Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

“How did you react?”

“Calm and reassuring, I hope.”

“Hmm,” she said, frowning. “One day she’s worrying about her credibility; then all of a sudden we’ve got something organic to work with?”

“The timing is awfully cute,” I said. “Who else besides Cindy was with Cassie last night?”

“No one. Not constantly. You think she slipped her something?”

“Or pinched her nose. Or squeezed her neck — carotid sinus pressure. Both came up when I was scanning the Munchausen literature and I’m sure there are a few more tricks that haven’t been documented yet.”

“Tricks a respiratory tech might know... Damn. So how in blazes do you detect something like that?”

She pulled her stethoscope from around her neck. Looped it around one hand and unwrapped it. Facing the wall, she pressed her forehead to it and closed her eyes.

“Are you going to put her on anything?” I said. “Dilantin or phenobarb?”

“I can’t. Because if she doesn’t have a bona fide disorder, meds can do more harm than good.”

“Won’t they suspect something if you don’t medicate her?”

“Maybe... I’ll just tell them the truth. The EEG tracings are inconclusive and I want to find the exact cause for the seizures before I dose her up. Bogner’ll back me up on that — he’s mad because he can’t figure it out.”

The teak doors swung open and George Plumb shot through, jaw leading, white coat flapping. He held the door for a man in his late sixties wearing a navy-blue pin-stripe suit. The man was much shorter than Plumb — five six or seven — stocky and bald, with a rapid, bow-legged walk and a malleable-looking face that appeared to have taken plenty of direct hits: broken nose, offcenter chin, grizzled eyebrows, small eyes set in a sunburst pucker of wrinkles. He wore steel-rimmed eyeglasses, a white shirt with a spread collar, and a powder-blue silk tie fastened in a wide Windsor. His wingtips gleamed.

The two of them came straight to us. The short man looked busy even when standing still.

“Dr. Eves,” said Plumb. “And Dr. Delaware, was it?”

I nodded.

The short man seemed to be opting out of the introductions. He was looking around the ward — that same measuring appraisal Plumb had conducted two days ago.

Plumb said, “How’s our little girl doing, Dr. Eves?”

“Resting,” said Stephanie, focusing on the short man. “Good morning, Mr. Jones.”

Quick turn of the bald head. The short man looked at her, then at me. Intense focus. As if he were a tailor and I were a bolt of cloth.

“What exactly happened?” he said in a gravelly voice.

Stephanie said, “Cassie experienced an epileptic seizure early this morning.”

“Damn.” The short man punched one hand with the other. “And still no idea what’s causing it?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid. Last time she was admitted we ran every relevant test, but we’re running them again and Dr. Bogner’s coming over. There’s also a visiting professor from Sweden who’s arriving any minute. Childhood epilepsy’s his specialty. Though when I spoke with him on the phone he felt we d done everything right.”

“Damn.” The puckered eyes turned on me. A hand shot out. “Chuck Jones.”

“Alex Delaware.”

We shook hard and fast. His palm felt like a rasp blade. Everything about him seemed to run on fast-forward.

Plumb said, “Dr. Delaware is a psychologist, Chuck.”

Jones blinked and stared at me.

“Dr. Delaware’s been working with Cassie,” said Stephanie, “to help her with her fear of needles.”

Jones made a noncommittal sound, then said, “Well, let me know what goes on. Let’s get to the bottom of this damned folderol.”

He walked toward Cassie’s room. Plumb followed like a puppy.

When they were inside I said, “Folderol?”

“How’d you like to have him for a grandpa?”

“He must love Chip’s earring.”

“One thing he doesn’t love is shrinks. After Psychiatry was abolished a bunch of us went to him, trying to get some sort of mental health services restored. We might as well have asked him for an interest-free loan. Plumb was setting you up just now, when he told Jones what you do.”

“The old corporate pissing game? Why?”

“Who knows? I’m just telling you so you’ll keep your guard up. These people play a different game.”

“Duly noted,” I said.

She looked at her watch. “Time for clinic.”

We left Chappy and headed for the elevator.

She said, “So what are we going to do, Alex?”

I considered telling her what I’d put Milo up to. Decided to keep her out of it. “From my reading, the only thing that seems to work is either catching someone in the act or having a direct confrontation that gets them to confess.”

“Confrontation? As in coming out and accusing her?”

I nodded.

“I can’t exactly do that at this point, can I?” she said. “Now that she’s got witnesses to a bona fide seizure and I’m bringing in specialists. Who knows, maybe I’m totally off-base and there really is some kind of epilepsy, I don’t know... I received a letter from Rita this morning. Express mail from New York — she’s touring the art galleries. ‘How are things progressing on the case?’ Am I ‘making any headway ’ in my ‘ diagnosis ?’ I got the feeling someone went around me and called her.”

“Plumb?”

“Uh-huh. Remember that meeting he wanted? We had it yesterday and it turned out to be all sweetness and light. Him telling me how much he appreciates my commitment to the institution. Letting me know the financial situation is lousy and going to get lousier but implying that if I don’t make waves, I can have a better job.”

“Rita’s.”

“He didn’t come out and say it but that was the message. It would be just like him to then go and call her , set her against me... Anyway, none of that’s important. What do I do about Cassie?”

“Why don’t you wait to see what this Torgeson says? If he feels the seizures have been manufactured, you’d have more ammunition for an eventual confrontation.”

“Confrontation, huh? Can’t wait.”

As we neared the waiting room I commented on how little impact Laurence Ashmore’s murder seemed to have made.

“What do you mean?”

“No one’s talking about it.”

“Yes. You’re right — it’s terrible, isn’t it. How hardened we get. Caught up in our own stuff.”

A few steps later she said, “I didn’t really know him — Ashmore. He kept to himself — kind of antisocial. Never attended a staff meeting, never RSVP’d to party invitations.”

“With those kinds of social skills, how’d he get any referrals?”

“He didn’t want referrals — didn’t do any clinical work. Pure research.”

“Lab rat?”

“Beady eyes and all. But I heard he was smart — knew his toxicology. So when Cassie started coming in with those respiratory things, I asked him to go over Chad’s chart.”

“You tell him why?”

“You mean that I was suspicious? No. I wanted him to go in with an open mind. I just asked him to look for anything out of the ordinary. He was very reluctant. Almost resentful — as if I was imposing. A couple of days later I got a phone message saying he hadn’t found anything. As in, don’t bug me again!”

“How’d he pay his way? Grants?”

“I assume.”

“I thought the hospital was discouraging them — didn’t want to pay overhead.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe he brought in his own overhead.”

She frowned. “No matter what his social skills, what happened to him is horrible. There was a time, no matter how ugly things got out on the street, if you wore a white coat, or a steth around your neck, you were safe. Now that’s all broken down. Sometimes it feels as if everything’s breaking down.”