Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

“What would you check for?”

“Criminal history. It’s a police data bank. Will your lady doctor friend be in on the fact that I’m checking?”

“Why?”

“I like to know my parameters when I snoop. What we’re doing is technically a no-no.”

“No. Let’s keep her out of it — why put her in jeopardy?”

“Fine.”

“In terms of a criminal history,” I said, “Munchausens generally present as model citizens — just like your carpet cleaner. And we already know about the first child’s death. It’s been written off as SIDS.”

He thought. “There’d be a coroner’s report on that, but if no one had any suspicions of foul play, that’s about it. I’ll see what I can do about getting hold of the paperwork. You might even be able to do it yourself — check hospital records. If you can be discreet.”

“Don’t know if I can. The hospital’s a different place now.”

“In what way?”

“Lots more security — kind of heavy-handed.”

“Well,” he said, “you can’t fault that. That part of town’s gotten real nasty.”

He got up, went to the fridge, found an orange and began peeling it over the sink. Frowning.

I said, “What is it?”

“I’m trying to frame some strategy on this. Seems to me the only way to solve something like this would be to catch the bad guy in the act. The kid gets sick at home?”

I nodded.

“So the only way to do it would be to surveil their house electronically. Hidden audio and video. Trying to record someone actually poisoning the baby.”

“The Colonel’s games,” I said.

That made him frown.

“Yeah, exactly the kind of stuff that prick would delight in... He moved, you know.”

“Where?”

“Washington, D.C. Where else? New enterprise for him. Corporation with one of those titles that tells you nothing about what it does. Ten to one he’s living off the government. I got a note and a business card in the mail a while back. Congrats for entering the informational age and some free software to do my taxes.”

“He knew what you were doing?”

“Evidently. Anyway, back to your baby-poisoner. Bugging her house. Unless you got a court order, anything you came up with would be inadmissible. But a court order means strong evidence, and all you’ve got are suspicions. Not to mention the fact that Grandpa’s a pooh-bah, and you’ve got to tread extra carefully.”

He finished peeling the orange, put it down, washed his hands, and began pulling apart the sections. “This one may be a heartbreaker — please don’t tell me how cute the kid is.”

“The kid’s adorable.”

“Thank you very much.”

I said, “There were a couple of cases in England, reported in one of the pediatrics journals. They videotaped mothers smothering babies, and all they had were suspicions.”

“They taped at home?”

“In the hospital.”

“Big difference. And for all I know, the law’s different in England... Let me think on it, Alex. See if there’s anything creative we can do. In the meantime I’ll start playing with local records, NCIC, on the off chance that any of them has been naughty before, and we can build up something to get a warrant. Old Charlie’s taught me well — you should see me ride those data bases.”

“Don’t put yourself in jeopardy,” I said.

“Don’t worry. The preliminary searches are no more than what an officer does every time he pulls someone over for a traffic stop. If and when I dig deeper, I’ll be careful. Have the parents lived anyplace other than L.A.?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t know much about them, better start learning.”

“Yeah, you dig your trench; I’ll dig mine.” He hunched over the counter, thinking out loud: “They’re upper-crusties, which could mean private schools. Which is tough.”

“The mother might be a public school girl. She doesn’t come across as someone who was born to money.”

“Social climber?”

“No, just simple. He’s a college teacher. She might have been one of his students.”

“Okay,” he said, opening his note pad. “What else? Maybe military service for him, maybe officer’s training — another tough nut to crack. Charlie has managed to hack into some of the military files, but nothing fancy, just V.A. benefits, cross-referencing, that kind of stuff.”

“What do you guys do, play around with confidential data banks?”

“More like he plays, I watch. Where does the father teach?”

“West Valley Community College. Sociology.”

“What about mom? Any job?”

“No, she’s a full-time mom.”

“Takes her job seriously, huh. Okay, give me a name to work with.”

“Jones.”

He looked at me.

I nodded.

His laughter was deep and loud, almost drunken.

The next morning, I arrived at the hospital at 9:45. The doctors’ lot was nearly full and I had to drive up to the top level to find a space. A uniformed guard was leaning against a concrete abutment, half-concealed by shadows, smoking a cigarette. He kept his eyes on me as I got out of the Seville and didn’t stop looking until I’d snapped my new badge to my lapel.

The private ward was as quiet as it had been yesterday. A single nurse sat at the desk and the unit clerk read McCall’s .

I read Cassie’s chart. Stephanie had been by for morning rounds, reported Cassie symptom-free but decided to keep her in for at least another day. I went to 505W, knocked, and entered.

Cindy Jones and Vicki Bottomley were sitting on the sleeper couch. A deck of cards rested in Vicki’s lap. The two of them looked up.

Cindy smiled. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

Vicki said, “Okay,” and stood.

Cassie’s bed had been cranked to an upright position. She sat playing with a Fisher-Price house. Other amusements, including a quorum of LuvBunnies, were scattered on the bedcover. A breakfast tray held a bowl of partially eaten oatmeal and a plastic cup of something red. Cartoon action flashed on the TV but the sound was off. Cassie was preoccupied with the house, arranging furniture and plastic figures. An I.V. pole was pushed into a corner.

I placed a new drawing on the bed. She glanced at it for a moment, then returned to her play.

Vicki was in rapid motion, handing the cards to Cindy, then clasping Cindy’s hand briefly between both of hers. Avoiding eye contact with me, she walked over to the bed, tousled Cassie’s head, and said, “See you, punkin.”

Cassie looked up for an instant. Vicki tousled her hair again and left.

Cindy stood. A pink blouse replaced yesterday’s plaid. Same jeans and sandals.

“Let’s see, what did Dr. Delaware draw for you today?” She picked up the drawing. Cassie reached out and took it from her.

Cindy put an arm around her shoulder. “An elephant! Dr. Delaware drew you a cute blue elephant!”

Cassie brought the paper closer. “Eh-fa.”

“Good, Cass, that’s great! Did you hear that, Dr. Delaware? Elephant?”

I nodded. “Terrific.”

“I don’t know what you did, Dr. Delaware, but since yesterday she’s been talking more. Cass, can you say elephant again?”

Cassie closed her mouth and crumpled the paper.

Cindy said, “Oh, my,” cuddled her and stroked her cheek. Both of us watched Cassie labor to unfold the picture.

When she finally succeeded she said, “Eh-fa!” compressed the paper again, tighter, into a fist-sized ball, then looked at it, perplexed.

Cindy said, “Sorry, Dr. Delaware. Looks like your elephant isn’t doing too well.”

“Looks like Cassie is.”

She forced a smile and nodded.