Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

Plumb resumed walking and the group disappeared around a corner.

I said, “What was that all about?”

“That was about Doctor Plumb, our new chief administrator and CEO. Papa Jones’s boy — Mr. Bottom Line.”

“M.D. administrator?”

She laughed. “What, the coat? No, he’s no doc. Just some kind of asinine Ph.D. or something—” She stopped, colored. “Jeez, I’m sorry.”

I had to laugh. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m really sorry, Alex. You know how I feel about psychologists—”

“Forget it.” I put my arm over her shoulder. She slipped hers around my waist.

“My mind is going,” she said softly. “I am definitely falling apart.”

“What’s Plumb’s degree in?”

“Business or management, something like that. He uses it to the hilt — insists on being called Doctor, wears a white coat. Most of his lackeys have doctorates, too — like Frick and Frack over there: Roberts and Novak, his numbers crunchers. They all love to traipse into the doctors’ dining room and take over a table. Show up at medical meetings and rounds for no apparent reason, walking around staring and measuring and taking notes. Like the way Plumb just stopped and sized up that wall. I wouldn’t be surprised if the carpenters show up soon. Dividing three offices into six, turning clinical space into administrative offices. And now he wants to confer with me — there’s something to look forward to.”

“Are you vulnerable?”

“Everyone is, but General Peds is at the bottom of the barrel. We’ve got no fancy technology or heroics to make headlines. Most of what we do’s outpatient, so our reimbursement level’s the lowest in the hospital. Since Psych’s gone.” She smiled.

“Even technology doesn’t seem immune,” I said. “This morning, when I was looking for an elevator, I went by where Nuclear Medicine used to be and the suite had been given over to something called Community Services.”

“Another of Plumb’s coups. But don’t worry about the Nukers — they’re okay. Moved upstairs to Two, same square footage, though patients have trouble finding them. But some of the other divisions have had real problems — Nephrology, Rheumatology, your buddies in Oncology. They’re stuck in trailers across the street.”

“Trailers?”

“As in Winnebago.”

“Those are major divisions, Steph. Why do they put up with it?”

“No choice, Alex. They signed away their rights. They were supposed to be housed in the old Hollywood Lutheran Tower — Western Peds bought it a couple of years ago, after Lutheran had to divest because of their budget problems. The board promised to build fantastic suites for anyone who moved over there. Construction was supposed to start last year. The divisions that agreed were moved to the trailers and their old space was given to someone else. Then they discovered — Plumb discovered — that even though enough money had been raised to make a down payment on the tower and do some of the remodeling, insufficient funds had been allocated to do the rest and to maintain it. Trifling matter of thirteen million dollars. Try raising that in this climate — heroes are already in short supply because we’ve got a charity hospital image and no one wants their name on a bunch of doctors’ offices.”

“Trailers,” I said. “Melendez-Lynch must be overjoyed.”

“Melendez-Lynch went adios , last year.”

“You’re kidding. Raoul lived here.”

“Not anymore. Miami. Some hospital offered him chief of staff, and he took it. I hear he’s getting triple the salary and half the headaches.”

“It has been a long time,” I said. “Raoul had all those research grants. How’d they let him get away?”

“Research doesn’t matter to these people, Alex. They don’t want to pay the overhead. It’s a whole new game.” She let her arm fall from my waist. We began walking.

“Who’s the other guy?” I said. “Mr. Gray Suit.”

“Oh, him.” She looked unnerved. “That’s Huenengarth — Presley Huenengarth. Head of security.”

“He looks like an enforcer,” I said. “Muscle for those who don’t pay their bills?”

She laughed. “That wouldn’t be so terrible. The hospital’s bad debt is over eighty percent. No, he doesn’t seem to do much of anything, except follow Plumb around and lurk . Some of the staff think he’s spooky.”

“In what way?”

She didn’t answer for a moment. “His manner, I guess.”

“You have any bad experiences with him?”

“Me? No. Why?”

“You look a little antsy talking about him.”

“No,” she said. “It’s nothing personal — just the way he acts to everyone. Showing up when you’re not expecting him. Materializing around corners. You’ll come out of a patient’s room and he’ll just be there.”

“Sounds charming.”

“ Très . But what’s a girl to do? Call Security?”

I rode down to the ground floor alone, found Security open, endured a uniformed guard’s five-minute interrogation, and finally earned the right to have a full-color badge made.

The picture came out looking like a mug shot. I snapped the badge onto my lapel and took the stairs down to the sub-basement level, heading for the hospital library, ready to check out Stephanie’s references.

The door was locked. An undated memorandum taped to the door said new library hours were three to five P.M., Monday through Wednesday.

I checked the adjoining reading room. Open but unoccupied. I stepped into another world: oiled paneling, tufted leather chesterfields and wing chairs, worn but good Persian rugs over a shoe-buffed herringbone oak floor.

Hollywood seemed planets away.

Once the study of a Cotswolds manor house, the entire room had been donated years ago — before I’d arrived as an intern — transported across the Atlantic and reconstructed under the financial guidance of an Anglophile patron who felt doctors need to relax in high style. A patron who’d never spent time with a Western Peds doctor.

I strode across the room and tried the connecting door to the library. Open.

The windowless room was pitch-dark and I turned on the lights. Most of the shelves were empty; a few bore thin stacks of mismatched journals. Careless piles of books sat on the floor. The rear wall was bare.

The computer I’d used to run Medline searches was nowhere in sight. Neither was the golden-oak card catalogue with its hand-lettered parchment labels. The only furniture was a gray metal table. Taped to the top was a piece of paper. An inter-hospital memo, dated three months ago.

TO: Professional Staff

FROM: G. H. Plumb, MBA, DBA, Chief Executive Officer

SUBJECT: Library Restructure

In accordance with repeated requests by the Professional Staff and a subsequent confirmatory decision by the Research Committee, the Board of Directors in General Assembly, and the Finance Subcommittee of the Executive Board, the Medical Library reference index will be converted to a fully computerized system utilizing Orion and Melvyl-type standard library data search programs. The contract for this conversion has been put out to competitive bid and, after careful deliberation and cost/benefit computation, has been awarded to BIO-DAT, Inc., of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, a concern specializing in medical and scientific research probe systems and health-care workstation integration. BIO-DAT officials have informed us that the entire process should take approximately three weeks, once they are in full receipt of all relevant data. Accordingly, the library’s current card files will be shipped to BIO-DAT headquarters in Pittsburgh for the duration of the conversion process, and returned to Los Angeles for purposes of storage and archival activity, once the conversion has been terminated. Your cooperation and forbearance during the conversion period is solicited.