Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Ben nodded. Their knees were pressed up against each other, white from pressure.

  “What a thing to happen,” she said. “Is this child going to suffer because Dawn stole the chart?”

  “We can work around it,” I said. “It just would have been nice to have.”

  “Shame,” said Ben. “Sorry we can’t help you. The police took all her stuff and I didn’t see any medical chart in there. Not that I was looking that close.”

  “What about the things she stole?”

  “No,” said Bobby, “no charts there, either. Not too thorough of the cops not to find it, huh? But let me just check, to make sure—maybe inside the flaps or something.”

  She went into the kitchen and came back shortly with a shoebox and a strip of paper. “Empty—this here’s the picture she laid on top. Like she was staking her claim.”

  I took the photo. One of those black-and-white, four-for-a-quarter self-portraits you get out of a bus terminal machine. Four versions of a face that had once been pretty, now padded with suet and marred by distrust. Straight dark hair, big dark eyes. Bruised eyes. I started to hand it back. Bobby said, “You keep it. I don’t want it.”

  I took another look at the photo before pocketing it. Four identical poses, grim and watchful.

  “Sad,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Bobby, “she never smiled much.”

  “Maybe,” said Ben, “she left it at her office at the U—the chart, I mean.”

  “Do you know what department she was in?”

  “No, but she had an extension there that she gave us. Two-two-three-eight, right?”

  “Think so,” said Bobby.

  I took paper and pen out of my briefcase and copied that down. “She was a doctoral student?”

  “That’s what she told us when she applied. Biomathematics, or something.”

  “Did she ever mention her professor’s name?”

  “She gave a name for a reference,” said Bobby, “but to tell the truth we never called it.”

  Sheepish smile.

  “Things were tight,” said Ben. “We wanted to get a tenant quickly, and she looked okay.”

  “The only boss she ever talked about was the guy at the hospital—the one who got killed. But she never mentioned him by name.”

  Ben nodded. “She didn’t like him much.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I dunno. She never went into details—just said he was an asshole, really picky, and she was gonna quit. Then she did, back in February.”

  “Did she get another job?”

  “Not that she told us about,” said Bobby.

  “Any idea how she paid her bills?”

  “Nope, but she always had money to spend.”

  Ben gave a sick smile.

  Bobby said, “What?”

  “Her and her boss. She hated him but now they’re both in the same boat. L.A. got ’em.”

  Bobby shuddered and ate a muffin.

  17

  Learning about Dawn Herbert’s murder and her penchant for stealing got me thinking.

  I’d assumed she’d pulled Chad’s chart for Laurence Ashmore. But what if she’d done it for herself because she’d learned something damaging to the Jones family and planned to profit from it?

  And now she was dead.

  I drove to the fish store, bought a forty-pound bag of koi food, and asked if I could use the phone to make a local call. The kid behind the counter thought for a while, looked at the total on the register, and said, “Over there,” pointing to an old black dial unit on the wall. Next to it was a big saltwater aquarium housing a small leopard shark. A couple of goldfish thrashed at the water’s surface. The shark glided peacefully. Its eyes were steady and blue, almost as pretty as Vicki Bottomley’s.

  I called Parker Center. The man who answered said Milo wasn’t there and he didn’t know when he’d be back.

  “Is this Charlie?” I said.

  “No.”

  Click.

  I dialed Milo’s home number. The kid behind the counter was watching me. I smiled and gave him the one-minute index finger while listening to the rings.

  Peggy Lee delivered the Blue Investigations pitch. I said, “Dawn Herbert was murdered in March. Probably March 9, somewhere downtown, near a punk music club. The investigating detective was named Ray Gomez. I should be at the hospital within an hour—you can have me paged if you want to talk about it.”

  I hung up and started walking out. A froth of movement caught the corner of my eye and I turned toward the aquarium. Both the goldfish were gone.

