Devil's Waltz (46 page)

“Is the doctors’ fund in jeopardy?” I said.

“Not yet. As Mr. Cestare told you, Jones saw Black Monday coming and turned mega-profits. The hospital board of directors loves him.”

“Building up his cashbox, for future plundering?”

“No, he’s plundering right now. As he’s putting dollars in, he’s slipping them out.”

“How can he get away with it?”

“He’s the only one who’s got a handle on each and every transaction — the total picture. He’s also using the fund as leverage for personal purchases. Parking stock in it, merging fund accounts with his own — moving money around hourly.
Playing
with it. He buys and sells under scores of aliases that change daily.
Hundreds
of transactions daily.”

“Lots of commission for him?”

“Lots. Plus, it makes it incredibly difficult to keep track of him.”

“But you have.”

He nodded, still flushed — the hunter’s glow. “It’s taken me four and a half years but I’ve finally gained access to his data banks, and so far, he doesn’t know it. There’s no reason for him to suspect he’s being watched, because normally the government doesn’t pay any attention to nonprofit pension funds. If he hadn’t made some mistakes with some of the corporations he killed, he’d be home free, in fiduciary heaven.”

“What kinds of mistakes?”

“Not important,” Huenengarth barked.

I stared at him.

He forced himself to smile and held out one hand. “The point is, his shell’s finally cracked and I’m prying it open — getting
exquisitely
close to shattering it. It’s a crucial moment, Doctor. That’s why I get cranky when people start following me. Understand? Now, are you satisfied?”

“Not really.”

He stiffened. “What’s your problem?”

“A couple of murders, for starts. Why did Laurence Ashmore and Dawn Herbert die?”

“Ashmore,” he said, shaking his head. “Ashmore was a weird bird. A doctor who actually understood economics and had the technical skills to put his knowledge to use. He got rich, and like most rich people he started to believe he was smarter than anyone else. So smart he didn’t have to pay his share of taxes. He got away with it for a while, but the IRS finally caught on. He could’ve gone to jail for a long time. So I helped him.”

“Go west, young swindler,” I said. “He was your hacker into Jones’s data, wasn’t he? The perfect wedge — an M.D. who doesn’t see patients. Was his degree real?”

“Hundred percent.”

“You bought him a job with a million-dollar grant, plus overhead. Basically, the hospital got
paid
to hire him.”

He gave a satisfied smile. “Greed. Works every time.”

“You’re IRS?” I said.

Still smiling, he shook his head. “Very occasionally, one tentacle strokes the other.”

“What’d you do? Just put your order in to the IRS? Give me a physician in tax trouble who also has computer skills — and they filled it?”

“It wasn’t that simple. Finding someone like Ashmore took a long time. And finding him was one of the factors that helped convince… my superiors to fund my project.”

“Your superiors,” I said. “The Ferris Dixon Institute for Chemical Research — FDIC. What does the R stand for?”

“Rip-off. It was Ashmore’s idea of a joke — everything was a game with him. What he really wanted was something that conformed to PBGC — the Paul Bowles Garden Club was his favorite. He prided himself on being literary. But I convinced him to be subtle.”

“Who’s Professor Walter William Zimberg? Your boss? Another hacker?”

“No one,” he said. “Literally.”

“He doesn’t exist?”

“Not in any real sense.”

“Munchausen man,” Milo muttered.

Huenengarth shot him a sharp look.

I said, “He’s got an office at the University of Maryland. I spoke to his secretary.”

He lifted his cup, took a long time drinking.

I said, “Why was it so important for Ashmore to work out of the hospital?”

“Because that’s where Jones’s main terminal is. I wanted him to have direct access to Jones’s hardware and software.”

“Jones is using the hospital as a business center? He told me he doesn’t have an office there.”

“Technically that’s true. You won’t see his name on any door. But his apparatus is buried within some of the space he’s taken away from the doctors.”

“Down in the sub-basement?”

“Let’s just say buried deeply. Somewhere hard to find. As head of Security, I made sure of that.”

“Getting
yourself
in must have been quite a challenge.”

No answer.

“You still haven’t answered me,” I said. “Why’d Ashmore die?”

