Wombat Strategy

mention his hobby of celebrity stalking. He'd been picked up several times late at night loitering outside female stars' homes, and in two instances he'd actually trespassed. Kristi Jane Russo was an Aussie with a drinking problem she'd concealed in her job application. In Sydney she'd been involved in two serious traffic accidents, one with fatalities. Oscar Sherwood had never been charged with anything, but in two of his previous jobs considerable sums of money had mysteriously disappeared.

'These four have no idea we have this information,' said Ariana. 'We don't want to tip them off. After this is over, however, I don't believe they can count on continuing their careers at Deerdoc.'

I looked down at Gussie, who had her head resting on her paws but her eyes fixed hopefully on Ariana. 'Is she waiting for her walk?'

'I take her every night.'

'But she doesn't have a yard, does she? Why don't you bring her down to the office during the day?'

Bob grinned. Ariana sighed. 'I'm touched you're worried about Gussie's welfare,' she said crisply. 'Would it make you feel better to know I have a professional handler who picks Gussie up each weekday, along with a number of other dogs, and takes them running at a dog park?'

'It does make me feel better.'

'Is there anything else I can help you with?'

She was being sarcastic, of course, but if Bob hadn't been there maybe I'd have said 'Too right, there is!' and leaned over and kissed her.

Or maybe not. Okay, definitely not. But crikey, it was tempting…

THIRTEEN

I put on the car radio while driving to Beverly Hills for my first proper day's work at Deerdoc. Tarrod Perkins was still the lead news item, popping up everywhere and never missing a chance to plug his latest project, a movie called Primitive Obsessions.

Last night Tules and I had picked up some of the frenzy about Jarrod Perkins on the late TV news, and the story was still going strong this morning. In the kitchen Fran had the teev turned up high. There'd been lots of angles of the Hummer's burning wreckage, breathless theories floated about who might conceivably be responsible-Homeland Security was hinting at an Al Qaeda terrorist cell-and roving reporters shoving microphones under the noses of local residents, who had been variously shocked, horrified, or oddly pleased about the bomb blast in their exclusive area. Unlike Aussies, these people never seemed to get tongue-tied but burbled on freely as soon as the media appeared.

'They'll never eat lunch in this town again,' Fran had observed. She'd taken another bite from a ghastly-looking health food bar. 'Beverly Hills doesn't forgive.'

'What do you mean?'

'It's not done, talking to a reporter in the street. A studio interview, though, would be okay.'

I'd been given directions to Noreen's car spot under the building, where there were three floors of parking. The patients had the first floor, the doctors the second, and the rest of the staff was relegated to the bottom parking area.

I didn't have a keycard yet, so I stopped beside the attendant sitting in his little box. He was a middle-aged bloke in a creased uniform who'd quickly hidden the magazine he was reading when I'd pulled up. Without even asking my name, he raised the arm and waved me through.

'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