  The Hollywood part of Sunset was weekend-quiet. The banks and entertainment firms preceding Hospital Row were closed, and a scatter of poor families and drifters massaged the sidewalk. Auto traffic was thin—mostly weekend workers and tourists who’d gone too far past Vine. I made it to the gate of the doctors’ parking structure in less than half an hour. The lot was functioning again. Plenty of spaces.

  Before heading up to the wards, I stopped at the cafeteria for coffee.

  It was the tail end of lunch hour but the room was nearly empty. Dan Kornblatt was getting change from the cashier just as I stepped up to pay. The cardiologist was carrying a lidded plastic cup. Coffee had leaked out and was running down the cup’s sides in mud-colored rivulets. Kornblatt’s handlebars drooped and he looked preoccupied. He dropped the change in his pocket and saw me, gave a choppy nod.

  “Hey, Dan. What’s up?”

  My smile seemed to bother him. “Read the paper this morning?” he said.

  “Actually,” I said, “I just skimmed.”

  He squinted at me. Definitely peeved. I felt as if I’d gotten the wrong answer on an oral exam.

  “What can I say,” he snapped, and walked away.

  I paid for my coffee and wondered what in the paper was eating him. Looking around the cafeteria for a discarded paper, I failed to spot one. I took a couple of swallows of coffee, tossed the cup, and went to the library’s reading room. This time it was locked.

  Chappy Ward was deserted and the door to every room but Cassie’s was open. Lights off, stripped beds, the tainted meadow smell of fresh deodorization. A man in yellow maintenance scrubs vacuumed the hallway. The piped-in music was something Viennese, slow and syrupy.

  Vicki Bottomley sat at the nursing station reading a chart. Her cap sat slightly off-kilter.

  I said, “Hi, anything new?”

  She shook her head and held out the chart without looking up.

  “Go ahead and finish it,” I said.

  “Finished.” She waved the chart.

  I took it but didn’t open it. Leaning against the counter, I said, “How’s Cassie feeling today?”

  “Bit better.” Still no eye contact.

  “When did she wake up?”

  “Around nine.”

  “Dad here yet?”

  “It’s all in there,” she said, keeping her head down and pointing at the chart.

  I flipped it open, turned to this morning’s pages, and read Al Macauley’s summary notes and those of the neurologist.

  She picked up some kind of form and began to write.

  “Cassie’s latest seizure,” I said, “sounds like it was a strong one.”

  “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  I put the chart down and just stood there. Finally she looked up. The blue eyes blinked rapidly.

  “Have you seen lots of childhood epilepsy?” I said.

  “Seen everything. Worked Onco. Took care of babies with brain tumors.” Shrug.

  “I did oncology, too. Years ago. Psychosocial support.”

  “Uh-huh.” Back to the form.

  “Well,” I said, “at least Cassie doesn’t seem to have a tumor.”

  No answer.

  “Dr. Eves told me she’s planning to discharge her soon.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I thought I’d go out and make a home visit.”

  Her pen raced.

  “You’ve
been out there yourself, haven’t you?”

  No answer.

  I repeated the question. She stopped writing and looked up. “If I have, is there something wrong with that?”

  “No, I was just—”

  “You were just making talky-talk is what you were doing. Right?” She put the pen down and wheeled backward. A smug smile was on her lips. “Or are you checking me out? Wanting to know if I went out and did something to her?”

  She wheeled back farther, keeping her eyes on me, still smiling.

  “Why would I think that?” I said.

  “ ’Cause I know the way you people think.”

  “It was a simple question, Vicki.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s what this has all been about, from the beginning. All this phony talky-talk. You’re checking me out to see if I’m like that nurse in New Jersey.”

  “What nurse is that?”

  “The one killed the babies. They wrote a book about it and it was on TV.”

  “You think you’re under suspicion?”

  “Aren’t I? Isn’t it always the nurse who gets blamed?”

  “Was the nurse in New Jersey blamed falsely?”

  Her smile managed to turn into a grimace without a movement.

  “I’m sick of this game,” she said, standing and shoving the chair away. “With you people it’s always games.”