“I don’t know. Yet.”

“What’d he do?” I said. “Make an end-run around you? Use what he’d learned working for you to extort money from Chuck Jones?”

He licked his lips. “It’s possible. The data he collected are still being analyzed.”

“By whom?”

“People.”

“What about Dawn Herbert? Was she in on it?”

“I don’t know what her game was,” he said. “Don’t know if she had one.”

His frustration seemed real.

I said, “Then why’d you chase down her computer disks?”

“Because
Ashmore
was interested in them. After we started to decode
his
files, her name came up.”

“In what context?”

“He’d made a coded notation to take her seriously. Called her a ‘negative integer’ — his term for someone suspicious. But she was already dead.”

“What else did he say about her?”

“That’s all we’ve gotten so far. He put everything in code — complex codes. It’s taking time to unravel them.”

“He was your boy,” I said. “Didn’t he leave you the keys?”

“Only some of them.” Anger narrowed the round eyes.

“So you stole her disks.”

“Not stole, appropriated. They were mine. She compiled them while working for Ashmore, and Ashmore worked for me, so legally they’re my property.”

He blurted the last two words. The possessiveness of a kid with a new toy.

I said, “This isn’t just a job with you, is it?”

His gaze flicked across the room and back to me. “That’s exactly what it is. I just happen to love my work.”

“So you have no idea why Herbert was murdered.”

He shrugged. “The police say it was a sex killing.”

“Do
you
think it was?”

“I’m not a policeman.”

“No?” I said, and the look in his eyes made me go on. “I’ll bet you were some kind of cop before you went back to school. Before you learned to talk like a business school professor.”

He gave another eye-flick, quick and sharp as a switchblade. “What’s this, free psychoanalysis?”

“Business administration,” I said. “Or maybe economics.”

“I’m a humble civil servant, Doctor. Your taxes pay my salary.”

“Humble civil servant with a false identity and over a million dollars of phony grant money,” I said. “You’re Zimberg, aren’t you? But that’s probably not your real name, either. What does the ‘B’ on Stephanie’s note pad stand for?”

He stared at me, stood, walked around the room. Touched a picture frame. The hair on his crown was thinning.

“Four and a half years,” I said. “You’ve given up a lot to catch him.”

He didn’t answer but his neck tightened.

“What’s Stephanie’s involvement in all this?” I said. “Besides true love.”

He turned and faced me, flushed again. Not anger this time — embarrassment. A teenager caught necking.

“Why don’t you ask her?” he said softly.

She was in a car parked at the mouth of my driveway, dark Buick Regal, just behind the hedges, out of sight from the terrace. A dot of light darted around the interior like a trapped firefly.

Penlight. Stephanie sat in the front passenger seat, using it to read. Her window was open. She wore a gold choker that caught starlight, and had put on perfume.

“Evening,” I said.

She looked up, closed the book, and pushed the door open. As the penlight clicked off, the dome-light switched on, highlighting her as if she were a soloist onstage. Her dress was shorter than usual. I thought: heavy date. Her beeper sat on the dashboard.

She scooted over into the driver’s seat. I sat where she’d just been. The vinyl was warm.

When the car was dark again, she said, “Sorry for not telling you, but he needs secrecy.”

“What do you call him, Pres or Wally?”

She bit her lip. “Bill.”

“As in Walter William.”

She frowned. “It’s his nickname — his friends call him that.”

“He didn’t tell
me
. Guess I’m not his friend.”

She looked out the windshield and took hold of the wheel. “Look, I know I misled you a bit, but it’s personal. What I do with my private life is really none of your concern, okay?”

“Misled me a bit? Mr. Spooky’s your main squeeze. What else haven’t you told me about?”

“Nothing — nothing to do with the case.”

“That so? He says he can help Cassie. So why didn’t you get him to pitch in sooner?”

She put her hands on the steering wheel. “Shit.”

A moment later: “It’s complicated.”

“I’ll bet it is.”

“Look,” she said, nearly shouting, “I told you he was spooky because that’s the image he wants to project, okay? It’s important that he be seen as a bad guy to get the job done. What he’s doing is
important
, Alex. As important as medicine. He’s been working on it for a long time.”

