Claire McNab - Wombat Strategy

"Aren't you going to ask who I am? I could be a terrorist, deadset on blowing up the building."

He gave me a long look, a bit like Ariana's specialty but not nearly as effective. "Are you a terrorist?" he finally asked.

"No."

"Are you intending to blow up the building?"

"Not today."

Weary sigh. "Then go on through."

"Do you ever ask people questions, or is it open slather and anyone can get in?"

Another sigh. "If you look suspicious, lady, I ask. You don't look suspicious."

This wasn't good enough. I'd be reporting a security breach in the parking structure. "You know Fred Mills?" I said.

"Great guy. I count him as a friend. Why?"

"Just asking."

I located Noreen's parking spot without too much trouble. It was on the lowest floor, but at least it wasn't too far from the lift. I punched the up button. By the time it arrived, a crowd had formed behind me. It seemed everyone was clutching a carton of coffee or one of those insulated mug things. I got swept up as everybody squeezed into the lift.

As the door closed, I twisted my neck trying to find the notice that gave the maximum load for this particular lift, but it was blocked by bodies. I was visualizing the horror of being stuck between floors with this lot when the door opened and everyone spilled out. There'd been total silence for the short journey, except for one bloke who'd whistled "Oklahoma" under his breath and out of tune. Released from confinement, everyone started talking as they scattered toward their work stations.

Chantelle was already at her post. "Good morning, Kylie."

"Good morning, Chantelle. What's the good oil?" She seemed to need more, so I added, "What's going on? Anything interesting?"

"Not yet. The day is young."

I gave her a big grin. I really liked this woman's attitude. In fact, when I thought about it, Chantelle herself wasn't bad at all. She had lovely dark skin and beautiful hands. And her red mouth was, frankly, alluring.

"Alluring" was the last thing that came to mind where Fred Mills was concerned. He was waiting in Dave Deer's office, bubbling with impatience. "I'm a busy man, so this briefing can only take a few minutes of my time."

"You should know the bloke at the parking entrance let me through without asking any questions."

"So what?"

"I could have been anybody. I could have had a bomb in the boot."

He flapped a hand at me. "Yeah, yeah. I'll check it out."

If possible, Fred looked even less appetizing than the last time I'd seen him, so I concentrated on the surroundings. Dave Deer's office was the max in luxury. The white carpet was so thick you could turn your ankle if you weren't careful. The paintings hanging on the paneled walls were obviously originals, each subtly illuminated with recessed lighting. The furniture was sleek, with lots of chrome. The desk was perfectly clear.

The office had three rich, polished doors. I'd entered through one from the main office area. Another was ajar, and I could see it led to a private bathroom. I was guessing the third door would open into a black-and-white therapy room.

I became aware Fred was speaking: "…go it alone."

"You want me to go it alone?"

This earned me an exasperated grunt. "That's exactly want I don't want you to do. I've already pointed out that you're an amateur, way out of your depth. I don't want to rush around rescuing you from situations you've got yourself into. Low profile. Say that to yourself often. Low profile."

"Low profile. Got it." I couldn't resist adding, "But Fred, if I holler…?"

A sneer of superiority distorted his upper lip. "I'll be there, little lady, I'll be there."

I didn't need to holler for help even once during the day. Dave Deer was in San Diego, addressing a mental health symposium, so I was free to wander around meeting people and getting the lay of the land.

First I went down to the entrance of the building and made myself known to the doorman, Jim, and the guard in the lobby, Malcolm. I reckoned this was a good move, so that in case I needed a favor, these blokes would be on side.

My fun discovery of the day was Irma Barber, who was at serious odds with the dress standards adhered to by the most of the Deerdoc staff. Irma was wearing khaki pants, the sort with lots of unnecessary pockets everywhere, and Birkenstocks with striped socks. Her T-shirt proclaimed chickens rule over the picture of a cartoon chook. I didn't get the point at all and concluded it was some American thing.

Noticing my fascinated gaze, Irma laughed. "As you can imagine, I'm not allowed where the public or the patients can see me. I work behind the scenes with Oscar, keeping all the office equipment humming along."

Oscar had to be Oscar Sherwood, who'd left previous jobs under a cloud because of missing money, although he'd never been formally charged. He was Deerdoc's resident techo, who, as Irma said, kept everything electronic in the office, including the computer network, working smoothly. One of his duties was making sure each therapy session had an audiovisual record, so he was automatically a possible suspect for the theft of the disks.

Last night I'd argued to Ariana and Bob that he couldn't be the one, because with his knowledge he'd make a copy, not take the disks from the file. Or he could simply send the information to a distant computer using the Internet. While I'd been speaking, however, it had begun to dawn on me that maybe Sherwood intended for suspicion to fall on someone not technologically adept. And if the disks weren't missing from the files there would be no concrete proof blackmail material had been taken.

Irma introduced me to Sherwood in the manner of an indulgent mother showing off a talented child. Oscar Sherwood was young enough to make me feel like an older woman. His face made him look about fifteen, but a powerful fifteen. The muscles in his arms were truly impressive, and he wore an extremely tight sleeveless top to allow appreciation of his toned torso.

"Hi," he said, preoccupied with the innards of a copying machine.

"G'day."

"Filling in for Noreen?"

"That's right."

"Good luck."

Leaving him diving deeper into the mechanism, with Irma handing him tools when needed, I wandered off to explore further.

Deerdoc Enterprises was clearly a thriving corporation, leasing the entire three-floor building on Roxbury Drive. Dave Deer's Slap! Slap! Get On With It therapy room was on the middle floor, adjacent to his office. It had two entrances: one directly from his office, and one leading to a private corridor. The room was exactly as it had appeared in the demonstration disk and was, I discovered, one of three such black-and-white rooms. I peered closely at the white carpet, wondering if the hearty slaps delivered during treatment ever caused a nosebleed, but the thick pile was stain-free.

Next I checked out the walk-in safe where the theft had taken place. It had an electronic lock requiring a keycard to open it. I didn't have one, but that wasn't a problem, as the door wasn't shut. Inside were ranks of shallow drawers, all neatly labeled in alphabetical order. They had no locking mechanism, so I pulled one out to examine the contents. Patients had individual heavy plastic files, each with the name clearly shown. I pulled out another drawer. Stone the crows! Famous name after famous name jumped out at me. This was a blackmailer's heaven.

A bloke in a white coat came in, looking preoccupied. He paid absolutely no attention to me, going to one of the drawers and extracting a file. He was wearing a badge indicating he was Dr. Walter Yeats.

"G'day, Dr. Yeats."

"Mmmm? Oh, hi."

"I could be anyone, you know."

He looked up from the file, focused on me, and said soothingly, "I'm sure you can be. Ambition is a wonderful motor to power one's life."