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AN HOMAGE TO VINCENT VEGA

 

SARAH'S BABY GIRL

 

Ian walked around his desk and sat down.  He gestured for Priscilla to take a seat as well, while glancing at his telephone.  He was relieved to see that the light was not flashing.  For a while at least, he would not have to deal with Donnie Freeman, although he badly wanted to talk with Irina.

 

“Suzie Marshall and PISS,” he said without preamble.  “What was that all about?”

 

“Best guess?”  Priscilla nodded her head, thinking about it.  “Best guess is that Suzie takes your well groomed, neatly dressed young men at face value.  Best guess is that she views them as financially attractive prospects, and is unleashing her girls to charm and seduce.  Keep in mind, Ian, that Feminist Revolution or no Feminist Revolution, many young women still come to university in pursuit of their bachelor-- and I'm not talking about a diploma.”

 

“Well, I owe her big time, so I'd like to do something to help.  How about asking her to host a party, and invite the male students in both of my classes to interact socially with her brood?  After what I saw this morning, I'd say that some of these guys need to get out more, if only in self-defense.  Take it from someone who knows South Korea well: the girls there would eat them alive.”

 

“Well, it all depends, doesn't it?”  Priscilla was also trying to get a handle on what she had witnessed over the last hour.  “You heard my Dad; he asked you straight out if you're running a covert training program for the alphabet agencies.  And I listened very carefully to your answer.  You didn't say 'yes', Ian, and you didn't say 'no'; rather, you danced around the subject.  Your evasion was actually quite artful.”

 

Ian sighed, and sadly shook his head.  He really, really liked Priscilla, and he needed to close the distance that was visibly opening between them.

 

“I told your father the truth, Priscilla: I don't know a damn thing about my students.  Why would I?  The intelligence community operates on a need to know basis.  Everything's compartmentalized.  Keeping me in the dark gives me what's known in the trade as 'plausible deniability' … and I can't share secrets that I don't possess.”

 

“Speculate.”

 

“Huh?”  Ian looked at her blankly.

 

“Come on, Ian, just stop it!  You are a highly trained, experienced intelligence officer.  I'm not asking you to tell me what you know.  I want to know what you suspect!” 

 

Priscilla was determined to get to the truth, and she was not in the mood to play games.

 

“All right.” Ian threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender.  “I'm guessing that the guys wearing tailored suits were sent here fresh out of Quantico, while the guys wearing jackets off the rack at Penney's are just what they seem-- a batch of young execs with the well compensated futures that sorority girls apparently dream about.  Is that answer good enough?”

 

“It's a start.  Now, why would you want to unleash a bunch of hard cases on these sorority girls?  Yes, most of them are sexually experienced, but when it comes to the real world, they're terribly naive.  Do you really want to do this to Wendy Stafford?”

 

“No, I suppose not,” Ian conceded, thinking about how badly his marriage to Emily had turned out.  “But now you're engaging in speculation that's unwarranted, if only because you are painting with far too broad a brush.  Let me give you a specific example.  In due course, you are going to meet my Best Man.  His name is Donnie Freeman.  We fought side by side in the defense of Hue, and when Donnie was wounded, my team laid down smoke and I crawled out to drag him to safety.  Donnie was already married to his college sweetheart-- he's a Princeton man-- and he had a daughter born only twelve days before he shipped out.  He's still married to Elaine, and they now have three terrific children-- ah, but he's the Deputy Director in charge of our covert operations worldwide … the guy who gave me the assignments that underlie most of the stamps in my passport.  Pris, I have dinner with his family every time I'm in DC; it's hard for me to see him as some kind of monster just because he works for the Agency.  I simply won't go there, and I'm not about to typecast my students!”

 

“And what about Sarah?  Sarah, and Vickie, and Rita?  Are you going to go on playing Secret Agent Man after you're married?  Is that fair?  God, Ian, how can you be so fucking blind?”  Priscilla was on her feet, venting her anger.

 

“Donnie wants me in Poland next week,” Ian quietly replied.  “I turned him down, Pris, because you're absolutely right.  I made the mistake of leading a double life once, and I won't make it again.  I've handed in my retirement notice.  I'm finished, though I'll go on teaching any students they send me.  After all, it is my job.”

 

Ian stood up, and turned away to stare blindly out the window.

 

“Officer Canon,” he asked, his back still turned to her, “do you wish to be reassigned?”

 

“No,” she said after giving it a moment's thought.  “No … I want to stay on.  I like you … I like you a lot.  And besides, no one else in the Department would be willing to change your shitty diapers!  So, I guess that you're stuck with me.”

 

“Not how I would phrase it,” Ian softly laughed, “but then I like you too.  Are we still on for Thursday night?”

 

“I'm game, and so is Amos.  It turns out that he has a few vacation days left this year, and he needs to use them or lose them.  But are you sure that you know what you're doing?  Sarah is going to be monumentally pissed, and she'll unleash her wrath on both you and Vickie.”

 

“We'll survive.”  Turning around, Ian resumed his seat.  “We want Sarah to manage our household, and so does Rita.  Somebody has to take charge, set the rules, and enforce them evenly.  And Sarah has volunteered.  The thing is, she has to rule from the heights of Olympus, not the depths of Hades.  A few workable rules that we all agree to are better than a lot of unworkable rules that we don't.  Thursday night is about teaching Sarah the importance of letting us be ourselves.  Think of it as a battle of wills.”

 

“Interesting.  If someone starts a pool, I'm putting my money on Sarah.  She strikes me as one tough cookie.”

 

“Speaking of wagering, will your dad show up tomorrow night?”

 

“He might.  Do you want me to … um … ask him to come along … maybe serve as a referee?”

 

“Well, I'd like to get him drunk … two hail fellows well met, so to speak.  But I suppose his job's tough enough without showing up with a hangover.”

 

“Oh, it wouldn't be the first time,” Priscilla giggled, “not by any stretch of the imagination.  Dad has been known to really tie one on!”

 

“Well, just make sure he understands that being your father doesn't buy him special treatment.  Hong Kong rules are Hong Kong rules.”

 

“Dad would be insulted if you cut him any slack!  He insists that he's still at the peak of his game, even if he does have a bit of a prostate problem..”

 

“Offer him a diaper.  It will save him a sizable chunk of change.”

 

“My dad wearing a diaper?”  Priscilla frowned.  “Nope, don't want to go there.”

 

“Speaking of diapers, we need to figure out how many we need, and how we're going to get them out of the hospital.”

 

“Got it covered.  Amos is going to bring everything we need in his truck.  We'll spread the stuff out on the bar, but there won't be any takers.  These guys all believe that stakeouts have blessed them with cast iron bladders.”

 

“And Amos will also stick to his tighty whities,” Ian laughed, “although he should know better.  How about you, Pris?  Going to swallow your pride and wear a diaper?”

 

“Yep.  I'll ask Vickie to do the honors.  And leave Amos to me.  Now, about the party that you would like Suzie to throw for your fine young men … I'll make a deal with you.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I'll help you make the pitch.  Guarantee, shall we say, that the campus police will be looking the other way that night.  And in return ...”

