Devil's Waltz

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Younger ones too.”

  “Yeah. But it makes sense, doesn’t it— a doctor boyfriend? Benedict could be supplying her with drugs and apparatus. Coaching her in faking illness.”

  “What’s his motive?”

  “True love. He sees the kids as encumbrances, wants to get rid of them and have Cindy all to himself. Maybe with some of Chip’s money thrown in. As an M.D., he’d know how to set it up. Know how to be careful. Because two kids from one family dying, one right after another, is suspicious, but if the deaths were different and each looked medically valid, it could be pulled off.”

  “Ralph Benedict,” he said. “I’ll check with the medical board.”

  “Cindy grew up in Ventura. He might still be there.”

  “What’s the name of the company who shipped him these cylinders?”

  “Holloway Medical. San Francisco.”

  “Let’s see what else they sent him and when. Cylinders— like empty tubes?”

  “They’re part of a kit.” I described the Insuject system.

  “No needles or drugs under the sink?”

  “Nope, the needles and the insulin spansules come separately.” I recounted my search of the bedroom and the refrigerator. “But they could be anywhere in that house. Any possibility of getting a search warrant now?”

  “Just on the basis of tubes? Doubtful. With needles attached and the insulin all loaded up, maybe. That would be evidence of premeditation, though she could still claim the stuff was left over from the aunt.”

  “Not if the insulin was still fresh. I’m not sure of insulin’s exact shelf life, but it’s not four years.”

  “Yeah. So find me some fresh insulin and I’ll visit a judge. Right now, there’s no evidentiary chain.”

  “Even with Cassie’s low sugar?”

  “Even with. Sorry. Wonder why she left it under the sink like that.”

  “She probably never imagined anyone would look there. It was stuck in a corner— you’d have to be groping around to find it.”

  “And she wasn’t pissed at all that you were snooping in her john?”

  “If she was, she didn’t show it. I made up a story about running out of toilet paper and going under the sink for a fresh roll. She apologized for not being a better housekeeper.”

  “Eager to please, huh? The boys back in South Carolina sure took advantage of it.”

  “Or she gets people to do what she wants by playing dumb and passive. I didn’t walk out of that house feeling in control.”

  “Ye olde bathroom detective. Sounds like you’re ready for the Vice Squad.”

  “I’ll pass. The whole thing was surreal. Not that I was doing much good as a therapist.”

  I told him how Cindy had thrust Cassie at me, and Cassie’s subsequent panic.

  “Up till then my rapport with Cassie had been progressing pretty well. Now, it’s shot to hell, Milo. So I have to wonder if Cindy was deliberately trying to sabotage me.”

  “Waltzing and leading, huh?”

  “Something she told me suggests that control is a big issue for her. When she was a kid, the aunt wouldn’t let her eat any sweets at all, even though there was nothing wrong with her pancreas. That’s a far cry from Munchausen, but there is a hint of pathology there— not allowing a healthy child to have an occasional ice cream.”

  “Aunt projecting the diabetes onto her?”

  “Exactly. And who knows if there were other aspects of the disease the aunt projected— like injections. Not insulin, but maybe some kind of vitamin shots. I’m just guessing. Cindy also told me that she restricts Cassie’s sweets. At face value, that sounds like good mothering. Reasonable health-consciousness from someone who’s already lost one child. But maybe there’s a whole weird thing going on with regard to sugar.”

  “Sins of the mothers,” he said.

  “The aunt was Cindy’s functional mother. And look at the role model she provided: a health professional who had a chronic disease and controlled it— Cindy spoke of that with pride. She may have grown up associating being female— being maternal— with being sick and emotionally rigid: controlled and controlling. It’s no surprise she chose the military right after high school— from one structured environment to another. When that didn’t work out, her next step was respiratory tech school. Because Aunt Harriet told her it was a good profession. Control and illness— it keeps repeating itself.”

  “She ever mention why she didn’t finish respiratory tech school?”

  “No. What are you thinking— more promiscuity?”

  “I’m a big believer in patterns. What’d she do after that?”

  “Junior college. Where she met Chip. She dropped out, got married. Got pregnant right away— more big changes that might have made her feel out of control. The marriage was a step up for her socially, but she ended up living in a very lonely place.”

  I described Dunbar Court and the surrounding tract.

  “Slow death for someone who craves attention, Milo. And when Chip gets home, I’ll bet the situation doesn’t change much. He’s really into the academic life— big fish in a small pond. I dropped by the J.C. before I went to the house and caught a glimpse of him teaching. Guru on the grass, disciples at his feet. A whole world she’s not part of. The house reflects it— room after room of his books, his trophies, masculine furniture. Even in her own home she hasn’t made an imprint.”

  “So she makes an imprint on the kid.”

