Bleeding Hearts. Lindy Cameron

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      "Oh sorry," Kit said. "Erin - the journalist, this is Brigit and Del - the publishers, that is Tony the phonejacker, I am Kit the PI, and the waiting barman is...um, Victoria Bitter, according to his hat."

      "Phil," said the barman.

      "Phil," Kit repeated, handing him a fifty and hoping there'd be some change. "Have you got a plastic bag I could have for the evidence?"

      "Sure. I'll find you one from somewhere," he said obligingly, pretending he didn't know, had never known and didn't want to know the now-ex-waiter sitting morosely at the end of his bar.

      "No, the local paper," Erin was saying to Del. "The St Kilda Star."

      "You may be interested to know that Brigit mistook you for a Bohemian earlier," Kit said. "Mind you, she also thought you were ogling her."

      "Brigit Wells, I do not ogle," Erin said, catching the Miranda-nuance quite well. "However, had I known how good you were at dealing with unwanted men I would have made an exception."

      "She's in training for the 'knock down a waiter' event for the Gay Games," Del said, putting a loving arm around Brigit's shoulders. "In her next class they learn how to pick up two at a time and slam dunk them into a giant ice bucket."

      "Only the very bad ones," Brigit snarled at Tony. "So Erin," she added, "what's with all the news?"

      "What do you mean?" Erin asked.

      "You know, the news - why is it always bad?"

      Erin laughed. "Buggered if I know. But you obviously haven't seen the front page of the latest St Kilda Star - or you wouldn't say that."

      "They live in Hawthorn and work in Richmond," Kit explained, giving a nod of thanks to Phil for the plastic bag he handed her.

      Erin shrugged. "I'm sure you'd all still appreciate the sweet justice embodied in this particular front page photo because it's a known fact that every local council has its own Thorough-Going Bastard. We have a perfectly composed, unposed irate pic of our TGB, or rather a pic of our irate TGB and the truckload of cow shit that was dumped on his front lawn - courtesy of a wonderfully disgruntled ratepayer. It made my day. That man is such a prick."

      "Want me to deal with him for you?" Brigit asked sweetly, punching her fist into her palm.

      "Oh would you? That would make my year."

      "Well I never! It's Katherine," a now very familiar voice called out from across the bar. "Imagine meeting you twice in one day."

      "Yeah, small world. Um...?" Kit replied, snapping her fingers, as if to jog her memory. She smiled at Rebecca Jones, Sally Shaw and Carmel Fisher while she snapped and mumbled "undercover" to Brigit, who was now doing her own ogling.

      "Rebecca," said Rebecca, with a half smile. "You remember Carmel, from lunch? And this is my friend Sally."

      Kit gave a wave.

      Brigit said, in awe: "You're Rebecca Jones," and then turned to Kit. "How could you not..."

      Kit plunged her hand between Brigit's thighs, which shut her friend up quick smart.

      "What's her problem?" Sally asked Rebecca, with a nod in Kit's direction.

      Rebecca rolled her eyes. "Maybe we'll catch up later, Katherine," she suggested, recognising the cover-blowing potential of the situation. Carmel, luckily, was busy talking alcohol with Barman Phil. Rebecca smiled and dragged Sally away. Hopefully, Kit thought, to have serious words with her.

      "Are you playing with my woman?" Del asked Kit.

      "Not exactly," Kit replied, trying to remove her hand. "Your woman has very strong thighs though. You can let go now, Brigie."

      "Oh," Brigit sulked. "I thought my luck had changed. But what's with you? How come you didn't recognise Rebecca Jones? Come to think of it, how come she did recognise you?"

      "Sorry, it's a need to know situation, Brigie," Kit grinned. "I tried to tell you I was undercover, but being gobsmacked apparently makes you deaf."

      "Undercover? Wow! Are you investigating her?" she whispered.

      Kit sighed. "No Brigit darling, I'm not. But I can't tell you what I am doing, so don't ask. Please."

      "Okay. But you know her, right? And she knows you. You know each other."

      "Yes, yes and yes," Kit replied. "Oh look, a policeman. Evening Officer."

      "O'Malley," growled a dishevelled and unshaven man, modelling the very latest in shouldn't be worn by anyone, ever, suits.

      "Everyone, this is Detective-Sergeant Simmons; Simmo this is everyone. The bad guy is Tony the pencil-dick in the corner," Kit said, pointing at the wet waiter who was now starting to look really depressed.

      "Oh," she added, "just in case he tries to sue me for unnecessary verbal abuse or something later, the genital reference is not an insult - well, it is - but it's also a description of the offender given by a pretty reliable eyewitness. But enough of that, why are you here Simmo? This should be a uniform job."

      "I'm here because you are O'Malley. I was at the desk when the call came in, I had to see if the O'Malley was you."

      "Well, as you can see - it is," Kit acknowledged, raising her hands and wiggling her fingers. "And it's good to see you too."

      Simmons laughed. "Yeah, right. So what gives?"

      "Well, this is the evidence," Kit explained, handing Simmons the plastic bag of stolen goods. "Tony there was caught red-handed with these items, all stolen from the patrons this evening who will no doubt want them back ASAP. You'd better speak to the owner of the gallery, one Miranda Prentice, who will, I'm sure, lodge a complaint against this perp for prior instances of similar theft on other Tuesday evenings."

      Simmons tugged on his trousers to pull them up but, as he'd neglected to do any exercise for at least 15 years, the action only achieved a jelly-wobble of his beer gut. His pants went nowhere.

      "Good show then, O'Malley," he said.

      "Actually, it was Brigit here who witnessed the theft and apprehended the Tony," Kit explained.

      "We'll need a statement," Simmons said to Brigit. "The uniform guys out the front can take it now, if you like."

      "I'm happy to oblige," Brigit pronounced, sliding off her stool.

      Simmons beckoned to Tony. "Do I need to cuff you?"

      "No, sir, Detective. Um, no," Tony replied, approaching cautiously.

      "Good. Because I'm really serious about this: don't try anything stupid - like making a run for it," Simmons drawled. "I hate crooks that run. If you run, I won't chase you; I'll just shoot you. You got that?"

      "Yeah. I swear I won't run. But you're not the one I'm worried about." Tony glared at Brigit.

      "Good," Simmo said. "Thanks again, O'Malley. Ah, Brigit is it, if you'd come with me."

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