 

“Still waiting.”

 

“In return, on Saturday night I want you to come clean.  Tell Sarah, Vickie, Rita … no, tell everybody what you've been doing for your country all these years.  Heck, I'll bring my Johnny Rivers cassette, and play Secret Agent Man in the background.  And no, I don't expect you to spill classified secrets … God, forbid.  The idea is to give everyone a pretty clear idea of what you're giving up to focus on building a wonderful, new life with the women you love.  The more you share, the greater their sense of reassurance that the four of you can actually make this work.”

 

Mulling it over, Ian slowly and thoughtfully nodded his head in agreement.  He had kept Emily completely in the dark about his extracurricular activities, and when she became suspicious and started to probe, he had tossed out one lie after another, inevitably to become enmeshed in the web of his own deceit.  She had accused him of serial infidelity, and from her point of view his denials were just more lies to be added to the ever growing pile.  He had told young Tippi Bjornsen the truth: given enough time, even the most trivial falsehoods corrode trust, and no relationship can survive its collapse.  He had learned this lesson the hard way, and he did not want to repeat this particular mistake twice.

 

“It needs to happen, Pris; you're right about that.  But I can only skate over the surface, like I did with you.  The details of just about everything I've done since Hue are highly classified.  Hell, I don't even want the Circle to know that SACSA reported to the President … the more people find that out, the more likely it becomes that it'll show up as a segment on Sixty Minutes.  Can't have that.”

 

Priscilla stood up, and reached for Ian's diaper bag.  She pulled out two bottles of breast milk, her touch confirming that they were still warm.

 

“It's time for your snack, then I'll change you.”  She got down on the floor, and leaned her back against one of the filing cabinets.

 

Ian joined her, resting his head in her arm, his feet sprawled out beneath the desk.

 

“I've got an idea for how we can broach the subject, and make my tell-all seem more natural.”

 

She guided the nipple to his lips, and Ian opened his mouth to receive the teat.  He began suckling without even thinking about it.

 

Priscilla burst out laughing.  “This is so absurd,” she commented.  “I mean, here we are … the Secret Agent Man and the policewoman, and what are we doing as we conspire to bare your secrets without committing high treason in the process?  I'm cradling you in my arms, nursing you from a baby bottle, and getting ready to change your wet and possibly dirty diaper.  I keep asking myself how I could possibly explain our actions to my parents, and I keep coming up blank.”

 

Ian pushed the bottle away.  “You might start with the piece of metal lodged in my spinal cord, and explain how it got there.  And you might point at the cane that Vickie insists I start carrying everywhere I go.  It tells its own tale.”

 

“You're right, Ian, and I apologize.  Anyway, what's your idea?”

 

“Give it some time to see if the subject comes up, but if it doesn't seem like it's in the cards, ask about our honeymoon plans.”

 

Priscilla frowned, not seeing the opening.  “Go on,” she urged.

 

“Sarah's talking about a Caribbean honeymoon, which is fine with me, but I would banish Jamaica and Trinidad from the discussion.  When asked why, I would truthfully admit that MI6 would have a fit if I showed up in either place.  Then I'd explain why.”

 

“MI6 being the British version of the CIA?”

 

“Yep … and oddly enough, the Chief is a guy named Maynard Soames … 'M' for short.”

 

“Weirder and weirder,” Priscilla said with a smile as she corralled a stray lock and swept it off Ian's forehead.  “I swear, not even Hollywood could make this shit up.  Still, it should work; you could, for example, tell Vickie about Timbuktu and other exotic ports of call.”

 

“That's the plan.”

 

“I'm good with it.  Now,” Priscilla said as she once again brought the baby bottle to his lips, “let's finish your ba bas and change your diaper.  Your office hour is coming up fast, and Sorority Row will probably be out in force!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Enter,” Rita said in response to the tentative knock on her door.  She looked at Vickie, who was slouched in her chair.  Both of them had a pretty good idea who was politely waiting to enter.

 

Like Vickie, Sarah shut the door firmly behind her.  She wasn't surprised to see that her baby girl had got here first.  They both needed moral support, and Rita was the anchor in this particular storm.  It was only when she looked at the chair, which was normally buried under a stack of files but now sat empty, that she realized Rita had been expecting them both.

 

“You read your report, Stretch?”  Vickie had decided that there was no point in beating around the bush.

 

“Not yet.  You?”

 

“Uh, uh.  I'm so freaking scared that the only thing I'd do with the letter opener is stab myself!  Hats off to Rita for having the balls to do this in private.”

 

“Balls?”  Sarah cocked an eyebrow.

 

“You know what I mean,” Vickie sniffed.

 

“Indeed, I do.  And you're right … Rita, how on earth were you able to do this by yourself?  If my report is bad news, I'm going to fall apart, and I need my friends to pick up the pieces!”

 

“It was late,” Rita shrugged, “and I was tired.  I just wanted to get it over with, go home, and get some sleep.  To be honest, I never considered what would happen if the report crushed my hopes.  I still would have gone home, I suppose, but to get drunk and pass out.  As it is, Linda has told me in no uncertain terms that I need to change my lifestyle-- get away from this desk, get more fresh air and exercise … and cut back on the coffee and booze.  She's right.”

 

“What are the odds that she wrote the same thing on all three reports,” Vickie laughed.

 

“Once we start lactating,” Sarah warned, “the three of us are going on a caffeine free diet.  And we are going to start tapering off the alcohol right now.  Oh, we can still drink, but not to excess.”

 

“Saturday nights will never be the same,” Rita sighed.

 

“The Circle may expel us,” Vickie countered.  “Party poopers can be a real drag.”

 

“Speaking of pooping,” Sarah interjected, “how's your diaper holding up?”  She was staring at Vickie, but out of the corner of her eye she was studying Rita's reaction.

 

“You should have brought my diaper bag; I'm good right now, but however the report comes out, I'm going to start crying.  Once the dam bursts, this diaper is in for a soaking.”

 

“My mistake,” Sarah admitted.  “But don't worry about leaks; going forward, we're going to use baby diapers as stuffers.  Then I won't have to change you so often, but your pants will still hide your secret.”

 

“Having Vickie running down to the third floor every couple of hours will draw attention,” Rita offered, “and it will disrupt her work routine.  It would be better if I changed her here.  I'll collect a diaper pail, a changing pad … the lot.  Just supply me with some of Ian's diapers from the service, some stuffers, and I'll take it from there.”

 

“You're willing to change her?”  Sarah was shocked.

 

“Yes.  Sarah, Vickie and I agree that you must take charge of our household, or this will never work.  You set the rules, including punishments for disobedience, and then enforce them fairly.  I agree with you that our baby girl belongs in diapers full time; indeed, I'm thinking about putting her bed in storage, and converting her bedroom into a nursery.  It will easily hold two cribs, so we can bed the two babies down in the same room.”

 

Sarah clapped her hands as a huge grin spread across her face.  She was absolutely delighted with the turn of events.