  “ ‘You people’ meaning psychologists?”

  She folded her hands across her chest and muttered something. Then she turned her back on me.

  “Vicki?”

  No answer.

  “What this is all about,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even, “is finding out what the hell’s going on with Cassie.”

  She pretended to read the bulletin board behind the desk.

  “So much for our little truce,” I said.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, turning quickly and facing me. Her voice had risen, a sour reed solo superimposed on the Sacher-torte music.

  “Don’t worry,” she repeated, “I won’t get in your way. You want something, just ask. ’Cause you’re the doctor. And I’ll do anything that’ll help that poor little baby—contrary to what you think, I care about her, okay? Fact is, I’ll even go down and get you coffee if that impresses you and keeps your attention on her, where it should be. I’m not one of those feminists think it’s a sin to do something other than push meds. But don’t pretend to be my friend, okay? Let’s both of us just do our jobs without talky-talk, and go about our merry ways, okay? And in answer to your question, I was out at the house exactly two times—months ago. Okay?”

  She walked to the opposite end of the station, found another form, picked it up and began reading. Squinting, she held it at arm’s length. She needed reading glasses. The smug smile returned.

  I said, “Are you doing something to her, Vicki?”

  Her hands jerked and the paper dropped. She bent to pick it up and her cap fell off. Bowing a second time, she retrieved it and stood up rigidly. She was wearing a lot of mascara and a couple of specks had come loose below one eye.

  I didn’t budge.

  “No!” A whisper with lots of force behind it.

  Footsteps turned both of our heads. The maintenance man came out into the hall, pulling his vacuum. He was middle-aged and Hispanic, with old eyes and a Cantinflas mustache.

  “Sumtin’ else?” he said.

  “No,” said Vicki. “Go.”

  He looked at her, raised an eyebrow, then yanked on the machine and towed it toward the teak doors. Vicki watched him, hands clenched.

  When he was gone, she said, “That was a horrible question! Why do you have to think such ugly thoughts—why does anyone have to be doing anything to her? She’s sick!”

  “All her symptoms are some sort of mystery illness?”

  “Why not?” she said. “Why not? This is a hospital. That’s what we get here—sick kids. That’s what real doctors do. Treat sick kids.”

  I maintained my silence.

  Her arms began to rise and she fought to keep them down, like a subject resisting a hypnotist. Where the cap had been, her stiff hair had bunched in a hat-sized dome.

  I said, “The real doctors aren’t having much luck, are they?”

  She exhaled through her nose.

  “Games,” she said, whispering again. “Always games with you people.”

  “You seem to know a lot about us people.”

  She looked startled and swiped at her eyes. Her mascara had started to run and the knuckles came away gray but she didn’t notice them; her glare was fixed on me.

  I met it, absorbed it.

  The smug smile came back on her face. “Is there anything else you want, sir?” She pulled bobby pins out of her hair and used them to fasten the wedge of white starch.

  “Have you told the Joneses your feelings about therapists?” I said.

  “I keep my feelings to myself. I’m a professional.”

  “Have you told them someone suspects foul play?”

  “Of course not. Like I said, I’m a professional!”

  “A professional,” I said. “You just don’t like therapists. Bunch of quacks who promise to help but don’t come through.”

  Her head jerked back. The hat bobbled and one hand shot up to keep it in place.

  “You don’t know me,” she said. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “That’s true,” I lied. “And that’s become a problem for Cassie.”

  “That’s ridic—”

  “Your behavior’s getting in the way of her care, Vicki. Let’s not discuss it out here anymore.” I pointed to the nurse’s room behind the station.

  She slammed her hands on her hips. “For what?”

  “A discussion.”

  “You have no right.”

  “Actually, I do. And the only reason you’re still on the case is through my good graces. Dr. Eves admires your technical skills but your attitude’s getting on her nerves, as well.”

  “Right.”

  I picked up the phone. “Call her.”

