Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

“Yup. First time anyone but Cindy saw it.”

“Who else did?”

“Bottomley and the ward clerk. And what’s interesting is, yesterday Cindy was talking to me about how Cassie always gets sick at home, then recovers right away in the hospital. So people start thinking her mother’s crazy. And here we are, a few hours later, with eyewitnesses and chemical corroboration. The lab tests turned up hypoglycemia, and now Stephanie’s convinced Cassie’s really sick. But hypoglycemia can be faked, Milo, by anything that alters the blood sugar, like a shot of insulin. I mentioned that to Stephanie, but I’m not sure she’s hearing it. She’s really geared up, looking for rare metabolic diseases.”

“Pretty sharp about-face,” he said.

“I can’t say that I blame her. After months of dealing with this, she’s frustrated and wants to practice medicine, not play psychological guessing games.”

“You, on the other hand...”

“I’ve got an evil mind — too much time hanging around you.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Well, I can see your point about the meningitis, if that’s what the mom had. Seizures for all — like mother, like daughter. But you don’t know that yet. And if she was covering up, why would she bring up the discharge in the first place? Why even tell you she was in the army?”

“Why’d your confessor make up his story? If she’s a Munchausen, she’d get off on teasing me with half-truths. It would sure be nice to get hold of her discharge papers, Milo. Find out exactly what did happen to her in South Carolina.”

“I can try, but it’ll take time.”

“Something else. I went looking for Chad Jones’s post-mortem chart today but it was missing. Pulled by Ashmore’s research assistant in February and never returned.”

“Ashmore? The one who was killed?”

“The very same. He was a toxicologist. Stephanie had already asked him to review the chart half a year ago, when she started getting suspicious about Cassie. He did it reluctantly — pure researcher, didn’t work with patients. And he told her he’d found nothing. So why would he pull the chart again, unless he discovered something new about Cassie?”

“If he didn’t work with patients, how would he know about Cassie in the first place?”

“By seeing her name on the A and D’s — the admission and discharge sheets. They come out daily and every doctor gets them. Seeing Cassie on them time after time might have finally gotten him curious enough to review her brother’s death. The assistant’s a woman by the name of Dawn Herbert. I tried to get hold of her but she quit the hospital the day after she pulled the chart — talk about more cute timing. And now Ashmore’s dead. I don’t want to sound like some kind of conspiracy nut, but it’s weird, isn’t it? Herbert might be able to clear things up, but there’s no address or phone number listed for her from Santa Barbara down to San Diego.”

“Dawn Herbert,” he said. “As in the other Hoover.”

“Middle name of Kent. As in Duke of.”

“Fine. I’ll try to squeeze in a trace before I go off shift.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Show it by feeding me. Got any decent grub in the house?”

“I suppose—”

“Better yet, haute cuisine . I’ll pick. Gluttonous, overpriced, and on your credit card.”

He showed up at eight, holding out a white box. On the cover was a cartoon of a grinning, grass-skirted islander finger-spinning a huge disc of dough.

“Pizza?” I said. “What happened to haute and overpriced?”

“Wait till you see the bill.”

He carried the box into the kitchen, slit the tape with his fingernail, lifted the lid, removed a slice from the pie, and ate it standing at the counter. Then he pulled off a second wedge, handed it to me, got another one for himself, and sat at the table.

I looked at the slice in my hand. Molten desert of cheese, landscaped with mushrooms, onions, peppers, anchovies, sausage, and lots of things I couldn’t identify. “What is this — pineapple?”

“And mango. And Canadian bacon and bratwurst and chorizo. What you’ve got there, pal, is authentic Spring Street Pogo-Pogo pizza. The ultimate democratic cuisine — little bit of every ethnicity, a lesson in gastronomic democracy.”

He ate and spoke with his mouth full: “Little Indonesian guy sells it from a stand, near the Center. People line up.”

“People line up to pay parking fines too.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, and dug in again, holding one hand under the slice to catch dripping cheese.

I went to the cupboard, found a couple of paper plates, and put them on the table, along with napkins.

“Whoa, the good china!” He wiped his chin. “Drink?”

I took two cans of Coke from the fridge. “This okay?”

“If it’s cold.”

Finishing his second slice, he popped his can and drank.

I sat and took a bite of pizza. “Not bad.”

“Milo knows grub.” He guzzled more Coke. “Regarding your Ms. Dawn K. Herbert, no wants or warrants. Another virgin.”

He reached into his pocket, took out a piece of paper, and handed it to me. Typewritten on it was:

Dawn Kent Herbert, DOB 12/13/63, 5′5″,

170 lb., brown and brown. Mazda Miata.

Under that was an address on Lindblade Street, in Culver City.

I thanked him and asked him if he’d heard anything new on the Ashmore murder.

He shook his head. “It’s going down as your routine Hollywood mugging.”

“Right guy to mug. He was rich.” I described the house on North Whittier.

“Didn’t know research paid that well,” he said.

“It doesn’t. Ashmore must have had some sort of independent income. That would explain why the hospital hired him at a time when they’re getting rid of doctors and discouraging research grants. He probably brought some kind of endowment with him.”

“Paid his way in?”

“It happens.”

“Let me ask you this,” he said. “In terms of your Ashmore-getting-curious theory. Cassie’s been in and out of the hospital since she was born. Why would he wait until February to start snooping?”

“Good question,” I said. “Hold on for a sec.”

I went to the library and fetched the notes I’d taken on Cassie’s medical history. Milo had sat down at the table and I joined him, turning pages.

“Here we are,” I said. “February 10. Four days before Herbert pulled Chad’s chart. It was Cassie’s second hospitalization for stomach problems. The diagnosis was gastric distress of unknown origin, possible sepsis — the main symptom was bloody diarrhea. Which could have made Ashmore think of some specific kind of poisoning. Maybe his toxicology training overcame his apathy.”

“Not enough for him to talk to Stephanie.”

“True.”

“So maybe he looked and didn’t find anything.”

“Then why not return the chart?” I said.

“Sloppy housekeeping. Herbert was supposed to but didn’t. Knew she was leaving and didn’t give a damn about her paperwork.”

“When I see her I’ll ask her.”

“Yeah. Who knows, maybe she’ll give you a ride in her Miata.”

“Zoom zoom,” I said. “Anything new on Reginald Bottomley?”

“Not yet. Fordebrand — the Foothill guy — is on vacation, so I’ve got a call in to the guy who’s catching for him. Let’s hope he cooperates.”

He put the Coke down. Tension wounded his face and I thought I knew why. He was wondering if the other detective knew who he was. Would bother to return his call.

“Thanks,” I said. “For everything.”

“ De nada .” He shook the can. Empty. Leaning on the counter with both elbows, he faced me.