 

“Oh, goody,” Vickie whined.  “Now I have an auntie to go with my new mommy.”

 

“That's right, baby girl.”  There was a triumphant note in Sarah's voice.  “And neither your auntie nor your mommy are going to tolerate your usual antics.  We shall both be spanking you, and paddling you.  You will quickly learn that, in our household, zero tolerance is the rule!”

 

“Not fair,” Vickie whined again.  She badly wanted to put her thumb in her mouth and start sucking away, but too much drama might arouse Sarah's suspicions.  The whole point of this song and dance was to have Rita confirmed as “Auntie Rita,” not “baby Rita.”  The household would need a second adult to check Sarah's dictatorial tendencies, which had already surfaced to an alarming degree.

 

“I like the idea of converting her bedroom into a nursery.”  Sarah ignored Vickie's whining.  “That way, we will only need the one changing table that you had delivered yesterday.  And I've already started bottle feeding her with breast milk, so that changing table is going to see a lot of action!”

 

“You have?  That's wonderful!  Once again, if you want me to help out, I'd be glad to feed her.  I have visions of nursing Ian and Vickie at the same time … I can't wait!”

 

“You have?  Me, too!”  Sarah was ecstatic.  She knew that Vickie and Ian would be too much for her to handle alone, but with Rita at her side, Sarah was confident that her babies could finally be brought to heal.  Finally, all of the pieces were starting to fall into place.

 

Acting on impulse, Sarah took the envelope containing her fertility report, and slit it open with a fingernail.  She rapidly scanned the contents, and her face lit with joy.  “The  plumbing is in good working order,” she cried; “estrogen and progesterone levels are normal … and I still have over a hundred thousand eggs in storage!  Linda says that I'm good to go, although ...”

 

Sarah laughed as she tapped one finding.  “Elevated cortisol … she wants me to cut out the caffeine, and get some exercise!”

 

“Is there anyone on the staff who could pass the hormone stress test,” Rita wondered.  “You can't survive Residency without coffee … lots of coffee.  And after four years, we're all addicted to the stuff.”

 

“Your turn, baby girl, or do you want Mommy to read your report for you?”  Sarah and Rita were looking at Vickie, both silently willing her findings to be equally positive.  A negative result would be devastating, and not just for Vickie.  One negative report would shatter all of their dreams.

 

With badly shaking fingers, Vickie offered the envelope to Rita.  “Open it for me,” she begged.

 

Nodding, Rita took the envelope and gently broke the seal with her letter opener.  But she did not remove the pages.  Instead, she held out her hand.  No matter the outcome, Vickie had to do this for herself.

 

Her fingers still shaking, Vickie opened the envelope, and somehow managed to remove the pages.  As she started to read, she began to cry, the tears flowing freely.  She paused a few times to wipe the tears away with the back of her hand, but she kept at it.

 

Finally, she looked up.

 

“I can have a baby,” she sobbed.  “I can have a baby!!!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“What's happening,” Herb asked.

 

“I'm trailing the Lullaby truck,” Julia answered, “but there's been no action so far, even at a couple of stops the thieves have hit before.  I'll peel off around eleven, head for the office, grab some lunch downstairs, and then amble over to the hospital.  Maybe this Doctor Stevenson of yours will have a useful insight or two.”

 

“You might also ask her about her boyfriend, starting with how well she actually knows the guy.”

 

“What did you find out?”

 

“About ten minutes after I ran him through the system, the FBI's Deputy Director for Counterintelligence called the Chief, and told him in no uncertain terms to back off.  Duly chastised, I hopscotched it over to campus, and got there just in time to take in his early morning class.  Hon, I swear it's filled with Stepford husbands, but the one guy I tailed back downtown ended up in a glass tower home to an international bank.  So, I had to tell the Chief that my preliminary was inconclusive.  Since we don't have the budget or the manpower to pursue this, let alone the fact that we might be investigating a federal agency, Walt suggested that I look into it in my spare time-- which means, you, Hon.  The bottom line?  The Chief wants you to follow up, but off the books.”

 

“Shit.”

 

“I hear you.  What the hell are we going to say to Priscilla?  She thinks this guy's the gold standard.  I swear to God, if he wasn't already spoken for, Grady would end up our son-in-law!”

 

“Shit!  Shit, shit, shit!!!  Herb, I refuse to lie to my daughter!  Do you hear me?  It isn't going to happen!”

 

“Then, we have to do a workaround.  But how?”

 

“No.  Definitely no.  On Saturday night, Priscilla is going to a party at Rita Stevenson's home, where Ian, Vickie, and his fiancee Sarah will all be in attendance.  I'm going to tag along, and brace him in their presence.  He might be willing to give me a song and dance, but how about the women with whom he shares his life?  How many lies is he prepared to tell?”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Such a crybaby,” Sarah sighed.

 

“A regular leaky faucet,” Rita added with a grin.  “Been that way as long as I've known her.”

 

“Guilty as charged,” Vickie conceded as she continued to wipe tears away with the back of her hand.  Her makeup was a mess.  “Good news … bad news … any news at all … and speaking of leaks … it feels like this diaper is soaked!  Mommy, you or Auntie Rita need to change me!”

 

Sarah stood up, once again sighing theatrically.  “Okay, baby girl, stand up and let Mommy have a look-see.”

 

Once Vickie was on her feet, Sarah ordered her to turn around.  “Nope,” she said, “no telltale leaks, so you're good for a while longer.  Come back downstairs with me, and I'll change you in my office.”

 

“Ian and I are sitting down for a heart to heart tomorrow afternoon,” Rita cut in.  She wasn't so much changing the subject as bringing it into focus.  “I'm planning to sound him out about having children.  There's no point in the three of us celebrating if it turns out that he doesn't want to be a father.”

 

“Well, we could surprise him,” Vickie laughed, though it came out as a cough.  “He wouldn't be the first man to have parenthood take him by surprise!”

 

“Are you serious?”  Sarah was looking at Vickie as if she had just sprouted a second head.

 

“Nope … just kidding.  And my instincts tell me that he's gonna make a wonderful father!”

 

“Mine, too,” Rita murmured.  Not for the first time, she wondered if that was why so many women found Ian so attractive.  A loyal husband and loving father was a pearl of great price, but Ian's disability, his vulnerability, would be another plus in the eyes of many women.  Sensible women wanted their husbands to be strong, but not too strong.

 

“Do I share these results with him,” Rita went on, ignoring the interruption.  “Tell him what the three of us are planning?”

 

“He has to know.”  Sarah was thinking out loud.  “So, I'd say yes, but just toss it out … ask him to think about it.  Maybe suggest that he share his feelings with us on Saturday night?”

 

“Ask a man to share his feelings!  Oh, boy!  Sarah, trust me on this … Ian is going to have a hard enough time talking about his feelings with Rita tomorrow afternoon.  What are the odds that he will share them with the much enlarged Circle that awaits him on Saturday?  Which reminds me ...”

