Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Everywhere. Las Vegas, Atlantic City, Reno, Lake Tahoe. The money he made there he invested in other schemes—the stock market, bonds.” She waved an arm around the room.

  “Did he win most of the time?”

  “Nearly always.”

  “Did he have some kind of system?”

  “He had many. Created them with his computers. He was a mathematical genius, Dr. Delaware. His systems required an extraordinary memory. He could add columns of numbers in his head, like a human computer. My father thought he was magical. When we took blood from the children, I had him do numbers tricks for them. They watched and were amazed, and didn’t feel the sting.”

  She smiled and covered her mouth.

  “He thought he could go on forever,” she said, looking up, “making a profit at the casinos’ expense. But they caught on and told him to leave. This was in Las Vegas. He flew to Reno but the casino there knew also. Larry was furious. A few months later he returned to the first casino in different clothing and an old man’s beard. Played for higher stakes and won even more.”

  She stayed with that memory for a while, smiling. Talking seemed to be doing her good. That helped me rationalize my presence.

  “Then,” she said, “he just stopped. Gambling. Said he was bored. Began buying and selling real estate … He was so good at it.… I don’t know what to do with all this.”

  “Do you have any family here?”

  She shook her head and clasped her hands. “Not here or anywhere. And Larry’s parents are gone too. It’s so … ironic. When the northerners came, shooting women and children, Larry looked at them in the face and screamed at them, calling them terrible names. He wasn’t a big man.… Did you ever meet him?”

  I shook my head.

  “He was very small.” Another smile. “Very small—behind his back my father called him a monkey. Affectionately. A monkey who thought he was a lion. It became a village joke and Larry didn’t mind at all. Perhaps the Muslims believed he was a lion. They never hurt him. Allowed him to take me away on the plane. A month after we got to New York, I was robbed on the street by a drug addict. Terrified. But the city never frightened Larry. I used to joke that he frightened it. My fierce little monkey. And now …”

  She shook her head. Covered her mouth again and looked away. Several moments passed before I said, “Why did you move to Los Angeles?”

  “Larry was unhappy at Sloan-Kettering. Too many rules, too much politics. He said we should move to California and live in this house—it was the best piece of property he’d bought. He thought it was foolish that someone else should enjoy it while we lived in an apartment. So he evicted the tenant—some kind of film producer who hadn’t paid his rent.”

  “Why did he choose Western Pediatrics?”

  She hesitated. “Please don’t be offended, Doctor, but his reasoning was that Western Peds was a hospital in … decline. Money problems. So his financial independence meant he’d be left alone to pursue his research.”

  “What kind of research was he doing?”

  “Same as always, disease patterns. I don’t know much about it—Larry didn’t like to talk about his work.” She shook her head. “He didn’t talk much at all. After the Sudan, the cancer patients in New York, he wanted nothing to do with real people and their pain.”

  “I’ve heard he kept to himself.”

  She smiled tenderly. “He loved to be alone. Didn’t even want a secretary. He said he could type faster and more accurately on his word processor, so what was the purpose?”

  “He had research assistants, didn’t he? Like Dawn Herbert.”

  “I don’t know names, but yes, from time to time he’d hire graduate students from the university, but they never met his standards.”

  “The university over in Westwood?”

  “Yes. His grant paid for lab assistance and there were tasks that he needn’t have bothered himself with. But he was never happy with the work of others. The truth is, Doctor, Larry just didn’t like depending on anyone else. Self-reliance became his religion. After my robbery in New York, he insisted we both learn self-defense. Said the police were lazy and didn’t care. He found an old Korean man in lower Manhattan who taught us karate, kick-fighting—different techniques. I attended two or three lessons, then stopped. It seemed illogical—how could our hands protect us against a drug addict with a gun? But Larry kept going and practiced every night. Earned a belt.”

  “Black belt?”

  “A brown one. Larry said brown was enough; anything more would have been ego.”

