Work for Hire (25 page)

I was not amused, or impressed. “The office?” I reminded him.

Xander’s grin fell. “People were hooking up, so the bedrooms were, like, really crowded.” At my blank stare Xander tried again. “You know,
hooking
up, like making out and … stuff.”

Oh. Hooking up
. I stared at Gemma.
Just who was hooking up?
Her eyes hit the floor.

“And my friends and me,” Xander continued, “we wanted to jam on the guitar, so I suggested the office. We came down here and played. Other people were coming in and out, to listen.”

“And,” I said, “in all that playing you didn’t notice someone whipping out a can of paint and spraying? How’s that possible?”

Gemma snickered. “He forgot to mention the joints.”

My jaw dropped. Hard.
Joints!

Xander glared at his sister.

“It’s no big deal,” he swore, his voice so earnest any jury would acquit him. “We just smoked one or two, to make the playing easier. You know, to get in tune with the inner groove. But the pot kinda made me lose track of things and people, you know?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. I knew. “And I wonder if ‘
Maman
and Dad’ know, too?”

Xander shut his mouth. Gemma didn’t. She snickered louder.

“And where,” I turned on her, “were you while all this was happening?” I didn’t even bother asking about her alcohol consumption. No point beating a dead horse.

“Upstairs.” Gemma’s cheeks colored. A lot. “I didn’t see anything, I swear. So, like, what do we do now?”

I stared at the two of them. How was I supposed to know? I still wasn’t convinced there really was a problem in the first place. Couldn’t paint just be cleaned off? We needed someone else’s opinion, someone who actually knew what he was talking about.

“I think,” I said, “we better call Julian.”

“O
H MY
G
OD, OH MY
G
OD
, oh my God!” Julian looked ready to cry. “Who … how did this happen?” he wailed.

“Is it really that bad?” I asked.

Julian stared at me as if I were a lunatic freshly escaped from an asylum.

“Yes,” he hissed, teeth clenched.

“Do we have to tell
Maman
?” Gemma ventured from behind me.

Both she and Xander were almost stuck to my back. They had glued themselves there the minute Julian arrived and saw the open closet.

“Yes.” Julian’s jaw ticked. A lot. “We have to tell
Maman
,” he aped Gemma’s words. “Or at least try to. She’s not picking up the phone at that damn spa.”

“Can we just try to clean off the paint?” I suggested.

Julian turned on me as if I had picked up the spray-paint can.

“Try to clean off the paint?” he bellowed. “Are you crazy? You can’t ‘clean off the paint,’ not from a back, not from its sensor. Whoever did this knew exactly what he was doing. If he had scratched a lens or any other part of the cameras, hey, it’s no big deal; the parts can easily be replaced for just a couple of grand. If he had smashed these computers here,” Julian said, indicating their screens, “it’s not too much damage; $5,000 maybe. But not the backs! You damage the sensor, and the whole thing becomes trash. Garbage. Waste. And you know what?” Julian stepped towards us, his body towering in its rage.

All three of us cowered back.

“Each one of these costs more than $30,000. Multiply that by ten. Two were on loan from the manufacturer, for trial purposes. They’re
not even available on the market yet
. Therefore, they don’t have a price. Oh God,” Julian groaned, “over $300K down the toilet—and my professional reputation along with it.” Julian paced the office. “This will get around to every studio, magazine, rental house and manufacturer. Worse, every client.” He slammed his fist into the wall. I cringed. “No one will trust us with new equipment anymore. Hell, I wouldn’t. It’s suicide for any photography business. If manufacturers don’t lend you their newest technology, you lag behind, and you lose clients. Not to add that our insurance premiums,” Julian pointed out, “will go straight through the roof.”

“No,” he said, halting and staring ahead of him, right through us, “this was no prank, no teenager messing around. Whoever did this had the whole thing mapped out. It had to be someone who worked with or for Monique in the past, someone who wanted payback for something. Of course Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum here made his job easy.” Julian shook his head. “Leaving the keys out. God, how stupid can you be? The guy who did this, he knew
exactly
how the Lamonts work, that they’d disappear and leave the kids with something as important as the keys. He’s smart, very smart; that’s who Monique likes to hire,” Julian mumbled before he focused his narrowed eyes on us. “Let me see the tape,” he demanded.