 

“Yes?”  Sarah didn't have the slightest idea what Vickie was about to say.

 

“Are we going to need more chairs?”

 

.  .  .  .

 

Priscilla opened the door and stuck her head out into the corridor.  It was once again awash with coeds, but there was nary a recruiter in sight.  Whether the tribe had simply given up, or come to the realization that it really was Sarah to whom they would have to make their pitch, was anybody's guess.

 

“For the moment at least,” she called out over her shoulder as she opened the door wide,

“we are headhunter free, but the scalp hunters are out in force.  Want to get started?”

 

“Ready, willing, and able,” Ian laughed.  “In fact, I could get addicted to this.  Until now, I never realized how lonely I was during office hours-- sitting here all alone, frantically pounding away on one of tomorrow's lectures … the inevitable fate, by the way, of all first year professors.  But now?  Now, I open the door, and there's a charming young seductress waiting to try and claim my scalp.  Life is good!”

 

“Enjoy it while you can.  Once the word gets out that you have signed on the dotted line with Marilyn Marsden, all of this will come to an end.  And no doubt, I might add, to Sarah's delight.”

 

Ian grimaced.  His butt was bruised and sore, and if Sarah was true to her word, he would be receiving a spanking tonight, with another paddling planned for Thursday night.  Only Ian wouldn't be there.  Of course, as a consequence all hell was going to erupt on Friday morning, and there was a good chance he would still be doing damage control on Saturday night.

 

No matter.  It was obvious that his stubborn refusal to go home with her for the holidays had taught her nothing, so the lesson would have to be repeated.  She could take control of their social life, but not of his friendships.

 

As he welcomed the first of the coeds into his office and took his seat behind the desk, Ian wondered just how well Herb Canon could hold his liquor.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“All right, baby girl, let's go downstairs and change your widdle diapee.”  Sarah was laying it on really thick.

 

“Um … I'd suggest that you start with a visit to the ladies room,” Rita interjected.  “Her makeup's in ruins, and she'll need to change her blouse.”

 

There were dark smudges on Vickie's cheeks and blouse where her mascara had run, and her eyes were bloodshot.  Normally immaculate, Vickie looked like she had just crawled out of a really bad car wreck.

 

Sarah nodded in agreement, and led the way.  As they crossed the foyer, the few nurses who were taking advantage of their coffee breaks to write up morning reports looked up, did a double take, and then openly stared.

 

And Vickie was oblivious to all.  In the locker room, she retrieved her purse and a fresh blouse, and then followed Sarah into the restroom.  Her motions were mechanical as she cleaned her face and refreshed her makeup, her mind a million miles away.

 

Taking the elevator down to three and walking to Sarah's office to get her diaper changed, Vickie was so happy that she positively glowed.  More demure by nature, Sarah nevertheless couldn't stop grinning, and whenever she and Vickie looked at one another, they both burst out laughing.  They shared an incredible secret which, for the moment, they were unwilling to advertose, but it was obvious to everyone they passed in the hallway that something wonderful had happened to them both.

 

Within minutes, the rumor mill was churning hospital wide.

 

“Marilyn!!”  It took effort, but Vickie somehow found her voice. 

 

The rep from Recruitment Services International was sitting quietly in a chair outside Sarah's office, briefcase at her feet.  She looked up, and her mouth fell open.  Sarah and Vickie were jubilant; had they just won the lottery? 

 

“It's good to see you again,” Sarah said, still grinning from ear to ear.  “Have you worked up an agreement for Ian to sign?”

 

“Yes.”  Marilyn tapped the top of her briefcase.  “But I thought that you would want to read it first.  Professor Grady has made it quite clear that this is your decision to make, not his.”

 

“True … all, too true.”

 

“You have your fiance well trained.  I had to wait until after the wedding to school mine.” 

 

“Ian has an aversion to making decisions.  Ask him if he wants cream or sugar in his coffee, and he breaks out in a sweat!  One of the things that makes him so lovable is that he owns up to his flaws, and our relationship works in no small part because he trusts my judgment.”

 

Marilyn followed Sarah and Vickie into the office, where she extracted a thin file from her briefcase.  She laid it on the desk, and picking it up, Sarah was surprised to see that there was only one sheet of paper inside.  It was simply titled Memorandum of Understanding.  Rapidly reading the simple paragraphs, Sarah looked at Marilyn, her question obvious.

 

“Once Professor Grady signs the memorandum,” Marilyn explained, “it will shield him against further solicitation.  To use an analogy from professional sports, I become his agent, so he can simply redirect anyone approaching him to reach out to me.  We'll also give a copy of the memorandum to his department chair, whence it will make its way up to the Dean's office, and ultimately to the President's.  I'll have a more detailed contract drawn up and delivered to you on Friday afternoon.  You can take the weekend to look it over, but at its heart what the contract will be authorizing us to do is market Professor Grady to interested parties.  I can guarantee you that, within a week, he will have offers from three to seven different firms, each of which will be courting him with a substantial increase in pay.  If they wish to retain the Professor's services, it will be up to the Dean and the President to pony up the money for a significant raise.  These are intelligent individuals, Sarah, and in my experience, when pressed in this manner they can become remarkably creative.”

 

“We play the game the same way inside these walls,” Sarah observed, “but what I don't see is how you profit from this scheme.”

 

“If Professor Grady should accept one of the outside offers, the company in question will pay me a sum equivalent to thirty percent of his first year salary for my services.  If he stays put ...”  Marilyn smiled knowingly.  “If he stays put, the President's office will task us to locate suitable candidates for a number of administrative jobs, and when the university hires our candidates, we'll collect our customary thirty percent.”

 

“One hand washes the other.”  Vickie clapped her hands with delight.  “I like your style.”

 

“Thank you, Doctor Robinson … and if you ever want to change jobs, I would really enjoy representing you.  I like the cut of your cloth as well.”

 

“Speaking of cloth.”  Sarah looked knowingly at Vickie before reaching for a sheet of letterhead.  She needed only seconds to scribble a brief note for Ian, which she handed to Marilyn.  The recruiter laughed out loud when she read what Sarah had written:

 

Ian

 

Sign this.

 

Sarah

 

“I'll catch him during his afternoon office hours.  Do you want me to bother him with the outside offers, or bring them straight to you?”

 

“To me.”  There was no hesitancy in Sarah's voice at all.

 

.  .  .  .

 

After Marilyn left, it was time for Sarah to deal with Vickie's diaper change.  Dropping a changing pad on the floor, Sarah ordered Vickie to kick off her shoes, and then clasp her hands behind her neck.  When Vickie complied, Sarah unbuckled Vickie's pants and slid them down her legs.  Unlocking the canvas diaper cover, she lowered this and Vickie's baby pants as well.

 

Sarah reached out to run her hand over Vickie's diaper.  It was well and truly soaked, but when she peeked inside the rear, Sarah was mildly disappointed to discover that Vickie wasn't poopy.

 

The odd laxative in her breast milk will help things along, Sarah mused.

