Devil's Waltz

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I sat up.

  Coincidence? There’d been no book in his hand.

  But it was hard to believe he was the one Stephanie was meeting. Why would she call him “B”?

  She didn’t like him, had called him spooky.

  Gotten me thinking of him as spooky.

  Yet his bosses were promoting her.

  Had she been talking the rebel line while fraternizing with the enemy?

  All for the sake of career advancement?

  Do you see me as a division head, Alex?

  Every other doctor I’d spoken to was talking about leaving, but her eye was on a promotion.

  Rita Kohler’s hostility implied it wouldn’t be a bloodless transition. Was Stephanie being rewarded for good behavior— treating the chairman’s grandchild without making waves?

  I remembered her absence at the Ashmore memorial. Her showing up late, claiming she’d been tied up.

  Maybe true, but in the old days she’d have found a way to be there. Would have been up on the dais.

  I kept thinking about it as I sat there, wanting to see it another way. Then Stephanie came out of the store and I knew I couldn’t.

  Satisfied smile on her face.

  No books in her hand either.

  She looked up and down the block the same way he had.

  Big plans for Dr. Eves.

  Rat jumping onto a sinking ship?

  I’d driven over intending to show her the Insuject cartridges. Ready to study her reaction, declare her innocent and make her a part of tomorrow night’s confrontation of Cindy Jones.

  Now, I didn’t know where she stood. Milo’s first suspicions of her began to solidify.

  Something wrong— something off.

  I lowered my head again.

  She began walking. In the same direction he had.

  Came to the corner, looked to the right. Where he’d gone.

  She lingered there for a while. Still smiling. Finally crossed the street and kept going.

  I waited until she was out of sight, then drove away. The moment I cleared the space, someone zipped in.

  First time all day I’d felt useful.

  • • •

  When I got home, just before five, I found a note from Robin saying she’d be working late unless I had something else on my mind. I had plenty, but none of it included fun. I called her, got a machine and told her I loved her and that I’d be working too. Though as I said it, I realized I didn’t know at what.

  I phoned Parker Center. A nasal, high-pitched male voice answered.

  “Records.”

  “Detective Sturgis, please.”

  “He’s not he-ere.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Alex Delaware. A friend.”

  He pronounced my name as if it were a disease, then said, “I have absolutely no ide-a, Mr. Delaware.”

  “Do you know if he’s gone for the day?”

  “I wouldn’t know that either.”

  “Is this Charlie?”

  Pause. Throat clear. “This is Charles Flannery. Do I know you?”

  “No, but Milo’s talked about how much you’ve taught him.”

  Longer pause, more throat clears. “How grand of him. If you’re interested in your friend’s schedule, I suggest you call the deputy chief’s office.”

  “Why would they know?”

  “Because he’s there, Mr. Delaware. As of half an hour ago. And please don’t ask me why, because I don’t kno-ow. No one tells me anything.”

  • • •

  The deputy chief’s. Milo in trouble again. I hoped it wasn’t because of something he’d done for me. As I thought about it, Robin called back.

  “Hi, how’s the little girl?”

  “I may have pinned down what’s happening to her, but I’m worried it may have made things worse for her.”

  “How could that be?”

  I told her.

  She said, “Have you told Milo yet?”

  “I just tried to reach him and he’s been called into the deputy chief’s office. He’s been free-lancing for me on the department computer. I hope it didn’t mess him up.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, he can handle himself— he’s shown that.”

  “What a mess,” I said. “This case is bringing back too many memories, Robin. All those years at the hospital— eighty-hour weeks and all the suffering you can eat. So much garbage I couldn’t do anything about. The doctors weren’t always effective either, but at least they had their pills and their scalpels. All I had were words and nods and meaningful pauses and some fancy behavioral technology that I rarely got a chance to use. Half the time I walked around the wards feeling like a carpenter with bad tools.”

  She said nothing.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “Self-pity’s a bore.”

  “You can’t suckle the world, Alex.”

  “Now there’s an image for you.”

  “I mean it. You’re as masculine as they come but sometimes I think you’re a frustrated mother— wanting to feed everyone. Take care of everything. That can be good— look at all the people you’ve helped. Including Milo, but—”

  “Milo?”

  “Sure. Look at what he’s got to deal with. A gay cop in a department that denies there’s any such thing. Officially, he doesn’t exist. Think of the alienation, day in and day out. Sure he’s got Rick, but that’s his other world. Your friendship’s a connection for him— an extension to the rest of the world.”

