Devil's Waltz (43 page)

“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.”

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 an 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.

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.