 

Sarah ordered Vickie to get down on the changing pad-- no easy task with her ankles trapped by her clothing, but using the desk for support, Vickie managed.  Sarah swiftly unpinned her sodden diaper, then got to work with wet wipes.  She was happy to see that Vickie's diaper rash was developing nicely; it would make the spanking that she would soon receive sting a great deal more.

 

Sarah already had Vickie's next diaper ready, but she grinned maliciously as she held it up to Vickie's face.

 

“The way you're wetting, baby girl, I thought it best to pin some baby diapers inside your adult diaper.  This way, you won't have to run down here every hour or so for another change.  Rita's right; the more often you come here, the more questions the staff is going to ask.”

 

Sarah had taken two baby diapers, folded them lengthwise to yield a panel four layers thick, and pinned it to the rear of the adult diaper.  She had done the same thing in the front, and since the two sets of diapers overlapped, there was now a panel eight layers thick in Vickie's crotch.

 

Efficiently applying baby powder and tightly pinning the diapers in place, Sarah slid the baby pants and diaper cover over Vickie's hips, then listened contentedly as the lock slid home.  Vickie quickly redressed, and Sarah banished her back to the seventh floor.       

 

If she manages to cum through a pad four layers thick, then the pad will increase to six and, if necessary, to eight.  No more cummies for you, baby girl, unless you have my permission!

 

Glancing at the clock, and remembering the time zone difference, Sarah decided that it would be a good time to try and reach her mother.  She dialed the number that bypassed the switchboard, and was relieved to hear Sofia's voice on the other end of the line.

 

“Hi, Mom … no, everything's good, although I could use your help.  Any chance you can come down this weekend?”

 

Sarah waited patiently, knowing that her mom would have to check both her work and personal calendars.  A hospital administrator's life was a busy one.

 

“You can?  That's great … and Saturday night would be fantastic … you can join the Circle!”

 

“No, Mom,” Sarah laughed, “you don't have to bring enough Pasties to feed us all!” 

 

Sarah would have bet a month's salary that her mother would make the offer.

 

“Mom, I've now got two babies on my hands, and I can barely manage.  Ian is shaping up nicely.  He signed the D/s contract, and last night I paddled him really hard, then made him eat me out.  It was mind blowing!  But he's still rebellious, so I need to know what to use that's safe but even more severe than the paddle.  And as for Vickie … I've got her in diapers 24/7, and within a day or two should have them doubling as a chastity belt, but she's much harder to control because she's not submissive at all, and she's probably used every toy in the marketplace.  What should I do?”

 

Sarah listened patiently, as her mother reeled off a series of suggestions.  She began frantically taking notes on a scratchpad.

 

“A paddle with holes?  Got it.  And a cane.  But you don't want me to use a whip because it's harder to control and can do a lot of damage to the kidneys.  Makes sense.  The three of us are going shopping for breast pumps this afternoon; do you think that shop out in the suburbs that you were telling me about sells the paddle you're describing?”

 

“It does?  And for sure they sell canes?  Outstanding!”

 

“Thanks, Mom,” Sarah concluded.  “It's time for me to take the gloves off!”

 

CIRCLING THE WAGONS

 

Easy money.

 

Before she opened the door to Ian's classroom, Priscilla would have cheerfully bet a month's salary that Suzie Marshall and the PISS tribe would be waiting inside, predators on the hunt for fresh prey.

 

But that would be a sucker's bet, and alas, there's never a sucker around when you need one.

 

Sure enough.  Suzie was camped out in the front row, and some fifty coeds were spread around the room.  A few of the obviously puzzled male students were standing in twos and threes near the blackboard, looking for all the world like circled wagons awaiting the Indian attack.  The rest had scattered, to end up sitting singly or in pairs-- a testament to Suzie's tactical genius.

 

PISS must have got here first.  It can't be coincidence that the girls are seated in a checkerboard pattern that makes it impossible for the boys to form a group.  Suzie definitely knows how to conduct an orchestra …

 

Ian's morning office hour had gone smoothly.  Coeds entered his office at roughly five minute intervals, but none of them had reemerged with a resume in hopeful hand.  Ian was done playing that particular game, and yet it was a testament to his people skills that none of the girls looked upset, never mind angry, when they walked out of his office.

 

Sarah must have really let him have it last night.  Some of the bruising on his bottom looked really nasty …

 

Priscilla had bottle fed him shortly before noon, and then changed his diaper for the second time.  She had used a moisturizing lotion to coat the bruises, and then doused his bottom liberally with baby powder.  She reckoned that he was able to sit only because his diaper was so thick.

 

I need to have a talk with her on Saturday night.  Even in a BDSM relationship, there have to be limits …

 

Strolling casually to the front of the classroom, Priscilla sat down next to Suzie, and the two exchanged ritual greetings.  Suzie otherwise remained quiet, waiting for her to make the first move.

 

“Suzie, Ian and I are both grateful for your help, and for the hours that the girls are spending on his behalf.  He wants to show his gratitude for all the effort that's gone into fending off the headhunters, and we have both noted that your sorority has taken a keen interest in his students.  What he has in mind is an end of term party hosted by your girls, with the boys in his classes being the guests of honor.  If you can manage it, I'll make sure that campus police have other things to do that night, although I do want your word that you'll keep the racket down to a dull roar.”

 

“The last final will finish at noon on Saturday the fifteenth.  That gives me a little over two weeks to prepare … ample time.  Thank you, Officer Canon-- and if you can ditch the uniform, you would be welcome to join us.  Your presence would help me keep the lid on.”

 

The two women shook hands, each hoping that this was the beginning of a new and more productive relationship.

 

“We can flesh out the details on Saturday night,” Suzie added.  “Do you think the Circle has an initiation ceremony?  It's been a long time since my last ritual spanking!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“How's your rear end holding up?”

 

“Vickie???”

 

“In the flesh.  Hello, Mark, how's life treating you these days?”

 

“Same old, same old.  Six days a week at the office, and soccer practice on the seventh.  When I want to have sex with Natalie, I have to make an appointment.”

 

“It sounds like you need a break from the routine.  How about drinks at our usual haunt sometime next week?  I need your professional advice, and I would be happy to compensate you in the usual manner!”

 

“Uh, Vic, you know that I'm a patent attorney, right?  I mean, if you need a criminal attorney, I can give you a referral, but it's not my line of work.”

 

“Cute, Mark, very cute, but it's your expertise that I desire … well, that and a close encounter of the first kind with your tight little ass.”

 

“Intriguing all the way around.  What in the hell could I possibly do for you … I mean, professionally speaking?”

 

“One of my patients is a vet, with a remarkable gift.  He speaks Vietnamese fluently, and he's been helping us treat other vets with serious mental health issues.  The results have been spectacular.  To make a long story short, with the help of one of our orderlies who has been able to contribute a few choice phrases of his own, Ian has cobbled together a tape of Vietnamese phrases-- the really obscene kind of stuff that guys heard walking the perimeter at night.  We want to run it by the VA … see if they're interested in playing with it in their own facilities.  But before we get there, I thought that it would be a good idea to protect Ian by taking out a patent on his work.”

