Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

I kept silent.

“I needed your help to find out,” she said. “To know for sure that Cindy was really doing it to her. Then Bill could help. At that point, we could confront them.”

“Then?” I said. “Or were you just waiting until Bill gave the signal? Until his plan was in place and he was ready to take down the whole family?”

“No! He... We just wanted to do it in a way that would... be effective. Just jumping in and accusing them wouldn’t be...”

“Strategic?”

“Effective! Or ethical — it wouldn’t be the right thing. What if she wasn’t guilty?”

“Something organic? Something metabolic?”

“Why not! I’m a doctor, dammit, not God. How the hell could I know? Just because Chuck’s a piece of slime didn’t mean Cindy was! I wasn’t sure , dammit! Getting to the bottom of it is your job — that’s why I called you in.”

“Thanks for the referral.”

“Alex,” she said plaintively, “why are you making this so painful for me? You know the kind of doctor I am.

She sniffed and rubbed her eyes.

I said, “Since you called me in, I feel I’ve been running a maze.”

“Me too. You think it’s easy having meetings with those sleazeballs and pretending to be their little stooge? Plumb thinks his hand was created in order to rest on my knee.”

She grimaced and pulled her dress lower. “You think it’s easy being with a bunch of docs, passing Bill in the hall and hearing what they say about him? Look, I know he’s not your idea of a nice guy, but you. don’t really know him. He’s good. He helped me.”

She looked out the driver’s window. “I had a problem... You don’t need to know the details. Oh, hell, why not? I had a drinking problem, okay?”

“Okay.”

She turned around quickly. “You’re not surprised? Did I show it — did I act pathologic?”

“No, but it happens to nice people too.”

“I never showed it at all?”

“You’re not exactly a drooling drunk.”

“No.” She laughed. “More like a comatose drunk, just like my mom — good old genetics.”

She laughed again. Squeezed the steering wheel.

“Now my dad,” she said, “there was your angry drunk. And my brother, Tom, he was a genteel drunk. Witty, charming — very Noel Cowardish. Everyone loved it when he’d had a few too many. He was an industrial designer, much smarter than me. Artistic, creative. He died two years ago of cirrhosis. He was thirty-eight.”

She shrugged. “I postponed becoming an alcoholic for a while — always the contrary kid. Then, during my internship, I finally decided to join the family tradition. Binges on the day off. I was really good at it, Alex. I knew how to clean up just in time to look clever-and-together on rounds. But then I started to slip. Got my timing mixed up. Timing’s always a tricky thing when you’re a closet lush... A few years ago I got busted for drunk driving. Caused an accident. Isn’t that a pretty picture? Imagine if I’d killed someone, Alex. Killed a kid. Pediatrician turns toddler into road pizza — what a headline.”

She cried again. Dried her eyes so hard it looked as if she were hitting herself.

“Shit, enough with the self-pity — my AA buddies always used to get on me for that. I did AA for a year. Then I broke away from it — no spare time and I was doing fine, right? Then last year, with all the stress — some personal things that didn’t work out — I started again. Those teeny little bottles you get on airplanes? I picked some up on a flight, coming home from an AMA convention. Just a nip before bed. Then a few more... then I started taking the little buggers to the office. For that mellow m oment at the end of the day. But I was cool, always careful to put the empties back in my purse, leave no evidence. See, I’m good at subterfuge. You didn’t know that about me till now, did you? But I got you, too, didn’t I? Oh, shit!”

She hit the wheel, then rested her head on it.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Forget it.”

“Sure, it is. It’s okay, it’s great, it’s terrific, it’s wonderful... One night — a really shitty one, sick kids up the wazoo — I polished off a bunch of little bottles and passed out at my desk. Bill was making a security check and found me at three in the morning. I’d vomited all over my charts. When I saw him standing over me I thought I was going to die. But he held me and cleaned me up and took me home — took care of me, Alex. No one ever did that for me. I was always taking care of my mother because she was always...”

She rolled her brow on the steering wheel.

“It’s because of him that I’m pulling it together. Did you notice all the weight I’ve lost? My hair?”

“You look great.”

“I learned how to dress, Alex. Because it finally mattered. Bill bought me my coffee machine. He understood , because his family was also... His dad was a real nasty drunk. Weekend lush, but he held down a job in the same factory for twenty-five years. Then the company got taken over and dissolved, and his dad lost his job, and they found out the pension fund had been looted. Completely stripped. His dad couldn’t find another job and drank himself to death. Bled out, right in his bed. Bill was in high school. He came home from football practice and found him. Do you see why he understands? Why he needs to do what he’s doing?”

“Sure,” I said, wondering how much of the story was true. Thinking of the Identikit face of the man seen walking into the darkness with Dawn Herbert.

“He raised his mom, too,” she said. “He’s a natural problem solver. That’s why he became a cop, why he took the time to go back to school and learn about finance. He has a Ph.D., Alex. It took him ten years because he was working.” She lifted her head and her profile was transformed by a smile. “But don’t try calling him Doctor.”

“Who’s Presley Huenengarth?”

She hesitated.

“Another state secret?” I said.

“It... Okay, I’ll tell you because I want you to trust me. And it’s no big deal. Presley was a friend of his when he was a kid. A little boy who died of a brain tumor when he was eight years old. Bill used his identity because it was safe — there was nothing on file but a birth certificate, and the two of them were the same age, so it was perfect.”

She sounded breathless — excited — and I knew “Bill” and his world had offered her more than just succor.

“Please, Alex,” she said, “can we just forget all this and work together? I know about the insulin injectors — your friend told Bill. You see, he trusts him. Let’s put our heads together and get her. Bill will help us.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, but he will. You’ll see.”

She hooked her beeper over her belt and the two of us went back up to the house. Milo was still on the couch. Huenengarth/Zimberg/Bill was standing across the room, in a corner, leafing through a magazine.

Stephanie said, “Hi, guys,” in a too-chirpy voice.

Huenengarth closed the magazine, took her by the elbow, and seated her in a chair. Pulling another one close to her, he sat down. She didn’t take her eyes off him. He moved his arm as if to touch her, but unbuttoned his jacket instead.

“Where are Dawn Herbert’s disks?” I said. “And don’t tell me it’s not relevant, because I’ll bet you it is. Herbert may or may not have latched on to what Ashmore was doing for you, but I’m pretty sure she had suspicions about the Jones kids. Speaking of which, have you found Chad’s chart?”