“What tape?” I scowled.

“The security tape,” Xander volunteered.

“You mean,” I circled around to face him, “there’s a security tape and you didn’t mention it before?”

“You didn’t ask.”

When Xander shrugged, I scowled harder.

Julian walked toward what I could’ve sworn was a digital video player and popped out a DVD. I gaped.
Where else
, my head reeled,
did the Lamonts have hidden cameras
? I shuddered, suddenly uncomfortable with the possibilities.

Julian walked back to the desk and inserted the DVD into a computer. We tiptoed behind him. The computer screen flashed on with wide-angle images of the office. There was Xander with his buddies and a guitar. We saw a bunch of obviously tipsy teenagers ambling in and out of the camera shot. And then—a body in a black hoodie, face averted, approaching the camera.

Bingo. The culprit.

And then nothing. Just black.

“Fuck,” Julian cursed. “He spray-painted the camera’s lense.” Julian shut off the screen and plopped in a seat. “Like I said, no amateur. Though,” he smirked up at me, “you’ll be happy to know you can probably scrape the paint off
that
camera.”

Hah, hah.
I smirked back. Had that really been necessary?

“Well,” Julian said as he rubbed his face, “I doubt they’ll have any luck figuring out who it is—what with all these people in and out and no visual—but we’d better call the police anyway.”

“The police!” Gemma, Xander and I cried out in unison.

“Do you think that’s really necessary?” I rushed on.

“I don’t think
Maman
and Daddy will like that,” Gemma added.

I had to agree. The Lamonts didn’t strike me as “get the police involved” sort of people.

“Yeah, well,” Julian glowered at us, “I need a police report to file an insurance claim, and neither Monique nor Stephen is here to say otherwise.” He whipped out his cell phone.

“Wait!” I grabbed his hand. “That
really
might not be a good idea. Xander and Gemma are home alone,” I tried to explain. “They’re fourteen, with no adult supervision. They were drinking, and their parents provided the alcohol. That’s not exactly legal in New York … ”

“Then the cops,” Julian cut me off before I could remind him about the drugs. And that if we called them in now, the officers would surely be obliged to put Xander and Gemma into some kind of legal custody.
And where would that leave us? Fired, certainly, because two kids in jail couldn’t bode well for our continued employment.
“Can deal with that too,” Julian snarled. “‘Cause I’m not taking responsibility for these brats. Unless,” he arched a brow, “
you
want to. Tell me, will the studious and perfect Tekla cover for the Lamonts again?”

I stared at Julian, stunned and hurt by his attack.
Where was this coming from?
I wanted to ask.

Instead, I nodded back at him. One of us had to step in.

He stayed around long enough for the cops to make out their report, but said nothing when their less-then-friendly questioning made
me
sound like the irresponsible, dead-beat parent. Then he abandoned me to deal with the rest of the cleanup alone. The jerk.

And here I thought our date had meant
something
to him too.

Clearly, I was mistaken.

CHAPTER 19

T
HE
L
AW
R
EVIEW
office buzzed with activity—or, at least, as much activity as working on topics like judicial methodology, unilateralism and discrimination by proxy would permit.

Second-year staffers sat hunched over proofs, copyediting and blue-booking one last time, making sure every period, comma and semi-colon was in its proper place and every citation format met the legal standard. Once in a while, a staffer would get up and walk to the reference desk or seek out a third-year editor in a cubicle. Other editors whispered into phones—probably talking to disgruntled authors, professors at prominent law schools who didn’t appreciate mere students telling them to change this or that in their legal treatises. Still others huddled together in the conference room, brainstorming on the
Review’s
upcoming layout.

I seemed to be the only one doing nothing, sitting, waiting.

“Tekla, it’s good of you to make it,” said a tall, skinny man in his late twenties with ash-blonde hair and ashen skin. He approached me, and extended his hand my way.

The editor-in-chief.

I jumped out of my seat and grabbed his hand.