 

“It wouldn't be a patent, Vic.  Somebody else already has the patent for both the recorder and the tape.  What you're after is copyright protection for the contents of the recording itself, and if the content's obscene, that's going to be tricky.  In '73, Miller versus California, the Supreme Court ruled five to four that obscenity cannot be copyrighted unless it demonstrably possesses literary, artistic, political or scientific value.  I take it you would be claiming scientific value?”

 

“You see,” Vickie laughed, “I told you that I needed your expertise!”

 

“Victoria … my Dear, you have just taken a sledgehammer to 'same old, same old'.  But let's do this on the up and up.  Let me check my schedule ...”

 

Mark began riffling through the pages of his desk calendar.

 

“How about Wednesday next?  Your office … say five to five thirty.  Can you get the two principals to come along?”

 

“Shouldn't be a problem.  Professor Grady's work day ends at three, and Amos is second shift.  I can have both of them in our office ready and waiting.”

 

“Your source is a university professor?”

 

“Yep, and a decorated, disabled combat veteran.  A Major in Special Forces.”

 

Mark whistled.  “Talk about checking all the right boxes!  Can't wait to see you again-- and afterwards the drinks will be on me!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

Priscilla caught up with Ian as he was walking through the door, and hastily took him aside.         

 

“Suzie is on board with your idea of a party at the sorority house.  She suggests the evening of the fifteenth, the Saturday that ends finals week.  Why don't you invite her up to make the announcement?”

 

“Will do … and thanks, Priscilla.  I couldn't have pulled this off without your help.”

 

Already a minute or two late, Ian hustled to the podium, where he nevertheless took his time laying out his notes to give the students who had been clustered at the blackboard a chance to find seats.  Without exception, each ended up squeezed between two sorority girls.

 

Finally, he looked up, and smiled at the throng.  “As some of you know,” he began, “I was born, raised, and educated in southern California.  Out there in the Land of the Lotus Eaters, we tend to do things a little differently.  Roughly translated, that means that we party a heck of a lot harder than those of you who were born and raised up here on the frozen tundra.  I have taught Honors seminars in beer joints, and graded exams while lounging on my surfboard.  My last course this past Spring, I kept the A's and B's, and tossed everything else into the ocean.  My department chair was seriously unhappy about that.”

 

Ian grinned mischievously at his class.  “Stan's really serious about environmental pollution, but then he lives in Beverly Hills, and has never seen Hong Kong's harbor or the river that runs through Saigon, never mind the somewhat colorful hotels that I've been known to frequent in Saharan Africa.”

 

Chuckles erupted around the room, and a few students clapped their hands in approval.

 

“Anyway, boldly going where no professor here in flyover country has apparently gone before, I have asked Miss Marshall and the young ladies of the Pi Iota Sigma sorority to host a party on your behalf to celebrate the end of term-- but of course we do need your approval.  Ladies ...”

 

Ian nodded in the direction of the only two women actually enrolled in his class …

 

“And Gentlemen, what sayest thou?”

 

Whatever Ian was about to say next was drowned out in a cacophony of enthusiastic albeit largely inarticulate noise.  Still, he took advantage of the chaos, walking over to extend his hand and help Suzie to her feet.  Arm in arm, he guided her to the podium., then stepped aside to allow her to address the throng.  Looking around the room, it was obvious that he had taken the sorority girls as well as his own students completely by surprise.

 

“It looks like everyone wants to party,” he whispered into Suzie's ear.

 

Suzie's only response was to wrap her arm around Ian's waist, and rest her head for a moment on his shoulder.

 

“Thank you, Professor,” she finally replied.  Suzie was beaming as she gazed out at the assembly, but she was thinking that Ian was a dream come true.

 

“The next time that I'm hauled into the Dean's office to hear another tiresome lecture on the outrageous lifestyle being celebrated up and down Sorority Row,” she began, “I'll encourage the Dean to seek out more faculty born, raised and educated in southern California-- men and women who, like Professor Grady, understand that life's lessons are not taught in classrooms but in the surrounding community!  Finals end at noon on Saturday the fifteenth … we'll begin celebrating the end of term at seven, and you are all invited!”

 

The room erupted with a roar that drowned out whatever Ian or Suzie wanted to say next.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Hanging up the phone, Vickie was still debating her next move.

 

First things first.

 

Standing up, Vickie reached around to check for wet spots on the back of her pants.  She knew that she hadn't messed, but she had released a few tentative squirts of pee during her late morning session with a middle aged professional woman who had suffered a nervous breakdown at work.  She had been plugging away in her cubicle, dealing with the latest disaster forwarded to her desk by an incompetent sales rep out in the field, when she had suddenly stood up and started screaming that the missiles were incoming and they were all going to die.  The corporation's resident nurse had given her an injection to put her out of her misery, and an ambulance had brought her to the ER.  After the requisite lab draws, she had been shipped to the seventh floor.

 

Vickie sadly shook her head as she thought about the lab report.  The cortisol reading was off the charts, and the woman was seriously overweight.  She needed less caffeine and a great deal more exercise.

 

Don't we all.

Vickie knew that she was procrastinating.  Knowing that Mark regularly ate lunch at his desk, she had used calling him as an excuse to avoid going down to the cafeteria with Rita, but it was really Sarah who she wanted to avoid.  The three of them always dined together, but Vickie wasn't ready to deal with clever allusions to her diapered state, and at all costs she wanted to put off her next visit to Sarah's office as long as possible.  At least two baby bottles awaited her, and she had no illusions about what another sixteen to eighteen ounces of breast milk would mean for her diapers.

 

But Vickie was hungry, and so she made a spur of the moment decision to venture across the road and treat herself to something sinful in the delicatessen.  A reuben, a bit of potato salad and a large pickle would do her nicely.  An iced tea also sounded good.

 

Retreating to the locker room, Vickie donned her winter coat, and then headed for the elevator.  She got off at the first floor, and walked to the main exit.  The deli was directly across the road, and she noted with satisfaction that the snow had been beaten down by the steady stream of doctors and nurses who had made the trek over the last hour. 

 

There's only so much cafeteria food that the human animal can be expected to eat!

 

,  .  .  .

 

Julia took another sip of the steaming hot coffee, and sighed contentedly.  Her morning had gone exactly as she had anticipated.  She had waited for the Lullaby Diaper Service truck at the first stop where the driver would be leaving fresh diapers on the porch, but   no thief had shown up to haul them away.  By eleven, she had watched and waited at three additional stops, with the same negative results.  Not knowing whether she was under observation or not, she had decided to keep with her original plan and call off the surveillance.  She had taken her time driving to the office, trying to time the lights so that anyone following her would have to run a red to keep up.

 

She had seen nothing unusual in her rear view mirror.

 

At the office, nothing had changed since her last appearance.  Pat was still salivating over the latest issue of Hustler, and Andrew was attacking a crossword puzzle.  He looked up when she walked through the door.

