of the lobby.” The bathrooms were marked, but it was cute how Markus wasn’t leaving any detail to chance. He couldn’t have her breaking her cover by wandering into a coat closet like it was the conference room.
The offices were floor-to-ceiling glass. The design aesthetic screamed, “Look at our hands. We’re not stealing anything.” Gabby knew better.
James, the tech guy, spied her. “You’re back. Feeling better?”
“Yep. Thanks for asking.”
“That is James, tech support, likes to go—”
Before Markus finished his directions, Gabby said, “How was the golfing this weekend? Did your wife let you get out on the course?”
He laughed. “You know how it goes. I managed a couple holes.”
“Great work, Gabby,” Markus said. “You’re killing it.”
Martial arts might not be her strong suit, but Gabby understood people. She knew everyone and their dirty secrets, all freely given. It wasn’t like she’d asked for it, but she had the kind of face that people just opened up to. She was harmless.
Camille Walker’s desk was perfectly clean and organized except for a dancing hula girl, the kind you put on your dashboard. She was affixed DIY-style to a piece of cardboard that read BEST DRESSED! Gabby set her in motion.
Markus must have been watching through her brooch camera. Emotionless, he said, “She won that the day she died.”
Gabby fixated on the cheery plastic statue, its hips swiveling. Nine days ago, Darcy had been “best dressed” employee at eStocks. Now… Gabby shut her eyes and tried to rein in her anxiety. Robotically, she put her purse in a file drawer and smoothed her hands over the surface. Computer, stapler, pens—it looked mundane, a normal office with normal things, but her nose itched and Markus was in her ear and Darcy’s prize from the day she died stared back at her, its plastic gaze fixed and dilated, its dancing slowly coming to a stop.
Darcy had died on this job a little more than a week ago. Gabby had been so busy worrying about everything else that she almost forgot her life was in danger.
Before she could completely freak out, which is where she was headed, a woman clomped over in a pair of clogs that were as noisy as they were good for her posture. It was Fran, a woman who looked like her name. Alongside Fran’s biographical data in the files (thirty-five, degree in finance from Sacramento State, one child), there were margin notes, presumably made by Darcy: “Dwight Schrute. Why does she want to hang out?”
“Hi, Fran,” Gabby said.
Fran was the human version of the boxed-in décor that made Justin claustrophobic—aggressively out of style in pleated khaki pants and a shirt buttoned all the way up.
Fran flashed a smile that didn’t go all the way to her eyes, and Gabby’s spidey sense prickled. “Did you have a nice break?” Fran asked, passive aggression at ten out of ten. “I’m glad you’re back. I’ve been doing your job and mine while you were gone.”
Every office needed a Dwight Schrute.
“Well, I appreciate it. I wasn’t feeling well at all.”
As they were talking, George Kramer burst into the hallway with all sorts of “I’m busy and important” energy. If Gabby didn’t already know he was money laundering for the Russian Mafia, she would have considered him a silver fox with his angular features and graying hair. He was the guy you’d swipe right on and regret it ten years later when the FBI raided your home on the golf course.
Without really looking at Gabby, he said, “I’m going to be on calls all afternoon. Keep the coffee coming.”
Fran scrutinized her. “You remember how he likes his coffee?”
“Fran, I haven’t been gone that long,” Gabby said in a sassy tone. She hurried to the office kitchen. In her ear, Markus explained, “Cream and one raw sugar.”
Casually, she opened up a cabinet. Stacks of plain, white dishes stared back at her. Someone cleared their throat behind her.
“Hey, Fran.” Gabby smiled. “I didn’t see you.”
Fran opened the correct cabinet and handed Gabby a mug. “Is this what you were looking for?”
Gabby realized she was holding her breath. That was probably a natural reaction to Fran. The woman was insufferable.
“Thanks, Fran. I appreciate the help,” she said. The thank-you was meant to be a polite signal that the conversation was over. Fran didn’t take the hint.
“You know, there is something different about you.” Fran stood, blocking the door while Gabby waited to pass.
Gabby smiled. “I had my hair done this week.”
Fran frowned. “Nope. That’s not it.”
Gabby fought the impulse to curl up and hide like a small forest creature and straightened her posture. With a laugh, she said, “Maybe you’ve never seen me rested.”
Disarmed, Fran laughed as she let her pass. “I’ve never seen myself rested.”
Markus whistled. “Daaamn, girl. You handled that like a pro.”
Fran had been unpleasant, but Gabby wasn’t born yesterday. Any given day, parent pickup could be one hundred times worse. “Kyle—that’s an interesting name for a girl…” “That’s so brave of you to let your kids ride horses. I could never risk their safety like that.” “Being a stay-at-home mom must be so relaxing! Do you go to the spa all the time?”
If she could handle that gauntlet, she could handle anything. She flipped her red hair and walked to George Kramer’s office like she meant business.
Kramer was sitting at his desk scowling at a bank of screens. Even though she could see him through his glass office walls, she knocked.
At his nod, she pushed the door open just enough for her to squeeze through with a hip while her hands were full. Like when kids trip over their newly grown feet, Gabby didn’t quite know the dimensions of her new nose, and it brushed the door. To her horror, the prosthetic nose fell off her face and straight into the bottom of Kramer’s boiling hot coffee.
The makeup person’s advice on the glue echoed in her ears—“less is more.” Why was that always such a hard lesson to learn?
While she stood, paralyzed with fear, Kramer barked out rapid-fire commands. “If you don’t stick it out, you’re gonna lose big-time. Don’t be an idiot.” Without even looking up, he reached for his coffee and flicked his fingers at her.
