Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

She remained at my side. We touched a lot but the signs of her restlessness were beginning: flexing muscles, random glances, minuscule lags in the conversation that only a lover or a paranoiac would have noticed.

I said, “Got a busy one planned?”

“Just a few things to catch up on. How about you?”

“The same. I’m planning to hit the hospital sometime today.”

She nodded, put both arms around my waist, and we walked back up to the house, entwined. After she got her purse we descended to the carport.

A new truck was parked next to the Seville. Royal-blue Chevy pickup with a white racing stripe along the side. New car registration sticker on the windshield.

“Nice,” I said. “When’d you get it?”

“Yesterday. The Toyota developed serious engine problems and the estimates I got ranged from one to two thousand, so I thought I’d treat myself.”

I walked her to the truck.

She said, “Dad would’ve liked it. He was always a Chevy man — didn’t have much use for anything else. When I drove the other one I sometimes felt he was looking over my shoulder, scowling and telling me Iwo Jima stories.”

She got in, put her bag on the passenger seat, and stuck her face out the window for a kiss.

“Yum,” she said. “Let’s do it again soon, cutie. What was your name again? Felix? Ajax?”

“Mr. Clean.”

“How true,” she said, laughing as she sped away.

I paged Stephanie, and the operator came back on the line saying Dr. Eves would call back. I hung up, pulled out my Thomas Guide, and pinpointed Dawn Herbert’s address on Lindblade Street. I’d just located it when the phone rang.

“Steph?”

“No, Mile . Am I interrupting something?”

“Just waiting for a callback from the hospital.”

“And of course you don’t have call-waiting.”

“Of course.”

Milo gave a long, equine snort that the phone amplified into something thunderous. “Have you had your gas lamps converted to Dr. Edison’s miracle wires yet?”

“If God had wanted man to be electric, he would have given him batteries.”

He snort-laughed. “I’m at the Center. Phone me as soon as you’re finished with Steph. ”

He hung up. I waited another ten minutes before Stephanie’s call came in.

“Morning, Alex,” she said. “What’s up?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

“Nothing much. I saw her about an hour ago,” she said. “She’s feeling better — awake, alert, and screaming at the sight of me.”

“What’s the latest on the hypoglycemia?”

“The metabolic people say there are no metabolic problems, her pancreas has been examined from every possible angle — clean as a whistle — and my Swedish friend and everyone else is back on Munchausen. So I guess I’m back to square one, too.”

“How long are you planning to keep her in?”

“Two or three days, then back home if nothing else comes up. I know it’s dangerous letting her out, but what can I do, turn the hospital into her foster home? Unless you’ve got some suggestions.”

“None yet.”

“You know,” she said, “I really let myself go with that sugar thing. Thinking it was real.”

“Don’t bludgeon yourself. It’s a crazy case. How did Cindy and Chip react to the continuing uncertainty?”

“I only saw Cindy. The usual quiet resignation.”

Remembering Al Macauley’s comment, I said, “Any smiles?”

“Smiles? No. Oh, you mean those spacey ones she sometimes gives? No. Not this morning. Alex, I’m worried sick over this. By discharging Cassie, what am I sentencing her to?”

Having no balm, I offered a Band-Aid. “At least discharging her will give me the chance to make a home visit.”

“While you’re there, why don’t you sneak around and look for hot clues?”

“Such as?”

“Needles in bureau drawers, insulin spansules in the fridge. I’m kidding — no, actually I’m only half-kidding. I’m this close to confronting Cindy, let the chips fall. The next time that little girl gets sick, I just may do it, and if they get mad and go elsewhere, at least I’ll know I did everything I could — Oops, that’s me on page — Neonatology, one of my preemies. Gotta go, Alex. Call me if you learn anything, okay?”

I phoned Milo back. “Working weekends?”

“Did a trade with Charlie. Saturdays on in exchange for some flexibility in my moonlighting. How’s old Steph ?”

“Off organic disease, back on Munchausen. No one can find an organic reason for the hypoglycemia.”

“Too bad,” he said. “Meantime, I’ve got the low-down on Reggie Bottomley, the nurse’s bad seed. Guy’s been dead for a couple of years. For some reason his name never got off the files. Suicide.”

“How?”

“He went into the bathroom, got naked, sat on the toilet, smoked crack, jacked off, then turned his head into bad fruit with a shotgun. Very messy. The Tujunga detective — a gal, actually, named Dunn — said Vicki was home when it happened, watching TV in the next room.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. The two of them had just had some kind of spat over Reggie’s dissolute life-style and Reggie stomped off, got his works out of his dresser drawer and the gun, locked himself in the can, and kaboom. Mom heard the shot, couldn’t get the door open, tried to use a hatchet and still couldn’t do it. The paramedics found her sitting on the floor, crying and screaming for him to please come out, talk it over. They broke the door down and when they saw what he looked like, tried to hold her back. But she got a look at some of it. So that could explain her sour disposition.”

“Oh, man,” I said. “What a thing to go through. Anything on the family history that led up to the suicide?”

“Dunn said there was no history of child abuse — she saw it as basically a nice mom with a rotten kid. And she busted Reggie lots of times, knew him well.”

“What about dad?”

“Died when Reggie was little. Heavy drinker, like you said. Reggie was in trouble right out of the chute, smoking dope and moving on up the pharmaceutical ladder. Dunn describes him as a little skinny jerk, learning disabilities, not too bright, couldn’t hold a job. Incompetent criminal, too — got caught all the time, but he was so pitiful-looking, judges usually went easy on him. He didn’t get violent until near the end — the assault rap. And even that was relatively dinky — bar fight, he used a pool cue on some other scrote’s head. Dunn said he was getting feistier because of the crack, it was just a matter of time before he ended up prematurely muerto . According to her, mom was the long-suffering type, tried her best. End of story. It tell you anything about mom as a suspect?”

“Not really. Thanks anyway.”

“What’s your next step?”

“Lacking anything else, I guess a visit with Dawn Herbert. I spoke to Ashmore’s wife yesterday, and she said he hired grad students from the university. So maybe Herbert has enough technical knowledge to know what Ashmore was looking for in Chad’s chart.”

“Ashmore’s wife? What’d you do, pay a grief call?”

“Yes. Nice lady. Ashmore was quite an interesting fellow.” I told him about the couple’s time in the Sudan, Ashmore’s gambling systems and investments.

“Blackjack, huh? Must have been good.”

“She said he was a math genius — computer wizard. Brown belt in several martial arts, too. Not exactly easy prey for a mugger.”

“No? I know you used to do all that good stuff, and I never wanted to disillusion you, but I’ve seen plenty of martial artists with tags on their toes. It’s one thing in a dojo , bowing and jumping around and screaming like there’s a hatpin in your colon. Whole different story out on the streets. Incidentally, I checked with Hollywood Division on Ashmore’s murder and they’re giving a low solve probability. Hope the widow isn’t pinning her hopes on law enforcement.”