  “I’m not his friend out of charity, Robin. It’s no big political thing. I just like him as a human being.”

  “Exactly. He knows the kind of friend you are— he once told me it took him six months to get used to having a straight friend. Someone who would just take him at face value. Told me he hadn’t had a friend like that since junior high. He also appreciates the fact that you don’t play therapist with him. That’s why he extends himself for you. And if he’s gotten in trouble because of it, he can deal with it. Lord knows he’s dealt with worse— Oops, gotta turn off the saw. That’s all the profundity you get out of me today.”

  “When did you get so wise?”

  “It’s always been there, Curly. You just have to have your eyes open.”

  • • •

  Alone again, I felt like jumping out of my skin. I called my service. Four messages: a lawyer asking me to consult on a child custody case, someone with an M.B.A. promising to help me build my practice, the county psychological association wanting to know if I was going to attend the next monthly meeting and, if so, did I want chicken or fish. The last, from Lou Cestare, letting me know he’d found nothing new on George Plumb’s former employers but would keep trying.

  I tried Milo again, on the off chance he’d returned from the deputy chief’s office. Charles Flannery’s voice came on and I hung up.

  What was Stephanie up to, meeting with Huenengarth?

  Just malignant careerism or had someone leaned on her, too— the old drunk-driving arrest.

  Or maybe her drinking wasn’t ancient history. What if the drinking was still out of control and they were exploiting that?

  Exploiting while grooming her for division head?

  It didn’t make sense— but maybe it did.

  If I was right about Chuck Jones wanting to dissolve the hospital, hiring an impaired division head would fit beautifully.

  Rat climbing aboard a sinking ship . . .

  I thought of someone who’d jumped off.

  What had made Melendez-Lynch finally leave?

  I didn’t know if he’d talk to me. Our last contact, years ago, had been tainted by his humiliation— a case gone very bad, a lapse of ethics on his part that I’d learned about without wanting to.

  But what was there to lose?

  Miami Information had one listing for him. Our Lady of Mercy Hospital. It was eight-thirty in Florida. His secretary would be gone, but unless Raoul had undergone a personality transplant, h
e’d still be working.

  I dialed. A recorded voice, female and cultured, informed me I’d reached the chief physician’s office, which was now closed, and enunciated a series of touch-tone codes for reaching Dr. Melendez-Lynch’s voice mail.

  I pressed the Instant Page code and waited for a callback, wondering when machines were going to start calling one another and eliminating the messiness of the human factor.

  A still-familiar voice said, “Dr. Melendez-Lynch.”

  “Raoul? It’s Alex Delaware.”

  “Ahleex? No keeding. How are you?”

  “Fine, Raoul. And you?”

  “Much too fat and much too busy, but otherwise superb . . . What a surprise. Are you here in Miami?”

  “No, still in L.A.”

  “Ahh . . . So tell me, how have you been spending the last few years?”

  “Same as before.”

  “Back in practice?”

  “Short-term consults.”

  “Short term . . . still retired, eh?”

  “Not exactly. How about you?”

  “Also more of the same, Alex. We are doing some very exciting things— advanced cell-wall permeability studies in the carcinogenesis lab, several pilot grants on experimental drugs. So tell me, to what do I owe the honor of this call?”

  “I’ve got a question for you,” I said, “but it’s personal, not professional, so if you don’t want to answer it, just say so.”

  “Personal?”

  “About your leaving.”

  “What do you want to know about it?”

  “Why you did it.”

  “And why, may I ask, are you suddenly so curious about my motivation?”

  “Because I’m back at Western Peds, consulting on a case. And the place looks really sad, Raoul. Low morale, people quitting— people I never thought would leave. You’re the one I know best, so I’m calling you.”

  “Yes, that is personal,” he said. “But I don’t mind answering.” He laughed. “The answer is very simple, Alex. I left because I was unwanted.”

  “By the new administration?”

  “Yes. The Visigoths. The choice they gave me was simple. Leave, or die professionally. It was a matter of survival. Despite what anyone will tell you, money had nothing to do with it. No one ever worked at Western Peds for the money— you know that. Though the money got worse, too, when the Visigoths took control. Wage freezes, hiring freezes, eating away at our secretarial staff, a totally arrogant attitude toward the physicians— as if we were their servants. They even stuck us out on the street in trailers. Like derelicts. I could tolerate all of that because of the work. The research. But when that ended, there was simply no reason to stay on.”

  “They cut off your research?”