  “Using familiar tools, things she remembers from her childhood. Insulin, needles. Other poisons— manipulating what goes into Cassie’s mouth the same way her aunt controlled her.”

  “What about Chad?”

  “Maybe he actually did die of SIDS— yet another traumatic illness in Cindy’s life— and that was the stress that drove her over the edge. Or maybe she smothered him.”

  “You think your finding the cylinders will scare her off?”

  “That would be logical, but with Munchausen, the whole power game, I suppose it could do just the opposite— raise the ante, challenge her to get the better of me. So maybe I just made things more dangerous for Cassie— hell if I know.”

  “Don’t flog yourself. Where are the cylinders now?”

  “Right here. In the car. Can you have them dusted for prints?”

  “Sure, but Cindy’s or Chip’s prints on it wouldn’t mean much— one of them stashed it years ago and forgot about it.”

  “What about the lack of dust?”

  “It’s a clean cabinet. Or you knocked off whatever dust was on it when you took it out. I’m talking like a defense attorney now, though we’re not even close to making anyone need one. And if this Benedict guy touched it, that’s cool too. They were sent to him in the first place.”

  “With the aunt dead, there’d be no reason for him to give them to Cindy.”

  “True. If we can pin down this shipment to him after the aunt died, that would be great. Any serial numbers on the things? Or an invoice?”

  “Let me check . . . no invoice. But there are serial numbers. And the copyright on the manufacturer’s brochure is five years old.”

  “Good. Give me those numbers and I’ll get on it. In the meantime, I still think your best bet is to continue playing with Cindy’s head. Give her a taste of her own medicine.”

  “How?”

  “Pull her in for a meeting, without the kid—”

  “That’s already set up for tomorrow evening. Chip’ll be there too.”

  “Even better. Confront her, straight on. Tell her you think someone is making Cassie sick and you know how. Hold up a cylinder and say you’re not buying any of this leftover crap. You want to take chances, go for a big bluff: say you’ve talked to the D.A. and he’s ready to file charges for attempted murder. Then pray she cracks.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  “You get thrown off the case, but at least she’ll know someone’s wise to her. I don’t see what you can gain by waiting any longer, Alex.”


  “What about Stephanie? Do I clue her in? Are we eliminating her as a suspect?”

  “Like we said before, she could be Cindy’s secret lover, but there’s no sign of that. And if she was involved, why would Cindy mess with Benedict? Stephanie’s a doctor— she could get the same stuff he could. Anything’s possible, but far as I can tell, the mom started out looking good and she keeps getting better.”

  “If Stephanie’s off the hook,” I said, “I should let her in on it— she’s the primary doc. Pulling something this strong without her knowledge is probably unethical.”

  “Why don’t you just sound her out and see how she reacts? Tell her about the cylinders and see where she goes with it. If you’re satisfied she’s clean, take her along with you when you play with Cindy’s head. Strength in numbers.”

  “Play with her head? Sounds fun.”

  “It rarely is,” he said. “If I could do it for you, I would.”

  “Thanks. For everything.”

  “Anything else?”

  Finding the Insujects had pushed the visit to Dr. Janos’s office out of my head.

  “Plenty,” I said, and told him how Huenengarth had beat me to Dawn Herbert’s computer disks. Then I threw in my calls to Ferris Dixon and Professor W. W. Zimberg’s office, and my updated blackmail theories on Herbert and Ashmore.

  “High intrigue, Alex— maybe some of it’s even true. But don’t let yourself get distracted from Cassie. I’m still checking on Huenengarth. Nothing yet, but I’ll stay on it. Where will you be in case something does come up?”

  “I’ll call Stephanie soon as we hang up. If she’s in her office I’ll run over to the hospital. If not, I’ll be home.”

  “All right. How about we get together later tonight, trade miseries. Eight okay?”

  “Eight’s fine. Thanks again.”

  “Don’t thank me. We’re a long way from feeling good about this one.”

  29

  The General Peds receptionist said, “Dr. Eves stepped out. Let me page her.”

  I waited, looking out through the clouded walls of the phone booth at traffic and dust. The equestrians came into view again, cantering up a side street, heading back from what must have been a circuit. Slim jodhpured legs clamped around glistening torsos. Lots of smiles.

  Probably heading back to the club for cold drinks and conversation. I thought of all the ways Cindy Jones could have chosen to fill her time.

  Just as the horses vanished, the receptionist came back on the line. “She’s not answering, Doctor. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Any idea when she’ll be back?”

  “I know she’s coming back for a five o’clock meeting— you might try her just before then.”

  Five P.M. was almost two hours away. I drove down Topanga thinking of all the damage that could be done to a child in that time. Kept heading south to the on-ramp.

  Traffic was backed up to the street. I nosed into the snail-trail and oozed eastward. Nasty drive to Hollywood. At night, though, the ambulance would fairly zip.

