Claire McNab - The Dingo Dilemma

Bob and I looked at each other. "Why indeed?" Bob said.

"Is Lonnie with them?" I asked.

"No, he's in his office. He took a call there a few minutes ago." She scowled at me. Obviously I was back in her bad books again.

"Would you get Lonnie on the phone for me, please?"

After he'd had a sneezing fit-I gathered from Lonnie's muffled curses that Julia Roberts was somewhere in his room again-I asked Lonnie if he could photograph the two Homeland Security blokes without them knowing. "Consider it done," he said.

Bob and I walked casually down the hall, discovering Fran outside the storage room detailing the disaster preparedness items she'd amassed, while Harriet and two blokes wearing dark suits and white shirts looked on admiringly.

"I had an even more comprehensive supply of sterile field dressings," Fran was saying, "but there was an unfortunate contamination problem with a cat, and then dressings were required for a genuine emergency last Friday, when my husband was badly injured outside in the parking area."

"G'day," I interrupted, putting out my hand to the closest one, a beefy bloke with thick white skin that apparently burnt easily, as his nose was peeling. He had his hair cut so short it was a reddish stubble on his skull. "I'm Kylie Kendall."

He shook hands without enthusiasm and mumbled something. "Sorry," I said, "I didn't get the name."

"Morgan."

"Mr. Morgan, g'day." I thrust my hand at the other dark suit. "Kylie Kendall. And you are…?"

He touched my fingers very briefly. "We're from Homeland Security. That's all you need to know." His voice was very soft and had a slippery, just-between-us tone. He had a long, mournful face and very deep-set eyes that seemed to be peering at the world from the back of his head.

"We're private investigators," Bob declared with his engagingly crooked grin, "so we have this need to put a name to a face."

"Unwin," whispered the bloke.

Lonnie came wandering along, a bag of jelly beans in his hand. "Want some?" he asked in a general invitation. "The black ones are the best, though I'm quite partial to the red." There were no takers.

Harriet had a quizzical, what-the-hell-is-going-on expression. She said to the blokes, "Just for the record, do you have any official identification?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Fran glowered as only she could. "These gentlemen are kind enough to be considering us for official recognition for the steps we've taken to prepare for the worst." She forced a smile. "I believe mention was made of a Homeland Security Golden Plaque Award."

"I'm sure I can speak for my colleague when I say we're impressed enough to consider awarding a Platinum Plaque," murmured Unwin.

Fran's gratified expression vanished when Harriet persisted. "I'd still like to see something to prove you're who you say you are."

"It's not customary for Homeland Security to show identification," said the one who claimed to be Morgan. "It only aids terrorists who hate America because of our freedoms."

"That doesn't make sense," I said.

Morgan and Unwin began to edge away from us. "We'll be in touch," Morgan said to Fran.

"Wait! There's much more to show you." Fran gazed forlornly after Homeland Security's rapidly departing representatives, then turned savagely on us, her diminutive form trembling with rage. "Now see what you've done!"

When I compared the notes I'd taken of Phyllis Blake's detailed descriptions of the two strange men at Dingo's apartment building, it was no surprise to find Morgan and Unwin were dead ringers.

With Ariana absent-I presumed she was with Natalie-I decided that Bob, Lonnie, and I should discuss the whole matter and decide what, if anything, to do about it. Lonnie insisted that we meet in his messy office.

He was clearing bits and pieces off two chairs so Bob and I could sit down, when Julia Roberts, yawning, appeared from behind a pile of electronic equipment. I expected the usual fireworks from Lonnie, but he merely opened the door, said, "Goodbye, cat," and closed it behind her after she had leisurely exited.

"That's the way to treat Jules," I said approvingly. "Play it cool, and she'll lose interest in teasing you."

"There's something a lot more important to worry about than that damn cat," said Lonnie. "I'm sure this room is clear, as I only said hello to those guys, and then came back here to work, but I want to sweep the rest of the building for bugs."

"Would they have had any chance to plant listening devices?" Bob asked. "Fran stuck to them like glue the moment she realized a Homeland Security award was in the air."

"Trust me, the whole place could be bugged. The latest surveillance devices are so small you could be looking right at them and not notice they were there. The safest thing is to act as if every word outside this room can be overheard."

"But why would anyone bug our building?" I asked.

"Why would Homeland Security be interested in giving Fran an award?" countered Lonnie. "And were these guys even from Homeland Security?"

Lonnie had printed out several copies of the photographs of Morgan and Unwin he'd taken with one of his tiny concealed cameras. The quality was excellent. I told Bob and Lonnie how these blokes were almost certainly the ones who'd been snooping around Dingo O'Rourke's place.

While Lonnie got ready to sweep the building for hidden microphones, I went off to make sure that Melodie, Fran, and Harriet had gone, as we'd agreed it was better to keep the possibility of bugging to ourselves for the moment.

There was a crowd at the front desk. With sinking heart I saw my cousin Brucie. He'd be wanting to know all about Dingo, and would probably suggest we should have dinner together. When I got closer I became conscious of something different about him. As a rule I didn't pay much attention to men's fashions, but even I could see Brucie was wearing some really nice clothes. And his hair had the latest slightly tousled style.

I hadn't realized Quip was there, too, until I heard him say, "Since this morning I've got literary agents knocking at the door, fighting over I, Developer. Even had a call from a New York publisher. It was almost worthwhile being beaten up to get this level of interest."

Quip's voice was his usual light baritone, but his eyes were just slits and his face was so swollen and discolored it was difficult to believe it was really him. He was sitting on one of the new Spanish-themed chairs with Fran standing protectively by his side.

"You can thank Lonnie's blog for that interest," Harriet declared. "In some circles, he's a must-read every day. Haven't any of you seen it?"

Lonnie wrote a blog? Because of his job, of necessity he spent a lot of time on the Internet, but somehow I'd never thought of him being a blogger, freely sharing his thoughts and opinions online to a potentially huge audience.

"I'd write a blog," declared Melodie, "if only I had the time. Like, I have a real interesting life."

"What name does Lonnie use?" Quip asked.

Harriet made a face. "Bonnie Lonnie."

Several people groaned. I did, myself.

"Cheesy name or not," Harriet said, "Lonnie can really write effectively. Today's blog was a wonderfully satiric piece on how, inexplicably, over the years violent events occurred to individuals or companies who were unwise enough to oppose Norris Blainey in some way. Lonnie coined a term for it-the Blainey Inadvertent Kiss of Death, BIKOD for short. Quip, as the latest victim to be bikodded, was highlighted, with lots of detail about how his book is a thinly disguised expose of a certain real estate mogul's activities."

Brucie caught sight of me. With a guilty smile, he said, "Sorry, Kylie, I know I've been neglecting you, but I have no idea where the time goes. Every day is just packed with things to do."