Claire McNab - Wombat Strategy

"So what's happening?" I asked.

"Yesterday a letter came through the mail claiming to have the material from the files and indicating a large sum of money will be required for the return of the audiovisuals. No specific sum was mentioned. This was the first anyone knew anything was missing."

I'd seen enough blackmail stories to know what to ask next. "Who could have got to the files?"

Ariana gave an exasperated click with her tongue. "That's the point. Before this happened, security was slapdash. The door to the walk-in safe was frequently left open during the day."

"You're looking at an inside job, then?"

Again, Ariana almost smiled. "Nice use of P.I. lingo. And, yes. Almost certainly someone in the organization."

"Dave Deer didn't call the cops, did he? Too much publicity."

"Exactly. He can't afford to have his celebrity clients learn their deepest, darkest secrets may not be safely locked away. If this got out, he could kiss his successful practice goodbye."

"I reckon Jarrod Perkins is screaming blue murder."

"Mr. Perkins doesn't know anything about it." Her tone was neutral, so I couldn't tell if she approved or disapproved.

"Blimey. What if he gets a blackmail letter direct?"

With a wry quirk of her lips, she said, "I imagine things will get very interesting."

I was finding her mouth very interesting. Hell, I was finding all of Ariana interesting. And a few minutes ago I'd set eyes on Harriet Porter and thought she was crash-hot, too. All this so soon after Raylene had mashed my heart.

Was I fickle? Not so, I decided. This was a search for an antidote to the pain Raylene had inflicted. Then I had a little smile to myself: I could rationalize anything.

"Something amusing?"

I became aware Ariana was contemplating me with raised eyebrows. "Oh, sorry. Off with the fairies for a minute." I put on my best grave, paying-attention look.

Picking up her phone, she said, "Dave Deer sent over a demo disk of his Slap! Slap! technique as background for our investigation." She punched in a couple of numbers. "Lonnie? Ten minutes. I want to see the Deer demonstration disk. Get Harriet in too. Okay?"

She got up in one fluid movement. Harriet might be super-sexy, but Ariana was fascinating, in an unsettling sort of way. "Come with me," she said, walking into the hall. I puppy-dogged after her.

"This was Colin's office." She opened the door just down from hers. I remembered this room from my security patrol last night. It'd been the only one with wall-to-wall carpet-a charcoal-gray color. The furnishings were pretty spartan-a lighter gray metal desk, with matching bookcase and filing cabinets. There was a flat-screen computer on the desk. A small pile of cartons sat on the floor. As there were no identifying photos on the wall, I hadn't known until now that it had been my father's office.

Ariana pointed to the cartons. "I packed Colin's things away, figuring I'd be sending them on to you." She opened the top drawer of the desk. "I was going to package this separately."

It was a framed photograph of me and Dad I'd never seen before. It had to have been taken in L.A., before my parents broke up. The background was a suburban garden. Dad was sitting on the grass with me, a little girl, standing within the circle of his arms. I was squinting into the camera because of the bright sunshine. In the photo he was looking at me with such affection that seeing it now, my eyes filled with tears. I stood the photo up on the desk, took out my hanky, and blew my nose. "Dust," I said.

"This can be your office."

"I get my own office?"

Ariana seemed mildly amused. "There's a problem?

"No prob, but won't the others think I've got a bit of a swelled head, having this when I'm only a trainee?"

"You need the tools to be a P.I., and a space you can use as a base is one of them. Another is a car. You can't exist in L.A. without one. For surveillance you don't want a vehicle that people remember, and you certainly must avoid anything that looks like a police car. A four-door sedan in a dark shade would be perfect."

"I've already got a car. Dad left me his, but I don't know where it's kept."

There was an odd pause, then Ariana said, "In the garage at the back."

"Good-oh. Then I'll drive that."

Ariana blanched a little. "That car was your father's pride and joy. It's a fully restored classic Mustang."

I had no idea what that was, but her tone said it was something special. "Gears or automatic?" I asked.

"Stick shift, I'm afraid." Ariana seemed pleased to tell me this. "You'll be needing an automatic. You don't want the distraction of changing gears while you're driving in an unfamiliar city."

"Not just that-it's also the other side of the road to what I'm used to."

Her expression showed she thought the matter was settled. "That's all the more reason why a stick shift's a bad idea."

"I'll see how I go. It was Dad's car, after all. Driving it will make me feel a bit closer to him, I reckon."

Plainly Ariana wasn't delighted. "What color is it, by the way?" I asked her.

"Red."

"You beaut! Never had a red car."

"It's not a color I'd recommend for surveillance."

"What did my dad drive when he was on a job?"

"He borrowed my car or used a rental."

"Can't I do that too?"

Ariana sighed. "We can discuss this later."

On the way to Lonnie's room, she said to me, "If at any time you change your mind, my offer's still on the table."

I opened my mouth to say I'd never change my mind but then shut it again. For all I knew, I might find being a P.I. wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Maybe I'd be pleased to sell out. "Fair enough," I said. "If I change my mind, you'll be the first to know."

Lonnie had an alcove in his work area set up for viewing, which was a good thing, as there was hardly any clear space anywhere else. Harriet was already in place, head bent over a textbook. "Got an exam tomorrow," she said in explanation. "Torts."

"Everyone who sees this demo has to sign a confidentiality agreement," said Lonnie, passing Ariana a clipboard.

I was curious to see the others' signatures, so I made sure I got it last. Ariana Creeling's name was in clear angular script; Lonnie's was a long scrawl with a couple of dots floating above it; Harriet had scribbled her initials.

I began to read the document.

"Kylie, what's taking you so long?" Lonnie demanded.

"I never sign anything till I know what it is."

"It's the standard form," said Lonnie. I didn't look at him, but he sounded like he was rolling his eyes.

Harriet hadn't even glanced at the form before she initialed it, but she still rushed in to defend me. "I think it very wise to read a document before signing."

"Finished." I handed the clipboard back to Lonnie.

"Okay," he said, punching a button. "This is the demo sent to therapists committed to buying a Slap! Slap! franchise from Deerdoc Enterprises."

It started with a blare of classical music, followed by warnings of dire consequences if any portion of the following program were to be copied or viewed by unauthorized persons. Then Dr. Dave Deer himself appeared in a white coat, which nicely set off his tan.

"What you are about to view," he intoned, "is a demonstration of my innovative therapy, Slap! Slap! Get On With It. I must emphasize this is a simulation. The patient is an actor. His responses are an amalgam of those most often encountered in a real-life session. That said, the technique itself is exactly as used with genuine patients, with the proviso that slight adjustments may be necessary to suit the specific needs of individuals."

The view switched to a white-and-black windowless room. The thick carpet and ceiling were white; the walls and sparse furniture were black. On one wall hung a large flat-screen TV. There were two straight-back chairs facing each other in the center of the room. An uncomfortable-looking couch was placed diagonally across one corner.