Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

He licked his lips. “It’s possible. The data he collected are still being analyzed.”

“By whom?”

“People.”

“What about Dawn Herbert? Was she in on it?”

“I don’t know what her game was,” he said. “Don’t know if she had one.”

His frustration seemed real.

I said, “Then why’d you chase down her computer disks?”

“Because Ashmore was interested in them. After we started to decode his files, her name came up.”

“In what context?”

“He’d made a coded notation to take her seriously. Called her a ‘negative integer’ — his term for someone suspicious. But she was already dead.”

“What else did he say about her?”

“That’s all we’ve gotten so far. He put everything in code — complex codes. It’s taking time to unravel them.”

“He was your boy,” I said. “Didn’t he leave you the keys?”

“Only some of them.” Anger narrowed the round eyes.

“So you stole her disks.”

“Not stole, appropriated. They were mine. She compiled them while working for Ashmore, and Ashmore worked for me, so legally they’re my property.”

He blurted the last two words. The possessiveness of a kid with a new toy.

I said, “This isn’t just a job with you, is it?”

His gaze flicked across the room and back to me. “That’s exactly what it is. I just happen to love my work.”

“So you have no idea why Herbert was murdered.”

He shrugged. “The police say it was a sex killing.”

“Do you think it was?”

“I’m not a policeman.”

“No?” I said, and the look in his eyes made me go on. “I’ll bet you were some kind of cop before you went back to school. Before you learned to talk like a business school professor.”

He gave another eye-flick, quick and sharp as a switchblade. “What’s this, free psychoanalysis?”

“Business administration,” I said. “Or maybe economics.”

“I’m a humble civil servant, Doctor. Your taxes pay my salary.”

“Humble civil servant with a false identity and over a million dollars of phony grant money,” I said. “You’re Zimberg, aren’t you? But that’s probably not your real name, either. What does the ‘B’ on Stephanie’s note pad stand for?”

He stared at me, stood, walked around the room. Touched a picture frame. The hair on his crown was thinning.

“Four and a half years,” I said. “You’ve given up a lot to catch him.”

He didn’t answer but his neck tightened.

“What’s Stephanie’s involvement in all this?” I said. “Besides true love.”

He turned and faced me, flushed again. Not anger this time — embarrassment. A teenager caught necking.

“Why don’t you ask her?” he said softly.

She was in a car parked at the mouth of my driveway, dark Buick Regal, just behind the hedges, out of sight from the terrace. A dot of light darted around the interior like a trapped firefly.

Penlight. Stephanie sat in the front passenger seat, using it to read. Her window was open. She wore a gold choker that caught starlight, and had put on perfume.

“Evening,” I said.

She looked up, closed the book, and pushed the door open. As the penlight clicked off, the dome-light switched on, highlighting her as if she were a soloist onstage. Her dress was shorter than usual. I thought: heavy date. Her beeper sat on the dashboard.

She scooted over into the driver’s seat. I sat where she’d just been. The vinyl was warm.

When the car was dark again, she said, “Sorry for not telling you, but he needs secrecy.”

“What do you call him, Pres or Wally?”

She bit her lip. “Bill.”

“As in Walter William.”

She frowned. “It’s his nickname — his friends call him that.”

“He didn’t tell me. Guess I’m not his friend.”

She looked out the windshield and took hold of the wheel. “Look, I know I misled you a bit, but it’s personal. What I do with my private life is really none of your concern, okay?”

“Misled me a bit? Mr. Spooky’s your main squeeze. What else haven’t you told me about?”

“Nothing — nothing to do with the case.”

“That so? He says he can help Cassie. So why didn’t you get him to pitch in sooner?”

She put her hands on the steering wheel. “Shit.”

A moment later: “It’s complicated.”

“I’ll bet it is.”

“Look,” she said, nearly shouting, “I told you he was spooky because that’s the image he wants to project, okay? It’s important that he be seen as a bad guy to get the job done. What he’s doing is important , Alex. As important as medicine. He’s been working on it for a long time.”

“Four and a half years,” I said. “I’ve heard all about the noble quest. Is getting you in as division head part of the master plan?”

She turned and faced me. “I don’t have to answer that. I deserve that promotion. Rita’s a dinosaur, for God’s sake. She’s been coasting on her reputation for years. Let me tell you a story: A couple of months ago we were doing rounds up on Five East. Someone had eaten a McDonald’s hamburger at the nursing station and left the box up on the counter — one of those Styrofoam boxes for takeout? With the arches embossed right on it? Rita picks it up and asks what it is. Everyone thought she was kidding. Then we realized she wasn’t. McDonald’s , Alex. That’s how out of touch she is. How can she relate to our patient mix?”

“What does that have to do with Cassie?”

Stephanie held her book next to her, like body armor. My night-accustomed eyes made out the title. Pediatric Emergencies.

“Light reading?” I said. “Or career advancement?”

“Damn you!” She grabbed the door handle. Let go. Sank back. “Sure it’d be good for him if I was head — the more friends he can get close to them , the better chance he has of picking up more information to nail them with. So what’s wrong with that? If he doesn’t get them, there’ll be no hospital at all, soon.”

“Friends?” I said. “You sure he knows what that means? Laurence Ashmore worked for him, too, and he doesn’t speak very fondly of him.”

“Ashmore was a jerk — an obnoxious little schmuck.”

“Thought you didn’t know him very well.”

“I didn’t — didn’t have to. I told you how he treated me — how blasé he was when I needed help.”

“Whose idea was it to have him review Chad’s chart in the first place? Yours? Or Bill’s ? Trying to dish up some additional dirt on the Joneses?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Be nice to know if we’re doing medicine or politics here.”

“What’s the difference, Alex? What’s the damned difference! The important thing is results. Yes, he’s my friend. Yes, he’s helped me a lot, so if I want to help him back, that’s okay! What’s wrong with that! Our goals are consistent!”

“Then why not help Cassie ?” Shouting myself. “I’m sure the two of you have discussed her! Why put her through one more second of misery if Mr. Helpful can put an end to it?”

She cowered. Her back was up against the driver’s door. “What the hell do you want from me? Perfection? Well, sorry, I can’t fill that bill. I tried that — it’s a short road to misery. So just lay off, okay? Okay?”

She began to cry.

I said, “Forget it. Let’s just concentrate on Cassie.”

“I am,” she said in a small voice. “Believe me, Alex, I am concentrating on her — always have been. We couldn’t do anything, because we didn’t know — had to be sure. That’s why I called you in. Bill didn’t want me to, but I insisted on that. I put my foot down — I really did.”