  Lowering her face, she cried softly into her hands. I took a napkin from the lacquer tray, stood by her chair, and had it ready when she looked up. Her hand gripped my fingers hard enough to sting, then let go. I sat back down.

  She said, “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  I shook my head. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “No, thank you. Just your coming to visit was gracious—we don’t know many people.”

  She looked around the room once more.

  I said, “Have you made funeral arrangements?”

  “Through Larry’s attorney … Apparently Larry planned it all out. The details—the plot. There’s a plot for me too. I never knew. He took care of everything.… I’m not sure when the funeral will be. In these … cases, the coroner … Such a stupid way to …”

  Her hand flew to her face. More tears.

  “This is terrible. I’m being childish.” She dabbed at her eyes with the napkin.

  “It’s a terrible loss, Mrs. Ashmore.”

  “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” she said quickly. Suddenly her voice was hard, plated with anger.

  I kept quiet.

  “Well,” she said, “I suppose I’d better attend to business.”

  I got up. She walked me to the door. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Delaware.”

  “If there’s anything I can do—”

  “That’s very kind, but I’m certain I’ll be able to handle things as they come up.”

  She opened the door.

  I said goodbye and the door closed behind me.

  I began walking toward the Seville. The gardening noises had died and the street was beautiful and silent.

  14

  When I entered room 505W, Cassie followed me with her eyes but the rest of her didn’t move.

  The drapes were drawn, and yellow light came from the half-open door of the bathroom. I saw wet clothes hanging over the shower rod. The bed rails were down and the room had the gluey smell of old bandages.

  A metered I.V. line was still attached to Cassie’s left arm. Clear fluid from a hanging bottle slow-dripped through the tubing. The whirr of the I.V. meter seemed louder. LuvBunnies surrounded Cassie. An untouched breakfast tray sat on the table.

  I said, “Hi, sweetie.”

  She gave a small smile, closed her eyes, and moved her head back and forth the way a blind child might.

  Cindy came out of the bathroom and said, “Hi, Dr. Delaware.” Her braid was gathered atop her head and her blouse was untucked.

  “Hi. How’re you managing?”

  “Okay.”

  I sat on the edge of Cassie’s bed. Cindy came over and stood next to me. The pressure of my weight made Cassie’s eyes open again. I smiled at her, touched her fingers. Her stomach rumbled and she shut her eyes once more. Her lips were dry and chapped. A small scrap of dead skin hung from the upper one. Each breath ruffled it.

  I took her free hand. She didn’t resist. Her skin was warm and silky, soft as a dolphin’s belly.

  I said, “Such a good girl,” and saw her eyes move behind the lids.

  “We had a rough night,” said Cindy.

  “I know. Sorry to hear it.” I looked down at the hand in mine. No new wounds but plenty of old ones. The thumbnail was tiny, square-edged, in need of cleaning. I exerted gentle pressure and the digit rose, remained extended for a moment, then lowered, tapping the top of my hand. I repeated the pres
sure and the same thing happened. But her eyes remained shut and her face had grown loose. Within moments she was sleeping, breathing in time with the I.V. drip.

  Cindy reached down and stroked her daughter’s cheek. One of the bunnies fell to the floor. She picked it up and placed it next to the breakfast tray. The tray was farther away than she’d estimated and the movement threw her off balance. I caught her elbow and held it. Through the sleeve of her blouse, her arm was thin and pliable. I let go of it but she held on to my hand for a moment.

  I noticed worry lines around her eyes and mouth, saw where aging would take her. Our eyes met. Hers were full of wonder and fear. She stepped away from me and went to sit on the sleeper couch.

  I said, “What’s been happening?” though I’d read the chart before coming in.

  “Sticks and tests,” she said. “All kinds of scans. She didn’t get any dinner until late and couldn’t hold it down.”

  “Poor thing.”

  She bit her lip. “Dr. Eves says the appetite loss is either anxiety or some sort of reaction to the isotopes they used in the scans.”

  “That sometimes happens,” I said. “Especially when there are a lot of tests and the isotopes build up in the system.”