“Four and a half years,” I said. “I’ve heard all about the noble quest. Is getting you in as division head part of the master plan?”

She turned and faced me. “I don’t have to answer that. I
deserve
that promotion. Rita’s a dinosaur, for God’s sake. She’s been coasting on her reputation for years. Let me tell you a story: A couple of months ago we were doing rounds up on Five East. Someone had eaten a McDonald’s hamburger at the nursing station and left the box up on the counter — one of those Styrofoam boxes for takeout? With the arches embossed right on it? Rita picks it up and asks what it is. Everyone thought she was kidding. Then we realized she wasn’t.
McDonald’s
, Alex. That’s how out of touch she is. How can she relate to our patient mix?”

“What does that have to do with Cassie?”

Stephanie held her book next to her, like body armor. My night-accustomed eyes made out the title.
Pediatric Emergencies
.

“Light reading?” I said. “Or career advancement?”

“Damn you!” She grabbed the door handle. Let go. Sank back. “Sure it’d be good for him if I was head — the more friends he can get close to
them
, the better chance he has of picking up more information to nail them with. So what’s wrong with that? If he doesn’t get them, there’ll be no hospital at all, soon.”

“Friends?” I said. “You sure he knows what that means? Laurence Ashmore worked for him, too, and he doesn’t speak very fondly of him.”

“Ashmore was a jerk — an obnoxious little schmuck.”

“Thought you didn’t know him very well.”

“I didn’t — didn’t have to. I told you how he treated me — how blasé he was when I needed help.”

“Whose idea was it to have him review Chad’s chart in the first place? Yours? Or
Bill’s?
Trying to dish up some additional dirt on the Joneses?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Be nice to know if we’re doing medicine or politics here.”

“What’s the difference, Alex? What’s the damned
difference
! The important thing is results. Yes, he’s my friend. Yes, he’s helped me a lot, so if I want to help him back, that’s okay! What’s
wrong
with that! Our goals are
consistent
!”

“Then why not help
Cassie
?” Shouting myself. “I’m sure the two of you have discussed her! Why put her through one more second of misery if Mr.
Helpful
can put an end to it?”

She cowered. Her back was up against the driver’s door. “What the hell do you
want
from me? Perfection? Well, sorry, I can’t fill that bill. I tried that — it’s a short road to misery. So just lay off, okay?
Okay?
’

She began to cry.

I said, “Forget it. Let’s just concentrate on Cassie.”

“I
am
,” she said in a small voice. “Believe me, Alex, I
am
concentrating on her — always have been. We couldn’t do anything, because we didn’t
know
— had to be sure. That’s why I called you in. Bill didn’t want me to, but I insisted on that. I put my foot down — I really did.”

I kept silent.

“I needed your help to find out,” she said. “To know for sure that Cindy was really doing it to her.
Then
Bill could help. At that point, we could confront them.”

“
Then?
” I said. “Or were you just waiting until Bill gave the signal? Until his plan was in place and he was ready to take down the whole family?”

“No! He… We just wanted to do it in a way that would… be effective. Just jumping in and accusing them wouldn’t be…”

“Strategic?”

“
Effective!
Or ethical — it wouldn’t be the right thing. What if she wasn’t guilty?”

“Something organic? Something metabolic?”

“Why not! I’m a doctor, dammit, not God. How the hell could I know? Just because Chuck’s a piece of slime didn’t mean Cindy was! I wasn’t
sure
, dammit! Getting to the bottom of it is
your
job — that’s why I called you in.”

“Thanks for the referral.”

“Alex,” she said plaintively, “why are you making this so
painful
for me? You know the kind of doctor I am.”

She sniffed and rubbed her eyes.

I said, “Since you called me in, I feel I’ve been running a maze.”

“Me too. You think it’s easy having meetings with those sleazeballs and pretending to be their little stooge? Plumb thinks his hand was created in order to rest on my knee.”

She grimaced and pulled her dress lower. “You think it’s easy being with a bunch of docs, passing Bill in the hall and hearing what they say about him? Look, I know he’s not your idea of a nice guy, but you don’t really know him. He’s
good
. He
helped
me.”