Stork Raving Mad: A Meg Langslow Mystery (A Meg Lanslow Mystery)

pocket when I slipped it into the charger on my nightstand.
    “What a negative person!” I looked up to see Rose Noire returning from the library. Evidently she hadn’t lingered to chat with Dr. Wright. “I should start the cleansing now.”
    “Make it an exorcism,” I said. “Maybe you can chase her out.”
    Rose Noire giggled at that, and returned to the kitchen in better spirits. I speed dialed my brother, Rob. Although he was devoid of any skill with computers or talent for business, his uncanny ability to come up with ideas that would turn into popular computer games had catapulted him into his present role as CEO and chief game theorist at Mutant Wizards, now an industry leader in designing what his head of public relations referred to as “infotainment.”
    Right now Rob’s easy access to technologically savvy people was just what I needed.
    “Hey,” he said, as he answered his phone. “Do I have nieces and/or nephews yet?”
    “Alas, no,” I said. “Soon, but not yet.”
    “You don’t want to wait too long,” Rob said. “Don’t do to them what Mother did to me and stick them with a birthday too close to Christmas.”
    Rob’s upcoming mid-December birthday had always been a sore spot with him. He was convinced that everyone ignored his birthday, giving him a slightly larger Christmas present in lieu of two presents, so that his overall present haul sufferedgreatly. I was five years older and remembered events quite differently—it seemed to me that our parents had gone to great lengths to throw him quite elaborate birthday parties, and that our friends and relatives had brought heaps of presents out of pity for the poor December birthday boy.
    But what seemed to matter decades later was his perception, not what really happened. For that matter, how could I be sure my own perception wasn’t off base?
    “If you like, I’ll jog around the yard a few times after I hang up. See if I can bring on labor before the holidays get any closer,” I said. “Right now, though, I need something.”
    “Your wish is my command,” he said. “What do you need?”
    “A tame hacker.”
    A small pause followed. I sipped my ginger ale as I waited for him.
    “What for?” he asked. “Nothing illegal, I hope. Don’t you just mean a techie?”
    “I want someone who’s absolutely expert at working with the college data systems,” I said. “You know Ramon? Grad student who’s been staying with us?”
    “Of course,” he said. “The one directing the play. With the gorgeous girlfriend.”
    “Gorgeous girlfriend?”
    “Bronwyn Jones. She plays the prostitute with the heart of gold in the play. If she wasn’t spoken for . . .”
    So that was her name. I’d already marked her down as a potential ally.
    “Getting back to Ramon,” I said. “Some creeps from the collegemight be trying to pull a fast one and lose some forms that he needs to have filed for his dissertation.”
    “Typical. Jerks.”
    “So I want someone who can comb the college systems for useful information. Proof that Ramon’s forms were submitted, if such a thing exists. Or proof that the creeps are trying to pull a fast one. I’d prefer finding stuff that’s legitimately available, but don’t find me anyone with too many scruples. If we exhaust the legit sources . . .”
    “Yeah, I get it,” he said. “If they’re sending e-mails to each other saying, ‘Okay, let’s sabotage this Soto kid and that will help us prevent that horrible Michael Waterston from getting tenure,’ you want to know about it. I think I know just the person, and he’s probably already there. Have you met Danny Oh? That’s O-H, last name, not a nickname.”
    “Not that I know of—should I have?”
    “He’s only been living in your basement for three weeks,” Rob said. “One of our student interns. Remember when I asked if I could have some of the interns live in the basement until the heat came back on in the dorms?”
    “I’d forgotten, actually,” I said. “It’s been weeks since I went down into the basement.”
    “Probably just as well,” he said. “It’s taken on a sort of frat-house ambiance. Nothing we can’t fix with a few trash bags, of course,” he added quickly. “But you might want to let me call Danny and have him come up to the ground floor.”
    “Call him and brief him,” I said. “And tell him I’ll drop down to his lair to see him a little later. I need him at his computer,not doing the flamenco in