“Josh.” I greeted. I had met him once before, during
Law Review
orientation. Generally the editor-in-chief stayed behind closed doors—the only doors in the entire space—so he could be isolated from minor, mundane editorial problems and concentrate on the journal’s big issues, including those connected with its staff. “I got your letter.”

Josh smiled, the gesture thin and strained. “Please, come into my office.”

We moved into the space, and he indicated a chair. “Sit.”

I got myself settled, and he sat opposite to me.

“Tekla, what’s going on with you?”

I tried to smile, to diffuse the tension, but the effort came out crooked. “I’ve been really busy,” I hurried out. There was no point beating around the bush; I knew why I was here. My article was late. “I’m really sorry.”

“So I’ve heard.” Josh folded his hands and tilted his head. “Professor Johnson was here to see me.”

My eyes expanded to the size of saucers—this,
him
, I hadn’t expected.

“It’s not good, Tekla. I won’t lie to you.” Josh sighed, like a doctor about to pronounce a bad diagnosis. “You have to understand, Professor Johnson is one of our most esteemed advisors. I normally wouldn’t say this, not to a staffer, but you have a right to know, under the circumstances.” Josh rubbed his eyes. His fingers were long and pale, like the rest of him. “Professor Johnson really supported your candidacy for the
Review
. Frankly, it was down to you and another one of your classmates, a
male
classmate. It was a close call. Professor Johnson pushed for you, hard. He has always been a strong supporter of gender equality in law schools. He was one of the first faculty members to argue for the inclusion of women in tenured faculty. And with that effort in mind, he seems to take a special interest in promising female students and, well, for your year, that student has been you—strong grades, strong writing, glowing recommendations.”

I jerked back in my seat, as if Josh had slapped me. Professor Johnson had pulled strings behind the scenes, for my benefit? The possibility made me feel … unclean. I wanted to scream,
I got Law Review on my own merits!

“But you’ve butted heads with another of his protégées,” Josh continued, unfazed by what he was telling me. “Your assigned article is by one of Professor Johnson’s colleagues and close friends. Melanie Sylvan’s an assistant professor—non-tenured—at Cardozo, but with another published piece, she’s finally up for tenure review and maybe even an assistant professorship here at NYU.” Josh paused. “Your behavior has put that promotion in jeopardy. If her article doesn’t get published in time, her tenure will be delayed and the position will be filled by someone else, and, well … I’m sorry, but, at this point, I have no choice in the matter. I have to put you on probation. You have one week from today to complete the assignment, or we give it to someone else and you forfeit your position on the journal.”

I sat, stunned. I didn’t really want the job—but I would rise and fall on my own. I’d be damned if Professor Johnson thought he got me hired and fired.

Professor Johnson helping me
, I shuddered.
What was in it for him?

“Tekla!” The sound of Josh’s voice snapped me back. I refocused. “A word of advice. Try to mend fences with Professor Johnson. He’s an invaluable advocate to have, but a very bad adversary.”

I
GLARED AT
P
ROFESSOR
J
OHNSON
. Every time he paced in front of or around the lectern, I glared and scowled.
I know all about you and your meddling, and I am not pleased.

But Professor Johnson didn’t seem to notice. His eyes slid right past me. No doubt about it, I was being purposefully ignored.

Jerk
, I thought, and closed out of my class notes. If he could ignore me I would ignore his lecture. I opened the Cardozo Law School home page and searched for faculty profiles.

Melanie Sylvan.

Up until this point the name meant little beyond the author on the title page of my article. Time to learn more.

Sylvan, Sylvan, I scrolled through the Ss until, success: Sylvan, Melanie.

I clicked on the name.

A full-page image of a pretty, smiling brunette in her mid-thirties loaded onto the screen. Very pretty.

I studied the profile—NYU graduate, class of 2000;
magna cum laude
; Order of the Coif;
Law Review
managing editor—and searched her professional bio: Assistant Professor, Cardozo Law School, 2005; Judge Thompson, United States Court of Appeals, 2nd Circuit, 2003; Professor Johnson, New York University School of Law, Teaching and Research Assistant, 2002 to 2003.