Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

“With overhead ?”

“High, huh?”

“Absurd. What’s the name of this institute?”

“Ferris Dixon. They only funded one other study, much smaller. An economist named Zimberg.”

“With overhead... Hmm, I’ll have to check into that. Thank you for the tip, Alex. And think about my offer. The sun shines here too.”

I didn’t hear from Milo and had doubts if he’d make our eight o’clock meeting. When he hadn’t shown up by twenty after, I figured whatever had held him up at Parker Center had gotten in the way. But at 8:37 the bell rang, and when I opened the door it was him. Someone was standing behind him.

Presley Huenengarth. His face floated over Milo’s shoulder like a malignant moon. His mouth was as small as a baby’s.

Milo saw the look in my eyes, gave an it’s-okay wink, put his hand on my shoulder, and walked in. Huenengarth hesitated for a moment before following. His hands were at his sides. No gun. No bulge in his jacket; no sign of coercion.

The two of them could have been a cop team.

Milo said, “Be right with you,” and went into the kitchen.

Huenengarth stood there. His hands were thick and mottled and his eyes were everywhere. The door was still open. When I closed it, he didn’t move.

I walked into the living room. Though I couldn’t hear him, I knew he was following me.

He waited for me to sit on the leather sofa, unbuttoned his jacket, then sank into an armchair. His belly bulged over his belt, straining the white broadcloth of his button-down shirt. The rest of him was broad and hard. His neck flesh was cherry-blossom pink and swelled over his collar. A carotid pulse plinked through, steady and rapid.

I heard Milo messing in the kitchen.

Huenengarth said, “Nice place. Any view?”

It was the first time I’d heard his voice. Midwest inflections, medium-pitched, on the reedy side. On the phone it would conjure a much smaller man.

I didn’t answer.

He put a hand on each knee and looked around the room some more.

More kitchen noise.

He turned toward it and said, “Far as I’m concerned, people’s personal lives are their own business. As long as what he is doesn’t get in the way of the job, I could care less. Matter of fact, I can help him.”

“Great. You want to tell me who you are?”

“Sturgis claims you know how to keep a secret. Few people do.”

“Especially in Washington?”

Blank stare.

“Or is it Norfolk, Virginia?”

He pursed his lips and turned his mouth into a peeved little blossom. The mustache above it was little more than a mouse-colored stain. His ears were close-set, lobeless, and pulled down into his bull neck. Despite the season, the gray suit was a heavy worsted. Cuffed pants, black oxfords that had been resoled, blue pen in his breast pocket. He was sweating just below the hairline.

“You’ve been trying to follow me,” he said. “But you really have no idea what’s going on.”

“Funny, I felt followed.”

He shook his head. Gave a stern look. As if he were the teacher and I’d guessed wrong.

“So educate me,” I said.

“I need a pledge of total discretion.”

“About what?”

“Anything I tell you.”

“That’s pretty broad.”

“That’s what I need.”

“Does it have to do with Cassie Jones?”

The fingers on his knees began drumming. “Not directly.”

“But indirectly.”

He didn’t answer.

I said, “You want a pledge from me, but you won’t give an inch. You’ve got to work for the government.”

Silence. He examined the pattern of my Persian rug.

“If it compromises Cassie,” I said, “I can’t pledge anything.”

“You’re wrong,” he said, and gave another headshake. “If you really cared about her, you wouldn’t obstruct me.”

“Why’s that?”

“I can help her too.”

“You’re a pretty helpful guy, aren’t you?”

He shrugged.

“If you’re able to stop the abuse, why haven’t you?”

He ceased drumming and touched one index finger to the other. “I didn’t say I was omniscient . But I can be useful. You haven’t made much progress so far, have you?”

Before I could answer, he was up and headed for the kitchen. He returned with Milo, who was carrying three cups of coffee.

Taking one for himself, Milo put the remaining two on the coffee table and settled on the other end of the sofa. Our eyes met. He gave a small nod. Trace of apology.

Huenengarth sat back down, in a different chair from the one he’d just gotten out of. Neither he nor I touched our coffee.

Milo said, “Skoal,” and drank.

“Now what?” I said.

“Yeah,” said Milo. “He’s low on charm, but maybe he can do what he says he can.”

Huenengarth turned toward him and glared.

Milo sipped, crossed his legs.

I said, “You’re here of your own free will, huh?”

Milo said, “Well, everything’s relative.” To Huenengarth: “Stop playing Junior G-man and give the man some data.”

Huenengarth glared some more. Turned to me. Looked at his coffee cup. Touched his mustache.

“This theory you have,” he told me, “about Charles Jones and George Plumb destroying the hospital — who’ve you discussed it with so far?”

“It’s not my theory. The entire staff thinks the administration’s screwing the place over.”

“The entire staff hasn’t taken it as far as you have. Who’ve you talked to besides Louis B. Cestare?”

I hid my surprise and my fear. “Lou’s not involved in this.”

Huenengarth half-smiled. “Unfortunately, he is, Doctor. A man in his position, all those links to the financial world — he could have turned out to be a knotty problem for me. Fortunately, he’s being cooperative. At this very moment. Conferring with one of my colleagues up in Oregon. My colleague says Mr. Cestare’s estate is quite lovely.”

Full smile. “Don’t worry, Doctor, we only bring out the thumbscrews as a last resort.”

Milo put down his coffee. “Why don’t you just cut to the chase, bucko?”

Huenengarth’s smile vanished. He sat up straighter and looked at Milo.

Silent stare.

Milo gave a disgusted look and drank coffee.

Huenengarth waited a while before turning back to me. “Is there anyone else you’ve spoken to in addition to Mr. Cestare? Not counting your girlfriend, Ms. — uh — Castagna. Don’t worry, Doctor. From what I know about her, she isn’t likely to leak a story to The Wall Street Journal. ”

“What the hell do you want?” I said.

“The names of anyone you’ve included in your fantasy. Specifically, people with business connections or a reason to harbor a grudge against Jones or Plumb.”

I glanced at Milo. He nodded, though he didn’t look happy.

“Just one other person,” I said. “A doctor who used to work at Western Peds. Now he lives in Florida. But I didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know and we didn’t go into any details—”

“Dr. Lynch,” said Huenengarth.

I swore. “What’d you do, tap my phone?”

“No, that wasn’t necessary. Dr. Lynch and I talk once in a while. Have been talking for a while.”

“ He tipped you off?”

“Let’s not get sidetracked, Dr. Delaware. The main thing is you told me about speaking to him. That’s good. Admirably frank. I also like the way you wrestled with it. Moral dilemmas mean something to you — I don’t get to see that too often. So now I trust you more than when I walked into this room, and that’s good for both of us.”

“Gee, I’m touched,” I said. “What’s my reward? Learning your real name?”