Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

The only possibility I could see was the toilet tank. I lifted the cap and peered in. Just plumbing and the gizmo that dyed the water.

Ultra-thin needle... The bathroom was an ideal hiding place — perfect conduit from the master suite to the nursery.

Perfect for fixing up a middle-of-the-night injection:

Lock the door to the master suite, fetch the gear from beneath the sink, assemble it, and tiptoe into Cassie’s room.

The bite of the needle would startle the little girl awake, probably make her cry, but she wouldn’t know what had happened.

Neither would anyone else. Waking up in tears was normal for a child her age. Especially one who’d been sick so often.

Would darkness conceal the needle-wielder’s face?

On the other side of the nursery door Cindy was talking, sounding sweet.

Then again, maybe there was an alternative explanation. The cylinders were meant for her. Or Chip.

No — Stephanie had said she’d tested both of them for metabolic disease and found them healthy.

I looked at the door to the master bedroom, then down at my watch. I’d spent three minutes in this blue-tile dungeon, but it felt like a weekend. Unlocking the door, I padded across the threshold into the bedroom, grateful for thick, tight-weave carpeting that swallowed my footsteps.

The room was darkened by drawn shutters and furnished with a king-size bed and clumsy Victorian furniture. Books were stacked high on one of the night-stands. A phone sat atop the stack. Next to the table was a brass-and-wood valet over which hung a pair of jeans. The other stand bore a Tiffany revival lamp and a coffee mug. The bedcovers were turned down but folded neatly. The room smelled of the pine disinfectant I’d found in the bathroom.

Lots of disinfectant. Why?

A double chest ran along the wall facing the bed. I opened a top drawer. Bras and panties and hose and floral sachet in a packet. I felt around, closed the drawer, got to work on the one below, wondering what thrill Dawn Herbert had gotten from petty theft.

Nine drawers. Clothing, a couple of cameras, canisters of film, and a pair of binoculars. Across the room was a closet. More clothes, tennis rackets and canisters of balls, a fold-up rowing machine, garment bags and suitcases, more books — all on sociology. A telephone directory, light bulbs, travel maps, a knee brace. Another box of contraceptive jelly. Empty.

I searched garment pockets, found nothing but lint. Maybe the dark corners of the closet concealed something but I’d been there too long. Shutting the closet door, I snuck back to the bathroom. The toilet had stopped gurgling and Cindy was no longer talking.

Had she grown suspicious about my prolonged absence? I cleared my throat again, turned on the water, heard Cassie’s voice — some kind of protest — then the resumption of mommy-talk.

Detaching the toilet paper holder, I slid off the old roll and tossed it into the cabinet. Unwrapping a refill, I slipped it onto the dispenser. The ad copy on the wrapper promised to be gentle.

Picking up the white box, I pushed open the door to Cassie’s room, wearing a smile that hurt my teeth.

They were at the play table, holding crayons. Some of the papers were covered with colored scrawl.

When Cassie saw me she gripped her mother’s arm and began whining.

“It’s okay, hon. Dr. Delaware’s our friend.” Cindy noticed the box in my hands and squinted.

I came closer and showed it to her. She stared at it, then up at me. I stared back, searching for any sign of self-indictment.

Just confusion.

“I was looking for toilet paper,” I said, “and came across this.”

She leaned forward and read the gold sticker.

Cassie watched her, then picked up a crayon and threw it. When that didn’t capture her mother’s attention, she whined some more.

“Shh, baby.” Cindy’s squint tightened. She continued to look baffled. “How strange.”

Cassie threw her arms up and said, “Uh uh uh!”

Cindy pulled her closer and said, “Haven’t seen those in a long time.”

“Didn’t mean to snoop,” I said, “but I knew Holloway made equipment for diabetics and when I saw the label I got curious — thinking about Cassie’s blood sugar. Are you or Chip diabetic?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “Those were Aunt Harriet’s. Where did you find them?”

“Beneath the sink.”

“How odd. No, Cass, these are for drawing, not throwing.” She picked up a red crayon and drew a jagged line.

Cassie followed the movement, then buried her head in Cindy’s blouse.

“Boy, I haven’t seen those in a really long time. I cleaned out her house, but I thought I threw all her medicines out.”

“Was Dr. Benedict her doctor?”

“And her boss.”

She bounced Cassie gently. Cassie peeked out from under her arm, then began poking her under the chin.

Cindy laughed and said, “You’re tickling me... Isn’t that odd, under the sink all this time?” She gave an uneasy smile. “Guess that doesn’t make me much of a housekeeper. Sorry you had to go looking for paper — I usually notice when the roller’s low.”

“No problem,” I said, realizing there’d been no dust on the box.

Pulling out a cylinder, I rolled it between my fingers.

Cassie said, “Peh-il.”

“No, it’s not a pencil, honey.” No anxiety. “It’s just a... thing.”

Cassie reached for it. I gave it to her and Cindy’s eyes got wide. Cassie put it to her mouth, grimaced, lowered it to the paper and tried to draw.

“See, I told you, Cass. Here, if you want to draw, use this.”

Cassie ignored the proffered crayon and kept looking at the cylinder. Finally she threw it down on the table and began to fuss.

“C’mon, sweetie, let’s draw with Dr. Delaware.”

My name evoked a whimper.

“Cassie Brooks , Dr. Delaware came all the way to play with you, to draw animals — hippos, kangaroos. Remember the kangaroos?”

Cassie whimpered louder.

“Hush, honey,” said Cindy, but without conviction. “No, don’t break your crayons, honey. You can’t — C’mon, Cass.”

“Uh uh uh.” Cassie tried to get off Cindy’s lap.

Cindy looked at me.

I offered no advice.

“Should I let her?”

“Sure,” I said. “I don’t want to be associated with confining her.”

Cindy released her and Cassie made her way to the floor and crawled under the table.

“We did a little drawing while we were waiting for you,” said Cindy. “I guess she’s had enough.”

She bent and looked under the table. “Are you tired of drawing, Cass? Do you want to do something else?”

Cassie ignored her and picked at the carpet fibers.

Cindy sighed. “I’m really sorry — for before. I... it just... I really blew it, didn’t I? I really, really screwed things up — don’t know what came over me.”

“Sometimes things just pile up,” I said, shifting the Insuject box from one hand to another. Keeping it in her view, looking for any sign of nervousness.

“Yes, but I still blew it for you and Cassie.”

“Maybe it’s more important for you and me to talk, anyway.”

“Sure,” she said, touching her braid and casting a glance under the table. “I could sure use some help, couldn’t I? How about coming out now, Miss Cassie?”

No answer.

“Could I trouble you for another iced tea?” I said.

“Oh, sure, no trouble at all. Cass, Dr. Delaware and I are going into the kitchen.”

Cindy and I walked to the door of the nursery. Just as we reached the threshold, Cassie crawled out, tottered upright, and came running toward Cindy, arms outstretched. Cindy picked her up and carried her on one hip. I followed, carrying the white box.