  She sucked in her breath. Touched her cap. Licked her lips. “What do you want from me?” Trace of whine.

  “Not out here,” I said. “In there, Vicki. Please.”

  She started to protest. No words came out. A tremor surged across her lips. She put a hand up to cover it.

  “Let’s just drop it,” she said. “I’m sorry, okay?”

  Her eyes were full of fear. Remembering her final view of her son and feeling like a louse, I shook my head.

  “No more hassles,” she said. “I promise—I really mean it this time. You’re right, I shouldn’t have mouthed off. It’s because I’m worried about her, same as you. I’ll be fine. Sorry. It won’t happen again—”

  “Please, Vicki.” I pointed to the nurse’s room.

  “—I swear. Come on, cut me a little slack.”

  I held my ground.

  She moved toward me, hands fisted, as if ready to strike. Then she dropped them. Turned suddenly, and walked to the room. Moving slowly, shoulders down, barely lifting her shoes from the carpet.

  The room was furnished with an orange Naugahyde couch and matching chair, and a coffee table. A phone sat on the table next to an unplugged coffee maker that hadn’t been used or cleaned in a long time. Cat and puppy posters were taped to the wall above a bumper sticker that read NURSES DO IT WITH TENDER LOVING CARE.

  I closed the door and sat on the couch.

  “This stinks,” she said, without conviction. “You have no right—I am calling Dr. Eves.”

  I picked up the phone, called the page operator and asked for Stephanie.

  “Wait,” she said. “Hang up.”

  I canceled the page and replaced the receiver. She did a little toe-heel dance, finally sank into the chair, fiddling with her cap, both feet flat on the ground. I noticed something I hadn’t seen before: a tiny daisy drawn in nail polish marker, on her new badge, just above her photo. The polish was starting
to flake and the flower looked shredded.

  She put her hands in her spreading lap. A condemned-prisoner look filled her face.

  “I have work to do,” she said. “Still have to change the sheets, check to make sure Dietary gets the dinner order right.”

  “The nurse in New Jersey,” I said. “What made you bring that up?”

  “Still on that?”

  I waited.

  “No big deal,” she said. “I told you, there was a book and I read it, that’s all. I don’t like to read those kinds of things usually, but someone gave it to me, so I read it. Okay?”

  She was smiling, but suddenly her eyes had filled with tears. She flailed at her face, trying to dry it with her fingers. I looked around the room. No tissues. My handkerchief was clean and I gave it to her.

  She looked at it, ignored it. Her face stayed wet, mascara tracing black cat-scratches through the impasto of her makeup.

  “Who gave you the book?” I said.

  Her face clogged with pain. I felt as if I’d stabbed her.

  “It had nothing to do with Cassie. Believe me.”

  “Okay. What exactly did this nurse do?”

  “Poisoned babies—with lidocaine. But she was no nurse. Nurses love kids. Real nurses.” Her eyes shifted to the bumper sticker on the wall and she cried harder.

  When she stopped, I held out the handkerchief again. She pretended it wasn’t there. “What do you want from me?”

  “Some honesty—”

  “About what?”

  “All the hostility I’ve been getting from you—”

  “I said I was sorry about that.”

  “I don’t need an apology, Vicki. My honor isn’t the issue and we don’t have to be buddies—make talky-talk. But we do have to communicate well enough to take care of Cassie. And your behavior’s getting in the way.”

  “I disag—”

  “It is, Vicki. And I know it can’t be anything I’ve said or done because you were hostile before I opened my mouth. So it’s obvious you have something against psychologists, and I suspect it’s because they’ve failed you—or mistreated you.”

  “What are you doing? Analyzing me?”

  “If I need to.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “If you want to keep working the case, let’s get it out in the open. Lord knows it’s difficult enough as is. Cassie’s getting sicker each time she comes in; no one knows what the hell’s going on. A few more seizures like the one you saw and she could be at risk for some serious brain damage. We can’t afford to get distracted by interpersonal crap.”