 

“Happen to know the Swahili word for 'freedom',” he asked; “five letters.”

 

Julia shrugged off her coat and dropped it on an empty chair.  Her purse came next.

 

“Think Star Trek,” she enigmatically replied.  Sitting down at her desk, she fed a sheet of paper into the typewriter, and got to work.  She logged the first day's activities on the Lullaby case in thirty minute blocks, starting at five thirty in the morning and closing out twelve and a half hours later.  Julia did not minimize how badly she had been outwitted, but she would still charge Spats Belmondo nine hundred, thirty seven dollars and fifty cents for her time.  She appended a separate expense account, billing what amounted to nothing more than the cost of running her beater all over town.  At thirty-eight cents per mile, Tuesday's outing would add another nineteen dollars and seventy-six cents to the total.  Julia made a mental note to call Harriet and let her know that her uncle would need to fork over more dough.  Win, lose or draw, she reckoned that another thousand would cover Wednesday's charges.

 

Glancing at her watch, Julia decided to head downstairs and grab a bite to eat before heading over to the hospital.  She had two very different subjects to discuss with Doctor Rita Stevenson, and she was not at all sure how to broach one of them.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Vickie knew the drill: shout out your order, listen for a grudging acknowledgment, fork over money to a cashier who somehow knew exactly what you had coming, and then mill around waiting for that magical moment when your food materialized somewhere on the long counter separating the sandwich kings from their customers. 

 

That's when the fun began.  At lunchtime, the deli was always crowded, so you grabbed a seat wherever you could find one.  And if you couldn't … well, that's what long counters were really all about.

 

Scanning the room, Vickie spotted Julia Canon sitting at a corner table nursing a coffee, and the seat opposite her was vacant!  As the two women recognized one another, Julia gracefully gestured for Vickie to join her.

 

“Need a respite from cafeteria food?”  Julia didn't know Vickie's dining habits, but it was a safe bet that she regularly ate lunch in the bowels of the hospital.

 

“Hump days are the worst,” Vickie lamented.  “This is my port in the storm.  But what brings you here?”

 

“Oh, my office is directly overhead.”

 

“Really?  “Aardvark, Platypus, and Twinkletoes, Attorneys at Law?  What … do you play Paul Drake for the Perry Mason trio?”

 

“Actually, I'm Twinkletoes … and yes, I'm a practicing attorney as well as a licensed PI.”

 

“Wow!  That must lead to some interesting conflicts of interest.  But you know what's really funny?  I just got off the phone with an attorney downtown-- Mark's an old friend specializing in patents and copyrights, and he's going to help me figure out what to do with a tape that Ian … that Professor Grady has put together to help us treat vets who brought Viet Nam home with them.  He's been helping us the same way that he's been helping you.”

 

“Mark Chambrey?”

 

“You know him?”

 

“We've consulted a few times.  Our firm specializes in divorce, but the PI work has led me down some pretty strange paths.”

 

“Like chasing a gang of diaper thieves?”  Vickie laughed; the idea that people were running around the Twin Cities stealing diapers off of people's porches in the dead of winter sounded like something straight out of Monty Python.  “How's it going?  Any new leads?”

 

“No.  I've hit a dead end.  After lunch, I thought that I'd wander across the road and try and talk with your Doctor Stevenson.  A psychiatrist might see something that I've missed, and my husband thinks highly of Rita.”

 

“Oh, that's right; Priscilla said something about your husband being a cop, and Rita spends far too much time in courtrooms.”

 

“Um,” Julia mumbled, taking refuge in her coffee cup.

 

“Well, if you're not in a hurry, you can walk over with me, and I'll make the introductions.”

 

“No hurry.  And if at all possible, I'd like you to join us.  There's something else that I need to talk about … something that concerns you both.”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Iced tea,” Rita mused.  “Are we ahead of the game trading caffeine for sugar?”

 

“Baby steps,” Sarah answered as she stirred the long spoon in her glass.  “Less coffee, more tea … less sugar, more lemon?  Let's face it; this isn't going to be easy because were addicted to the stuff.”

 

Rita and Sarah were sharing lunch, with Vickie notable for her absence.  The three of them had been so tight for so long that, when one of them went missing, it was remarked upon by their colleagues.  Every time Rita looked around, puzzled looks awaited her.

 

“Do you get the feeling that we're fish in a fish bowl,” she whispered to Sarah.

 

“One of the Three Mouseketeers is AWOL,” Sarah whispered in return.  “Where the hell is Vickie?”

 

“Don't know,” Rita shrugged.  “She said that she had to make a phone call, and then she disappeared.  Maybe she's avoiding us.”

 

“More like avoiding the bottles of nice, warm breast milk that are waiting for her upstairs.  No matter.  I'll feed her when I change her.”

 

“So you were serious about that?”

 

“Absolutely.  Rita, do the math.  If all three of us lactate, we'll produce far more milk than Ian can consume and as long as there's alcohol and caffeine in our systems, we can't donate the surplus to the milk bank.  So, it's either throw it out, become teetotalers, or drink it ourselves.  I suspect that we'll all be drinking it in the end, but right now I want to start with Vickie.  She's a loose cannon, and we've got to get her under control.  The diapers will keep her chaste, but her drinking poses a much bigger challenge.  I don't know what to do about it.”

 

Rita slowly nodded her head in agreement.  “Vic's a people person, and the very qualities that make her such a fine therapist are the ones that most threaten our new household.  Now that she's in diapers, I want to keep her there-- but I don't want to undermine the high regard in which our staff hold her.  That's why I think it's best for me to diaper her in my office, rather than having her run downstairs several times a day to see you.  And separate and apart from the drinking, I love the idea of bottle feeding her; it will reinforce my authority as her 'auntie Rita'.”

 

Rita tapped the tabletop decisively.  “Okay, let's go ahead and convert the third bedroom into a nursery.  I'll schedule a crew to set up Vickie's crib late this afternoon, and it will only take them a few minutes to move Ian's crib and the changing table.  Her furniture can all go into storage; really, the only thing she'll need out of her apartment is her cosmetics and clothing.”

 

“Don't forget the restraints … full sets for both cribs.  When they're naughty, they're going straight over our knees … I assume that you're good with spanking, even paddling them?”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

“And then it's straight into their cribs, with locking mittens, locking pacifiers and full restraints … Mom's got a catalog from a place out in California that I plan to give a lot of business!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

Going upstairs, Rita made a detour to Sarah's office, pausing just long enough to collect a key to Vickie's diaper cover, several bottles of breast milk, and a sampling of the thinner Lullaby diapers.  It only took her a couple of minutes to grab a diaper pail from her department's stockroom, along with several of the thick hospital diapers that Vickie would now be constantly wearing whenever she was not on shift.  Their shelves were also well stocked with vinyl pants, pins, powder, and everything else that the staff needed for their heavily diapered patients in the secure ward.  For the time being, the rug in Rita's office would have to double as a changing mat.