  “Not explicitly. However, at the beginning of the last academic year the board announced a new policy: Because of financial difficulties, the hospital would no longer chip in for overhead on research grants. You know how the government works— on so many grants, any money they give you depends upon the host institution contributing expenses. Some of the private foundations are also insisting upon it now. All of my funding came from NCI. A no-overhead rule essentially nullified all of my projects. I tried to argue, yelled, screamed, showed them figures and facts— what we were trying to do with our research; this was pediatric cancer, for God’s sake. No use. So I flew to Washington and talked with government Visigoths, trying to get them to suspend the rules. That, too, was futile. Our kinder and gentler bunch, eh? None of them functions at a human level. So what were my options, Alex? Stay on as an overeducated technician and give up fifteen years of work?”

  “Fifteen years,” I said. “Must have been hard.”

  “It wasn’t easy, but it turned out to be a fantastic decision. Here, at Mercy, I sit on the board as a voting member. There are plenty of idiots here, too, but I can ignore them. As a bonus, my second child— Amelia— is enrolled at the medical school in Miami and lives with me. My condominium overlooks the ocean and on the rare occasion I visit Little Havana, it makes me feel like a little boy. It was like surgery, Alex. The process was painful but the results were worth it.”

  “They were stupid to lose you.”

  “Of course they were. Fifteen years and not even a gold watch.” He laughed. “These are not people who hold physicians in awe. All that matters to them is money.”

  “Jones and Plumb?”

  “And that pair of dogs trailing after them— Novak and whatever. They may be accountants but they remind me of Fidel’s thugs. Take my advice, Alex: Don’t get too involved there. Why don’t you come out to Miami and put your skills to use where they’ll be appreciated? We’ll write a grant together. The AIDS thing is paramount now— so much sadness. Two thirds of our hemophiliacs have received infected blood. You could be useful here, Alex.”

  “Thanks for the invitation, Raoul.”

  “It’s a sincere one. I remember the good we did together.”

  “So do I.”

  “Think about it, Alex.”

  “Okay.”

  “But of course you won’t.”

  Both of us laughed.

  I said, “Could I ask you one more thing?”

  “Also personal?”

  “No. What do you know about the Ferris Dixon Institute for Chemical Research?”

  “Never heard of it. Why?”

  “It funded a doctor at Western Peds. With overhead.”

  “Really. And which guy is this?”

  “A toxicologist named Laurence Ashmore. He’s done some epidemiologic work on childhood cancer.”

  “Ashmore . . . never heard of him either. What kind of epidemiology does he do?”

  “Pesticides and malignancy rates. Mostly theoretical stuff, playing with numbers.”

  He snorted. “How much did this institute give him?”

  “Nearly a million dollars.”

  Silence.

  “What?”

  “It’s true,” I said.

  “With overhead?”

  “High, huh?”

  “Absurd. What’s the name of this institute?”

  “Ferris Dixon. They only funded one other study, much smaller. An economist named Zimberg.”

  “With overhead . . . Hmm, I’ll have to check into that. Thank you for the tip, Alex. And think about my offer. The sun shines here too.”

  30

  I didn’t hear from Milo and had doubts if he’d make our eight o’clock meeting. When he hadn’t shown up by twenty after, I figured whatever had held him up at Parker Center had gotten in the way. But at 8:37 the bell rang, and when I opened the door it was him. Someone was standing behind him.

  Presley Huenengarth. His face floated over Milo’s shoulder like a malignant moon. His mouth was as small as a baby’s.

  Milo saw the look in my eyes, gave an it’s-okay wink, put his hand on my shoulder, and walked in. Huenengarth hesitated for a moment before following. His hands were at his sides. No gun. No bulge in his jacket; no sign of coercion.

  The two of them could have been a cop team.

  Milo said, “Be right with you,” and went into the kitchen.

  Huenengarth stood there. His hands were thick and mottled and his eyes were everywhere. The door was still open. When I closed it, he didn’t move.

  I walked into the living room. Though I couldn’t hear him, I knew he was following me.

  He waited for me to sit on the leather sofa, unbuttoned his jacket, then sank into an armchair. His belly bulged over his belt, straining the white broadcloth of his button-down shirt. The rest of him was broad and hard. His neck flesh was cherry-blossom pink and swelled over his collar. A carotid pulse plinked through, steady and rapid.

  I heard Milo messing in the kitchen.

  Huenengarth said, “Nice place. Any view?”

  It was the first time I’d heard his voice. Midwest inflections, medium-pitched, on the reedy side. On the phone it would conjure a much smaller man.