  She nodded. “She’s pretty tired. I guess you can’t draw with her today.”

  “Guess not.”

  “It’s too bad—the way it worked out. You didn’t have time to do your techniques.”

  “How’d she tolerate the procedures?”

  “Actually, she was so tired—after the grand mal—that she was kind of passive.”

  She looked over at the bed, turned away quickly, and put the palms of her hands on the sofa, propping herself up.

  Our eyes met again. She stifled a yawn and said, “Excuse me.”

  “Anything I can help with?”

  “Thanks. Can’t think of any.”

  She closed her eyes.

  I said, “I’ll let you rest,” and walked to the door.

  “Dr. Delaware?”

  “Yes?”

  “That home visit we spoke about,” she said. “When we finally do get out of here, you’re still planning on doing it, aren’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good.”

  Something in her voice—a stridency I’d never heard before—made me stand there and wait.

  But she just said “Good” again, and looked away, resigned. As if a critical moment had come and gone. When she started to play with her braid, I left.

  No sign of Vicki Bottomley; the nurse on shift was a stranger. After completing my own notes, I reread Stephanie’s, the neurologist’s, and those of the consulting endocrinologist—someone named Alan Macauley, with strong, large handwriting.

  The neurologist had found no abnormality on two successive EEGs and deferred to Macauley, who reported no evidence of any metabolic disorder, though his lab tests were still being analyzed. As far as medical science could tell, Cassie’s pancreas was structurally and biochemically normal. Macauley suggested further genetic tests and scans to rule out some sort of brain tumor, and recommended further “intensive psychological consultation per Dr. Delaware.”

  I’d never met the man and was surprised to be referred to by name. Wanting to know what he meant by “intensive,” I looked up his number in a hospital directory and called it.

  “Macauley.”

  “Dr. Macauley, this is Alex Delaware—the psychologist who’s seeing Cassie Jones.”

  “Lucky you. Been to see her recently?”

  “About a minute ago.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Wiped out—post-seizural fatigue, I guess.”

  “Probably.”

  “Her mother said she didn’t hold her dinner down.”

  “Her mother, huh?… So, what can I do for you?”

  “I read your notes—about psychological support. Wondered if you had any suggestions.”

  Long pause.

  “Where are you now?” he said.

  “Chappy Ward nursing station.”

  “Okay, listen, I’ve got Diabetes Clinic in about twenty minutes. I can get there a little early—say in five. Why don’t you catch me? Three East.”

  He waved when he saw me coming and I realized I’d seen him the day before at Ashmore’s memorial. The husky, dark, bald man who’d talked about Texas and guns, a Smith & Wesson in every black bag.

  Standing, he looked even bigger, with thick sloping shoulders and stevedore arms. He had on a white polo shirt over pressed jeans and western ostrich boots. His badge was pinned just above the jockey-and-horse logo. His stethoscope was in one hand. The other hand made aeronautic movements—nosedives and fast climbs—as he talked to a gangly boy of around seventeen.

  Fifteen minutes before clinic was scheduled to start and the Endocrinology waiting room was filling up. Nutritional posters hung on the walls. Children’s books and battered magazines were stacked on the table, along with brochures and packets of artificial sweetener.

  Macauley slapped the boy’s back and I heard him say, “You’re doing great—keep it up. I know sticking yourself sucks the big hairy one, but depending on Mommy to stick you sucks even worse, doesn’t it? So keep her the heck out of your life and go have some fun.”

  “Yeah, right,” said the boy. He had a big chin and big nose. Big jug ears, each pierced with three gold wire loops. Well over six feet, but Macauley made him look small. His skin was oily-looking and sallow, spotted with pimples on cheeks and brow. His hair had been mowed in a new-wave do with more levels and angles than an architect’s wet dream. “Party on,” he said glumly.

  “Hey, party hearty, man,” said Macauley, “just as long as it’s sugar-free.”

  “Fuck,” said the boy.