  • • •

  I pulled into the doctors’ lot just before four, clipped my badge to my lapel, and walked to the lobby, where I paged Stephanie. The anxiety that had hit me only a week ago was gone. In its place, a driving sense of anger.

  What a difference seven days make . . .

  No answer. I phoned her office again, got the same receptionist, the same answer, delivered in a slightly annoyed tone.

  I went up to the General Peds clinic and walked into the examination suite, passing patients, nurses, and doctors without notice.

  Stephanie’s door was closed. I wrote a note for her to call me and was bending to slip it under the door when a husky female voice said, “Can I help you?”

  I straightened. A woman in her late sixties was looking at me. She had on the whitest white coat I’d ever seen, worn buttoned over a black dress. Her face was deeply tanned, wrinkled, and pinch-featured under a helmet of straight white hair. Her posture would have made a marine correct his own.

  She saw my badge and said, “Oh, excuse me, Doctor.” Her accent was Marlene Dietrich infused with London. Her eyes were small, green-blue, electrically alert. A gold pen was clipped to her breast pocket. She wore a thin gold chain from which a single pearl dangled, set in a golden nest like a nacreous egg.

  “Dr. Kohler,” I said. “Alex Delaware.”

  We shook hands and she read my badge. Confusion didn’t suit her.

  “I used to be on the staff,” I said. “We worked together on some cases. Crohn’s disease. Adaptation to the ostomy?”

  “Ah, of course.” Her smile was warm and it made the lie inoffensive. She’d always had that smile, wore it even while cutting down a resident’s faulty diagnosis. Charm planted by an upper-class Prague childhood cut short by Hitler, then fertilized by marriage to The Famous Conductor. I remembered how she’d offered to use her connections to bring funds to the hospital. How the board had turned her down, calling that kind of fundraising “crass.”

  “Looking for Stephanie?” she said.

  “I need to talk to her about a patient.”

  The smile hung there but her eyes iced over. “I happen to be looking for her myself. She’s scheduled to be here. But I suppose our future division head must be busy.”

  I feigned surprise.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Those in the know say her promotion is imminent.”

  The smile got wider and took on a hungry cast. “Well, all the best to her . . . though I hope she learns to anticipate events a bit better. One of her teenage patients just showed up without an appointment and is creating a scene out in the waiting room. And Stephanie left without checking out.”

  “Doesn’t sound like her,” I said.

  “Really? Lately, it’s become like her. Perhaps she sees herself as having already ascended.”

  A nurse passed by. Kohler said, “Juanita?”

  “Yes, Dr. Kohler?”

  “Have you seen Stephanie?”

  “I think she went out.”

  “Out of the hospital?”

  “I think so, Doctor. She had her purse.”

  “Thank you, Juanita.”

  When the nurse had gone, Kohler pulled a set of keys out of a pocket.

  “Here,” she said, jamming one of the keys into Stephanie’s lock and turning. Just as I caught the door, she yanked the key out sharply and walked away.

  • • •

  The espresso machine was off but a half-full demitasse sat on the desk, next to Stephanie’s stethoscope. The smell of fresh roast overpowered the alcohol bite seeping in from the examining rooms. Also on the desk were a pile of charts and a memo pad stuffed with drug company stationery. As I slipped my note under it I noticed writing on the top sheet.

  Dosages, journal references, hospital extensions. Below that, a solitary notation, scrawled hastily, barely legible.

  B, Brwsrs, 4

  Browsers— the place where she’d gotten the leather-bound Byron. I saw the book, up in the shelf.

  B for Byron? Getting another one?

  Or meeting someone at the bookstore? If it meant today, she was there now.

  It seemed an odd assignation in the middle of a hectic afternoon.

  Not like her.

  Until recently, if Kohler was to be believed.

  Something romantic that she wanted segregated from the hospital rumor mill? Or just seeking out some privacy— a quiet moment among the mildew and the verse.

  Lord knew she was entitled to her privacy.

  Too bad I was going to violate it.

  Only a half-mile from the hospital to Los Feliz and Hollywood, but traffic was lobotomized and it took ten minutes to get there.

  The bookstore was on the west side of the street, its facade the same as it had been a decade ago: cream-colored sign with black gothic letters spelling out ANTI-QUARIAN BOOK MERCHANT above dusty windows. I cruised past, looking for a parking space. On my second go-round I spotted a
n old Pontiac with its back-up lights on, and waited as a very small, very old woman eased away from the curb. Just as I finished pulling in, someone came out of the bookstore.

  Presley Huenengarth.

  Even at this distance his mustache was nearly invisible.

  I slumped low in the car. He fiddled with his tie, took a pair of sunglasses out, slipped them on, and shot quick looks up and down the street. I ducked lower, pretty sure he hadn’t seen me. He touched his tie again, then began walking south until he came to the corner. Turning right, he was gone.