Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

DET. STURGIS: Your client wants to negotiate, Counselor. I suggest you advise him.

MR. TOKARIK: Don’t say anything, Chip. Let me handle this.

MR. JONES: I want to deal, goddamit! I want out!

DET. STURGIS: What do you have to deal with, Chipper?

MR. JONES: Information — hard facts. Things my dad’s been doing. Real murder. There was a doctor at the hospital named Ashmore — he must have been bothering my dad about something. Because I overheard my dad and one of his lackeys — a worm named Novak — I heard them talking about it when I went to visit my dad at his house. They were in the library and didn’t know I was standing right outside the door — they never paid much attention to me. They were saying this guy, this doctor, would have to be handled. That with all the security problems at the hospital it shouldn’t be a problem. I didn’t really think much of it, but then a month later, Ashmore was murdered in the hospital parking lot. So there had to be a connection, right? I’m sure my dad had him killed. Take a close look at it — believe me, it’ll make all this nonsense look trivial.

DET. STURGIS: All this folderol, huh?

MR. JONES: Believe me, just investigate.

DET. STURGIS: Selling the old man down the river, huh?

MR. JONES: He never did a thing for me. Never protected me — not once, not a single time!

DET. STURGIS: Hear that, Counselor? There’s your defense: a bad childhood. Bye, Chip. C’mon, Steve.

DET. MARTINEZ: See y’all in court.

MR. JONES: Wait—

MR. TOKARIK: Chip, there’s no nee—

END OF TAPE

The indictment made the third page of a news-thin Saturday paper. The headline was PROFESSOR CHARGED WITH MURDER AND CHILD ABUSE, and an old college photo of Chip was included. In it, he looked like a happy hippie; the article described him as a “sociological researcher and recipient of several teaching awards.” The mandatory sample of disbelieving colleagues was quoted.

Next week’s story swallowed that one up: Chuck Jones and George Plumb’s arrests for conspiracy to commit the murder of Laurence Ashmore.

A co-conspirator named Warren Novak — one of the gray accountants — had cut a deal and was telling all, including the fact that Plumb had instructed him to draw cash out of a hospital account to pay a hired killer. The man who’d actually cracked Ashmore’s skull was described as a former bodyguard for Charles Jones named Henry Lee Kudey. A photo showed him being escorted to jail by an unnamed federal agent. Kudey was big and heavy and sloppy-looking and appeared to have just woken up. The marshal was blond and wore black-framed spectacles. His face was a nearly equilateral triangle. As a Western Peds Security guard he’d called himself A. D. Sylvester.

I wondered why a government agent would be doing the arresting on a homicide until I came to the final paragraph: Federal charges against Chuck Jones and his gang for “alleged financial wrongdoings based upon a lengthy government probe” were imminent. Anonymous “federal officials” were quoted. The names Huenengarth and Zimberg never appeared.

At four o’clock on a Tuesday, I made my fourth attempt to reach Anna Ashmore. The first three times, no one had answered at the house on Whittier Drive. This time, a man did.

“Who’s calling?” he said.

“Alex Delaware. I’m on the staff at Western Pediatric Hospital. Paid a condolence call last week and just wanted to see how she’s doing.”

“Oh. Well, this is her attorney, Nathan Best. She’s doing as well as can be expected. Left for New York last night to visit with some old friends.”

“Any idea when she’ll be back?”

“I’m not sure she will.”

“Okay,” I said. “If you speak to her, give her my best.”

“All right. What did you say your name was?”

“Delaware.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“Psychologist.”

“You wouldn’t be in the market for some bargain real estate, would you, Doctor? The estate will be divesting itself of several properties.”

“No, thanks.”

“Well, if you know someone who is, tell them. Bye.”

At five o’clock, I stuck to a recently acquired routine and drove to a small white house on a shady dead-end street in West L.A., just east of Santa Monica.

This time Robin came along with me. I parked and got out. “Shouldn’t be long.”

“Take your time.” She pushed the seat back, put her feet up on the dash, and began sketching pearl-inlay designs on a piece of Bristol board.

As usual, the house was curtained. I walked up the path of railroad ties that split the lawn. Vermilion-and-white petunias struggled in the borders. A Plymouth Voyager van was parked in the driveway. Behind it was a dented copper-colored Honda. The heat was really settling in and the air felt thick and greasy. I couldn’t detect any breeze. But something was causing the bamboo chimes over the doorway to clank.

I knocked. The peephole slid open and a pretty blue eye filled it. The door swung back and Vicki Bottomley stood aside and let me pass. She wore a lime-green nurse’s smock over white stretch pants. Her hair was sprayed tight. A pumpkin-colored mug was in her hand.

“Coffee?” she said. “There’s a little left.”

“No, thanks. How’s it going today?”

“Seems to be better, actually.”

“Both of them?”

“Mostly the little one — she’s really come out of her shell. Running around like a real little bandit.”

“Good.”

“Talking to herself, too — is that okay?”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“What’s she talking about, Vicki?”

“Can’t make it out — mostly babbling. She looks happy enough, though.”

“Tough little kid,” I said, walking in.

“Most kids are... She’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“That so?”

“Yup. I mentioned your name and she smiled. ’Bout time, huh?”

“Sure is. Must have earned my stripes.”

“Got to, with the little ones.”

“How’s she sleeping?”

“Good. Cindy’s not sleeping so good, though. I keep hearing her get up and turn on the TV a bunch of times every night. Maybe the Valium withdrawal, huh? Though I don’t notice any other symptoms.”

“Maybe that, or just plain anxiety.”

“Yeah. Last night she fell asleep in front of the TV, and I woke her and sent her back to her room. But she’ll be okay. Doesn’t have much choice, does she?”

“Why’s that?”

“Being a mother.”

The two of us began walking through the living room. White walls, beige carpet, brand-new furniture barely out of the rental warehouse. The kitchen was to the left. Straight ahead were sliding glass doors that had been left wide open. The backyard was a strip of Astroturfed patio followed by real grass, pale in comparison. An orange tree heavy with ripening fruit served as a centerpiece. At the rear was a scallop-topped redwood fence backed by phone wires and the roofline of the neighboring garage.

Cassie sat on the grass, sucking her fingers while inspecting a pink plastic doll. Doll clothes were strewn on the grass. Cindy sat nearby, cross-legged.

Vicki said, “Guess so.”

“What’s that?”

“Guess you’ve earned your stripes.”

“Guess we both have.”

“Yeah... You know I wasn’t too happy having to take that lie detector.”

“I can imagine.”

“Answering all those questions — being thought of like that.” She shook her head. “That was really hurtful.”

“The whole thing was hurtful,” I said. “He set it up that way.”

“Yeah... I guess he knocked us all around — using my bunnies. They should have capital punishment for people like that. I’m gonna enjoy getting up on the stand and telling the world about him . When do you think that’ll happen — the trial?”