 

Rita smiled as she took stock of the locking mittens, feeding gags, and heavy restraints that were stashed in various bins around the room.  Equipping the nursery at home for two babies would be no problem at all.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“This is a secure facility,” Vickie explained, “so the door can only be opened with a six number code.  Staff can enter it on this pad ...”

 

Vickie paused while she entered the number …

 

“Or you can use the telephone.  A member of staff will check you out ...”

 

Vickie pointed at the camera high on the wall that covered the entry …

 

“Press a button, and presto, you gain admission.”

 

She opened the door when she heard the lock buzz, and checked to make sure it closed properly once the two of them were inside.

 

“The secure ward has a similar door, but with a different code.  We've never had a patient escape, although a few have tried.”

 

“I'm impressed,” Julia remarked; “modern jails have a lot more doors, but the underlying principle is the same.”

 

“Let's meet the boss,” Vickie said as she knocked on Rita's open door.  “We've got company … Detective Julia Canon, also known as Twinkletoes, Attorney at Law … Doctor Rita Stevenson, the senior charge nurse responsible for our little corner of the world.”

 

Vickie dropped into her usual chair, and gestured for Julia to take the other seat.

 

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” Julia began.  “Herb, my husband, speaks highly of you.  The police department values the work that you've done over the years, especially in the courtroom.”

 

“It's been a while since your husband and I last crossed paths,” Rita smiled.  “Is Herb still riding a desk?”

 

“Yes, and he's still unhappy about it.  He complains constantly about his waistline.”

 

“Don't we all,” Rita laughed.  “Anyway, what can I do for you?”

 

“A couple of things.  Monday, I was hired by the owner of Lullaby Diaper Service to track down a gang of thieves following their delivery truck around town.  The thieves are stealing the deliveries off the porch, which is where the driver leaves them when there's no one home.  Yesterday I trailed the truck, and explored the neighborhoods around the houses most at risk, looking for unusual activity.  I was thorough, and saw nothing untoward.  As it happened, the thieves only hit one house, and it was the one at which I took the most elaborate measures.  Obviously, they spotted me, and went out of their way to rub my nose in it.  So, they're smart and well organized, and I'm hoping that the two of you can give me an insight into their mindset.  I'm setting a trap for them at your Professor Grady's apartment this afternoon, but if they don't show up, I'll be at a dead end.”

 

Rita and Vickie simply looked at one another.  Each had dealt with kleptomaniacs in the past, but diaper theft had been limited to the occasional troubled individual ripping off  neighborhood clothes lines.  Brassieres, panties … the public at large had no idea how common this sort of opportunity theft really was.

 

“Well,” Rita began, “if you were dealing with an individual, I'd say that it's someone with a compulsive diaper fetish … someone who's too ashamed to go to a medical supply store and simply buy what he needs.”

 

“He?” 

 

“Paraphilic infantilists are rarely female,” Vickie noted.  “It's a guy thing.”

 

“But you're sure that you are dealing with two or more people?”

 

“Positive … and at least two vehicles, probably using car phones to stay in communication.  A spotter, and the actual thief.”

 

“Hmm.”  Rita considered the possibilities.  “Employees with a beef, past or present?”

 

Julia emphatically shook her head.  “It's a small company, but it's well organized and well managed.  Nothing leaps out of the company files, and I've gone through the last ten years.  And there have only been three written complaints; the most recent is seven years old.”

 

Vickie repeatedly tapped her lips with her index finger, a nervous habit that only surfaced when she was deep in thought.  “With Christmas approaching, ordinarily I'd say that it's a team hoping to grab expensive gifts that they can pawn or resell.  But there's no aftermarket for diapers, so it has to be something else.  A prank, maybe?  An elaborate joke at the owner's expense?  Who owns Lullaby?”

 

“His name is Vincent Belmondo, although he's more commonly known as Spats Belmondo.”

 

Julia could see from the blank looks on both their faces that Rita and Vickie had never heard of the gangster.

 

“Think the Al Capone of the Twin Cities.”

 

“Al Capone deals in diapers?”  Vickie was beginning to think that the joke was on her and Rita.

 

“Apparently it's a very profitable business.  Lullaby services nursing homes throughout the Metro, in addition to residential customers like your … uh … like your boyfriend.”  Julia was still trying to come to grips with the fact that the two psychiatrists were happily in love with the same guy, and willing to share him with still another member of the staff, to whom he would soon be married.

 

Different strokes for different folks …

 

“Anyway, the thieves have picked on the wrong guy.  If I strike out, Spats will keep looking, and bad things happen to his enemies.  Shallow graves in the woods north of Ely … wood chippers … a tasty snack for pigs on a farm down in Iowa … bad things.”

 

“So we're dealing with adults, and neither sex nor money seems to be the motivating factor.”  Vickie was still thinking out loud.  “Could it be a dare … maybe an initiation of some kind?  Have you checked to see if there are any other weird items being stolen this way?  Maybe there's a list of things that have to be stolen and handed over in order to join the secret society.  When I was rushing my sorority, we had to go out and milk a cow, then bring the milk back for the cat that was running around the house.  It was gross, but we did it.”

 

“A sorority.”  Julia blinked as the memory came rushing back.  “It's odd that you should say that because the only false note yesterday was a pair of college aged girls who were definitely in the wrong part of town when our paths crossed.  They were so out of place that I took down their license plate and had my husband run it through the DMV.  Sure enough … the car belonged to a nineteen year from New Ulm named Tippi Bjornsen.”

 

“Tippi?”  Rita could only shake her head.  “With a name like that?  If she ever decides to shoot her parents, I'll testify in her defense.”

 

“Doctor Robinson, you were in a sorority.  Is it possible for some kind of ritual … an initiation or something like it … to occur this late in the term?”

 

“Not to my knowledge, but keep in mind that I graduated twelve years ago.  The person you need to talk to is my arch rival, Suzie Marshall.  She's  the Pi Iota Sigma house mother.”

 

“Priscilla has mentioned her … in fact, Priscilla is planning to give Suzie a ride to Doctor Stevenson's house on Saturday night to join this circle of yours.  The two of them have a complicated relationship, which is par for the course between campus cops and the house mothers and fathers on the Row.”

 

“Missus Canon ...”

 

“Julia, please.”

 

“Thank you,” Rita continued.  “And we're Rita and Vickie.  We don't stand on a lot of ceremony around here.”

 

“We try and establish a rapport with our patients,” Vickie explained.  “Our titles simply get in the way, so we don't use them.  We leave that sort of thing to the jerks down in the surgery suites.”

 

“And you should join us,” Rita finished as she fished out a business card that had her home address and telephone number hand written on the back.  “Saturday nights are when we let our hair down.”

 

“I'd like to come, but you might want to change your mind when you hear what else I have to say.”

 

Once again, Rita and Vickie silently exchanged looks.

 

“Go on,” Rita finally said.

 

“It's about your boyfriend … Professor Grady.”

 

Again, Rita and Vickie remained silent, waiting for the detective to continue.

 

“How much do either of you know about him?  How much does Sarah … his fiancee … know?

 

     

 

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