A reporter at bay:

Sylvia Hunt, Lifestyles reporter for The Denver Post, darts inside a closet when a psychologist returns while she burgles his office. The owner of a neighboring hair salon diverts his attention.

                                                                  (...excerpt)

            The psychologist stood in the doorway with his back to Sylvia. She closed the closet and pressed her ear to the cheap partition.

            “I’m glad to hear it,” said the female voice. “I hoped you’d be alone.” 
            Sylvia frowned. The intruder had crossed the outer office to enter into the inner sanctum. 
            “I propose a neighborly swap,” said the woman, inflecting “swap” into a lewd caress. “In exchange for one of your fancy hypnotic sessions, I’ll give you the works—shampoo, haircut, blow dry, manicure, and Shiatsu massage. In fact, I’ve got an hour to kill, and you’ve got a vacant divan. Lock your front door, and we’ll haggle a bit.”

            Sylvia imagined his lopsided grin when he made an appreciative murmur.

            “I’d love to, but I’m committed to an interview in thirty minutes, and I'm in dire need of good P.R. On the other hand, the office might be closed for another week but not the divan. We could enter into prolonged negotiations if you’re willing.”

            “How long is prolonged, and what if we run out of details to iron out?” The woman snickered. “Oh well, I’m sure something will pop up if we use our heads.”

            Crouched behind the door, Sylvia rolled her eyes over their juvenile giggles.

             “By the way,” said the woman, “is the reporter a redhead? I saw one a little while ago lurking on the sidewalk and acting odd.”

            She held her breath.

            “Yes. Why do you ask?”

            “Where did she go? I didn’t see her leave?”

            “What was she doing?”

            Sylvia felt a sudden urge to pee.

            “Talking to herself,” said the stylist, “and stamping out cigarettes as fast as she could light them. Are you sure she’s safe?”

            “She has issues,” he said, sounding amused, “which I addressed in her treatment.”

            Their voices muddied as he escorted the woman through the outer office. Soon he returned, apparently talking to himself. 

            “Not bad,” he said. “Not as lush as Hunt, but not bad at all.”

            Her eyes bugged open. No one ever called her lush before.

            “Hey babe,” he said a moment later, “how’s my sexy Yum-Yum?”

     She gaped. Another one? He wasn't that good looking.

            “I thought so,” he said, probably talking to his wife on the phone. “I was halfway to the coroner's when I realized I left it on the desk, so I came back to give you a call…It doesn't matter. I’ll drop them off after dodging Hunt...In twenty minutes for lunch…Perfect! She fell for it just like you said she would. Gandhi, the guilt trip, everything. She even agreed to do sit ups ups whenever she feels inadequate.”

            After a pause, he roared with laughter.

            “You’re right! We could put them on a mountain and turn them loose. I’d put my money on the redhead. The tree-hugger is tough, but Hunt grew up with a sister from Hell. If she ever finds herself, she’d be a holy terror...Don’t worry. I’ll be the soul of discretion. Gandhi should sabotage her cutthroat ethics, but why take chances? Besides, my concentration must be slipping. Not only did I forget the phone, I left the office unlocked.”

     She wanted to charge from the closet, punch the prick in the nose, and tell him where to shove his phony kindness and computerized toys.

     “Do you think so?” he said. “How would she know where to look?”

     Her innards flopped as she guessed his meaning.

     “It’s easy enough to check.”

     Footsteps approached the closet, and the door flew open. He switched on the light, moved to the outer cabinet, and rummaged in the bottom drawer.

     “Don’t worry,” he told his wife. “It’s where I left it.”

     He flicked off the light and closed the door. Jammed between the back wall and inner cabinet, Sylvia started to breathe again. She grabbed the cabinet to pull herself free and catch more of the marital chat.  

     “Good idea,” he said. “I’ll do it now. Then I’ve got to run. I'll order something dead for lunch to gauge her reaction. If Gandhi took root already, she might turn green and sick up on her plate.”

     She stifled a groan. Like a fool, she had let him implant a celibate vegetarian into her psyche.

     Accompanied by a metallic jingle, he returned to the closet, fiddled with the knob, and strode from the office. As he left for their lunch date, she tried the door and found it locked.
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