  “Now, that’s okay, Kev. That you can do to your horny little heart’s content, long as you use a condom.”

  The boy grinned despite himself.

  Macauley slapped him again and said, “Okay, scram, get, vamoose, clear out of here. I’ve got sick people to deal with.”

  “Yeah, right.” The boy pulled out a pack of cigarettes, stuck a smoke in his mouth, but didn’t light it.

  Macauley said, “Hey, turkey, your lungs are someone else’s problem.”

  The boy laughed and shambled off.

  Macauley came over to me. “Noncompliant adolescents with brittle diabetes. When I die I know I’m going to heaven, ’cause I’ve already been to hell.”

  He shot a thick arm forward. The hand at the end of it was big but his grip was restrained. His face was basset with a touch of bull terrier: thick nose, full lips, small, drooping dark eyes. The baldness and perpetual five o’clock shadow gave him a middle-aged look, but I guessed he was thirty-five or so.

  “Al Macauley.”

  “Alex Delaware.”

  “Meeting of the Als,” he said. “C’mon out of here before the natives grow restless.”

  He took me behind swinging doors just like those in Stephanie’s clinic, past a similar mix of clerks, nurses, residents, ringing phones, and scratching pens, to an examining room decorated with a sugar-content chart issued by one of the big fast-food chains. The five food groups with an emphasis on burgers and fries.

  “What can I do for you?” he said, sitting on a stool and spinning back and forth in small semicircles.

  “Any insights on Cassie?” I said.

  “Insights? Isn’t that your department?”

  “In a perfect world it would be, Al. Unfortunately, reality’s refusing to cooperate.”

  He snorted and ran his hand over his head, smoothing nonexistent hair. Someone had left a rubber reflex hammer on the examining table. He picked it up and touched the tip to his knee.

  “You recommended intensive psych support,” I said, “and I just wondered—”

  “If I was being an especially sensitive guy or if I thought the case was suspicious, right? The answer is b. I read your notes in the chart, asked around about you, and found out you were goo
d. So I figured I’d put in my two cents.”

  “Suspicious,” I said. “As in Munchausen by proxy?”

  “Call it what you want—I’m a gland-hand, not a shrink. But there’s nothing wrong with the kid’s metabolism, I can tell you that.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Look, this isn’t the first time I’ve been involved in the case—I worked her up months ago, when she supposedly presented with bloody stools. No one ever actually saw the stools except the mom, and red spots on a diaper don’t make it in my book. We could be talking diaper rash. And my first go-round was rigorous. Every endocrine test in the book, some that weren’t.”

  “Someone saw this latest seizure.”

  “I know that,” he said impatiently. “The nurse and the U.C. And low sugar does explain it, physiologically. But what it doesn’t explain is why. She’s got no genetic or metabolic abnormality of any kind, no glycogen storage disorder, and her pancreas is functioning perfectly. At this point, all I’m doing is plowing old ground and throwing in some experimental assays I borrowed from the med school—basic science stuff they’re still getting baselines on. We might just have the most tested two-year-old kid in the Western Hemisphere. Wanna call Guinness?”

  “What about something idiopathic—a rare variant of a known disease?”

  He looked at me, passed the hammer from hand to hand. “Anything’s possible.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “What I don’t think is that there’s anything wrong with her glands. This is a healthy kid, presenting with hypoglycemia because of something else.”

  “Something someone gave her?”

  He tossed the hammer up in the air and snagged it with two fingers. Repeated the exercise a couple more times, then said, “What do you think?” He smiled. “Always wanted to do that with one of you guys. Seriously, though, yeah, that’s what I think. It’s logical, isn’t it, considering the history? And that sib who died.”

  “Did you consult on his case?”

  “No, why would I? That was respiratory. And I’m not saying that was necessarily ominous—babies do die of SIDS. But in this case it makes you think, doesn’t it?”

  I nodded. “When I heard about the hypoglycemia, one of the first things I thought about was insulin poisoning. But Stephanie said there were no fresh injection marks on Cassie’s body.”