Her reflexes weren’t fast enough, and he grabbed the mug. Without looking, he took a swig.
“Mr.… Mr. Kramer,” Gabby stuttered. After a couple of fast, shallow breaths, she said, a little louder, “I think that coffee needs another stir.”
He completely ignored her and continued talking animatedly about money, gesturing with his hands while still holding the cup. “The stock price is at an all-time high. You’d be a fucking idiot to sell now. Id-ee-ot!” He emphasized each syllable with his hand, and coffee sloshed up to the rim.
Thank god she’d used the deepest cup in the kitchen. Still. She had about one minute to get the cup back before he sucked the liquid down to nose level. Then it was game over.
She’d never been in a sport, but this must be like the very end of a football game when the team that was about to win lost the ball. Phil always jumped out of his chair and started screaming. Finally, she felt him. She needed that nose back like the guy in the purple needed the ball back from the guy in green.
Kramer shooed her away. “Go get me one of those donuts, would you?”
She made one last reach for his cup, but he pulled it back. “Donut.”
Outside his door, she ran-walked to the kitchen and slammed the door shut. “Markus, can you hear me?”
“Yes. What’s the status of the nose?”
“It’s in his coffee.”
She could hear the effort it took for him to remain calm. “You have the get the nose back, or the entire operation will be compromised. Your cover will be blown.”
Her heart racing and all of her senses on high alert, she grabbed the entire coffeepot, a handful of sugars, and the requested donut. Her plan: commandeer the cup for a refill. Like her life depended on it, which it might, she speed walked down the hall to Kramer’s office. Without knocking, she pushed through the door, praying that he hadn’t already found the nose.
Inside his office, Kramer was still yelling into the phone, drinking coffee, her fake nose in the bottom like a gross boba pearl. Gabby wouldn’t even let her kids drink out of plastic cups because of the chemicals.
“Baker, you have to learn to pay attention to details. Put your ear to the ground. Stay ahead of the trends. How do you think I’ve made my way? Paying attention.” He swigged more coffee. “Do you watch the news every morning? More than one channel? You can’t trust one source. You have to be smarter than everyone.”
Gabby moused toward him. “Mr. Kramer, let me get you a refill.”
This time he heard her and held out the coffee cup.
She breathed out a sigh of relief. Crisis averted!
Except he had seen her with her normal nose, not that he had said anything.
Apparently, Mr. Paying Attention had missed that detail. If she had to guess, Kramer was one of those guys who put women in two categories: those too pretty to trust with anything besides his dick and those not worthy of notice.
Lucky for her, at least today, Gabby was squarely in camp number two: not worthy of notice. With her back to Kramer and facing away from the prying eyes of people like Fran, she fished the nose out of the coffee cup with a spoon. Her heart sank when she saw that it had melted into a blob. It looked exactly like the Oobleck she’d made with the kids: a mixture of cornstarch, water, and food coloring. Lucas had fallen asleep on a glob, and she’d had to cut it out of his hair.
She palmed the nose, refilled the coffee cup, and added a sugar. She just needed to keep her cool. At least he wouldn’t find a melted prosthetic nose in his coffee.
Defeated, she handed him the cup and he took long sip. “Just how I like it,” he said. “That Jan kept getting it wrong.” He scowled at the name.
“Fran,” Gabby corrected him.
For the first time that day, Gabby felt some solidarity with the woman. Fran might be the worst, but she was playing a losing game sucking up to Kramer. The man couldn’t even be bothered to learn her name.
“Sit down,” he commanded, and Gabby took a seat in one of the chairs across from his desk.
He looked directly at her. His eyes didn’t linger on her face. He didn’t do a double take. Nothing. He took no notice of the nose. Instead, he said, “This week, your top priority should be party planning.”
“Party?”
Kramer looked over across the desk. “One of our most important clients is flying in. Instead of taking him out to dinner, I want a cocktail party with all of our investors on Saturday.” His phone flashed with a notification. His wallpaper was a picture of himself posing with a red sports car.
“You mean next Saturday?” That didn’t even give her two weeks. “That’s hardly any time.”
“It’s not rocket science. Just get all the investors in one room, add liquor, and there you have it.”
If he were throwing a frat party.
“Do you have a venue in mind?” she asked. What kind of party was this supposed to be? How fancy? She had literally zero clue.
He took a giant bite of donut. Talking with his mouth full, he said, “Get Jan or what’s-her-face to help you if you must. I want to impress the shit out of these guys. They need to go home thinking eStocks is the biggest game in town.”
“Could we possibly throw this at the end of the month?”
“You’ve been at home resting for a week. Kick it into gear, Camille.”
“What about the guest list? Do you have a list of major investors you want me to invite? I’ll need to know how many people are coming and who to send invites to.”
“Figure it out. This is what I hired you for. I’m not going to do your job for you.”
She bit the inside of her cheek. Kramer must have sent the email to Darcy while she was busy being dead.
“Please. I want to get right on it.”
With an expelled breath and annoyed look, he hit a few buttons on his keyboard. “I don’t know how you don’t know this, but there’s a list of our high-priority investors. Pick it up from the printer.”
She started to thank him, but he’d already swiveled his chair to face his bank of monitors.
On the way out of his office, she picked up a piece of paper as it slid out of the printer, literally hot off the press. She scanned the still-warm piece of paper. One name jumped out at her.
Sergei Orlov. Bingo.