Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

“True. If we can pin down this shipment to him after the aunt died, that would be great. Any serial numbers on the things? Or an invoice?”

“Let me check... no invoice. But there are serial numbers. And the copyright on the manufacturer’s brochure is five years old.”

“Good. Give me those numbers and I’ll get on it. In the meantime, I still think your best bet is to continue playing with Cindy’s head. Give her a taste of her own medicine.”

“How?”

“Pull her in for a meeting, without the kid—”

“That’s already set up for tomorrow evening. Chip’ll be there too.”

“Even better. Confront her, straight on. Tell her you think someone is making Cassie sick and you know how . Hold up a cylinder and say you’re not buying any of this leftover crap. You want to take chances, go for a big bluff: say you’ve talked to the D.A. and he’s ready to file charges for attempted murder. Then pray she cracks.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“You get thrown off the case, but at least she’ll know someone’s wise to her. I don’t see what you can gain by waiting any longer, Alex.”

“What about Stephanie? Do I clue her in? Are we eliminating her as a suspect?”

“Like we said before, she could be Cindy’s secret lover, but there’s no sign of that. And if she was involved, why would Cindy mess with Benedict? Stephanie’s a doctor — she could get the same stuff he could. Anything’s possible, but far as I can tell, the mom started out looking good and she keeps getting better.”

“If Stephanie’s off the hook,” I said, “I should let her in on it — she’s the primary doc. Pulling something this strong without her knowledge is probably unethical.”

“Why don’t you just sound her out and see how she reacts? Tell her about the cylinders and see where she goes with it. If you’re satisfied she’s clean, take her along with you when you play with Cindy’s head. Strength in numbers.”

“Play with her head? Sounds fun.”

“It rarely is,” he said. “If I could do it for you, I would.”

“Thanks. For everything.”

“Anything else?”

Finding the Insujects had pushed the visit to Dr. Janos’s office out of my head.

“Plenty,” I said, and told him how Huenengarth had beat me to Dawn Herbert’s computer disks. Then I threw in my calls to Ferris Dixon and Professor W. W. Zimberg’s office, and my updated blackmail theories on Herbert and Ashmore.

“High intrigue, Alex — maybe some of it’s even true. But don’t let yourself get distracted from Cassie. I’m still checking on Huenengarth. Nothing yet, but I’ll stay on it. Where will you be in case something does come up?”

“I’ll call Stephanie soon as we hang up. If she’s in her office I’ll run over to the hospital. If not, I’ll be home.”

“All right. How about we get together later tonight, trade miseries. Eight okay?”

“Eight’s fine. Thanks again.”

“Don’t thank me. We’re a long way from feeling good about this one.”

The General Peds receptionist said, “Dr. Eves stepped out. Let me page her.”

I waited, looking out through the clouded walls of the phone booth at traffic and dust. The equestrians came into view again, cantering up a side street, heading back from what must have been a circuit. Slim jodhpured legs clamped around glistening torsos. Lots of smiles.

Probably heading back to the club for cold drinks and conversation. I thought of all the ways Cindy Jones could have chosen to fill her time.

Just as the horses vanished, the receptionist came back on the line. “She’s not answering, Doctor. Would you like to leave a message?”

“Any idea when she’ll be back?”

“I know she’s coming back for a five o’clock meeting — you might try her just before then.”

Five P.M. was almost two hours away. I drove down Topanga thinking of all the damage that could be done to a child in that time. Kept heading south to the on-ramp.

Traffic was backed up to the street. I nosed into the snail-trail and oozed eastward. Nasty drive to Hollywood. At night, though, the ambulance would fairly zip.

I pulled into the doctors’ lot just before four, clipped my badge to my lapel, and walked to the lobby, where I paged Stephanie. The anxiety that had hit me only a week ago was gone. In its place, a driving sense of anger.

What a difference seven days make...

No answer. I phoned her office again, got the same receptionist, the same answer, delivered in a slightly annoyed tone.

I went up to the General Peds clinic and walked into the examination suite, passing patients, nurses, and doctors without notice.

Stephanie’s door was closed. I wrote a note for her to call me and was bending to slip it under the door when a husky female voice said, “Can I help you?”

I straightened. A woman in her late sixties was looking at me. She had on the whitest white coat I’d ever seen, worn buttoned over a black dress. Her face was deeply tanned, wrinkled, and pinch-featured under a helmet of straight white hair. Her posture would have made a marine correct his own.

She saw my badge and said, “Oh, excuse me, Doctor.” Her accent was Marlene Dietrich infused with London. Her eyes were small, green-blue, electrically alert. A gold pen was clipped to her breast pocket. She wore a thin gold chain from which a single pearl dangled, set in a golden nest like a nacreous egg.

“Dr. Kohler,” I said. “Alex Delaware.”

We shook hands and she read my badge. Confusion didn’t suit her.

“I used to be on the staff,” I said. “We worked together on some cases. Crohn’s disease. Adaptation to the ostomy?”

“Ah, of course.” Her smile was warm and it made the lie inoffensive. She’d always had that smile, wore it even while cutting down a resident’s faulty diagnosis. Charm planted by an upper-class Prague childhood cut short by Hitler, then fertilized by marriage to The Famous Conductor. I remembered how she’d offered to use her connections to bring funds to the hospital. How the board had turned her down, calling that kind of fund-raising “crass.”

“Looking for Stephanie?” she said.

“I need to talk to her about a patient.”

The smile hung there but her eyes iced over. “I happen to be looking for her myself. She’s scheduled to be here. But I suppose our future division head must be busy.”

I feigned surprise.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Those in the know say her promotion is imminent.”

The smile got wider and took on a hungry cast. “Well, all the best to her... though I hope she learns to anticipate events a bit better. One of her teenage patients just showed up without an appointment and is creating a scene out in the waiting room. And Stephanie left without checking out.”

“Doesn’t sound like her,” I said.

“Really? Lately, it’s become like her. Perhaps she sees herself as having already ascended.”

A nurse passed by. Kohler said, “Juanita?”

“Yes, Dr. Kohler?”

“Have you seen Stephanie?”

“I think she went out.”

“Out of the hospital?”

“I think so, Doctor. She had her purse.”

“Thank you, Juanita.”

When the nurse had gone, Kohler pulled a set of keys out of a pocket.

“Here,” she said, jamming one of the keys into Stephanie’s lock and turning. Just as I caught the door, she yanked the key out sharply and walked away.

The espresso machine was off but a half-full demitasse sat on the desk, next to Stephanie’s stethoscope. The smell of fresh roast overpowered the alcohol bite seeping in from the examining rooms. Also on the desk were a pile of charts and a memo pad stuffed with drug company stationery. As I slipped my note under it I noticed writing on the top sheet.