Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle

by Jonathan Kellerman

  She began ordering the piles on her desk. Swiveled and faced me.

  “Six months,” she said. “If she’s still alive by then.”

  6

  The waiting room was hot with bodies and impatience. Several of the mothers flashed hopeful looks at Stephanie as she walked me out. She smiled, said, “Soon,” and ushered me into the hall.

  A group of men—three white-coated doctors and one business suit in gray flannel—was heading our way. The lead white-coat noticed us and called out, “Dr. Eves!”

  Stephanie grimaced. “Wonderful.”

  She stopped and the men came abreast. The white-coats were all in their fifties and had the well-fed, well-shaven look of senior attending physicians with established practices.

  Business-suit was younger—mid-thirties—and hefty. Six feet, 230 or so, big round shoulders padded with fat under a broad columnar head. He had short dishwater hair and bland features, except for a nose that had been broken and reset imperfectly. A wispy narrow mustache failed to give the face any depth. He looked like an ex-jock playing the corporate game. He stood behind the others, too far away for me to read his badge.

  The lead doctor was also thickset, and very tall. He had wide razor-edge lips and thinning curly hair the color of silver plate that he wore longish and winged at the sides. A heavy, outthrusting chin gave his face the illusion of forward movement. His eyes were quick and brown, his skin pinkish and gleaming as if fresh from the sauna. The two doctors flanking him were medium-sized, gray-haired, and bespectacled. In one case, the hair was a toupee.

  Chin said, “How’re things in the trenches, Dr. Eves?” in a deep, adenoidal voice.

  Stephanie said, “Trenchlike.”

  He turned to me and did some eyebrow calisthenics.

  Stephanie said, “This is Dr. Delaware, a member of our staff.”

  He shot his hand out. “Don’t believe it’s been my pleasure. George Plumb.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Plumb.”

  Vise-grip handshake. “Delaware,” he said. “What division are you with, Doctor?”

  “I’m a psychologist.”

  “Ah.”

  The two gray-haired men looked at me but didn’t talk or move. Suit seemed to be counting the holes in the acoustical ceiling.

  “He’s with pediatrics,” said Stephanie. “Serving as a consultant on the Cassie Jones case—helping the family cope with the stress.”

  Plumb swung his eyes back to her. “Ah. Very good.” He touched her arm lightly. She endured it for a moment, then backed away.

  He renewed his smile. “You and I need to confer, Stephanie. I’ll have my girl call yours and set it up.”

  “I don’t have a girl, George. The five of us share one woman secretary.”

  The gray twins looked at her as if she were floating in a jar. Suit was somewhere else.

  Plumb kept smiling. “Yes, the ever-changing nomenclature. Well, then my girl will call your woman. Be well, Stephanie.”

  He led his entourage away, stopped several yards down the hall, and ran his eyes up and down a wall, as if measuring.

  “What are you going to dismantle now, boys?” said Stephanie under her breath.

  Plumb resumed walking and the group disappeared around a corner.

  I said, “What was that all about?”

  “That was about Doctor Plumb, our new chief administrator and CEO. Papa Jones’s boy—Mr. Bottom Line.”

  “M.D. administrator?”

  She laughed. “What, the coat? No, he’s no doc. Just some kind of asinine Ph.D. or something—” She stopped, colored. “Jeez, I’m sorry.”

  I had to laugh. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m really sorry, Alex. You know how I feel about psychologists—”

  “Forget it.” I put my arm over her shoulder. She slipped hers around my waist.

  “My mind is going,” she said softly. “I am definitely falling apart.”

  “What’s Plumb’s degree in?”

  “Business or management, something like that. He uses it to the hilt—insists on being called Doctor, wears a white coat. Most of his lackeys have doctorates, too—like Frick and Frack over there: Roberts and Novak, his numbers crunchers. They all love to traipse into the doctors’ dining room and take over a table. Show up at medical meetings and rounds for no apparent reason, walking around staring and measuring and taking notes. Like the way Plumb just stopped and sized up that wall. I wouldn’t be surprised if the carpenters show up soon. Dividing three offices into six, turning clinical space into administrative offices. And now he wants to confer with me—there’s something to look forward to.”

  “Are you vulnerable?”

  “Everyone is, but General Peds is at the bottom of the barrel. We’ve got no fancy technology or heroics to make headlines. Most of what we do’s outpatient, so our reimbursement level’s the lowest in the hospital. Since Psych’s gone.” She smiled.

  “Even technology doesn’t seem immune,” I said. “This morning, when I was looking for an elevator, I went by where Nuclear Medicine used to be and the suite had been given over to something called Community Services.”

  “Another of Plumb’s coups. But don’t worry about the Nukers—they’re okay. Moved upstairs to Two, same square footage, though patients have trouble finding them. But some of the other divisions have had real problems—Nephrology, Rheumatology, your buddies in Oncology. They’re stuck in trailers across the street.”

  “Trailers?”

  “As in Winnebago.”

  “Those are major divisions, Steph. Why do they put up with it?”

  “No choice, Alex. They signed away their rights. They were supposed to be housed in the old Hollywood Lutheran Tower—Western Peds bought it a couple of years ago, after Lutheran had to divest because of their budget problems. The board promised to build fantastic suites for anyone who moved over there. Construction was supposed to start last year. The divisions that agreed were moved to the trailers and their old space was given to someone else. Then they discovered—Plumb discovered—that even though enough money had been raised to make a down payment on the tower and do some of the remodeling, insufficient funds had been allocated to do the rest and to maintain it. Trifling matter of thirteen million dollars. Try raising that in this climate—heroes are already in short supply because we’ve got a charity hospital image and no one wants their name on a bunch of doctors’ offices.”

  “Trailers,” I said. “Melendez-Lynch must be overjoyed.”

  “Melendez-Lynch went adios, last year.”

  “You’re kidding. Raoul lived here.”

  “Not anymore. Miami. Some hospital offered him chief of staff, and he took it. I hear he’s getting triple the salary and half the headaches.”

  “It has been a long time,” I said. “Raoul had all those research grants. How’d they let him get away?”

  “Research doesn’t matter to these people, Alex. They don’t want to pay the overhead. It’s a whole new game.” She let her arm fall from my waist. We began walking.

  “Who’s the other guy?” I said. “Mr. Gray Suit.”

  “Oh, him.” She looked unnerved. “That’s Huenengarth—Presley Huenengarth. Head of security.”

  “He looks like an enforcer,” I said. “Muscle for those who don’t pay their bills?”

  She laughed. “That wouldn’t be so terrible. The hospital’s bad debt is over eighty percent. No, he doesn’t seem to do much of anything, except follow Plumb around and lurk. Some of the staff think he’s spooky.”

  “In what way?”

  She didn’t answer for a moment. “His manner, I guess.”

  “You have any bad experiences with him?”

  “Me? No. Why?”

  “You look a little antsy talking about him.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s nothing personal—just the way he acts to everyone. Showing up when you’re not expecting him. Materializing around corners. You’ll come out of a patient’s room and
he’ll just be there.”

  “Sounds charming.”

  “Très. But what’s a girl to do? Call Security?”

  • • •

  I rode down to the ground floor alone, found Security open, endured a uniformed guard’s five-minute interrogation, and finally earned the right to have a full-color badge made.

  The picture came out looking like a mug shot. I snapped the badge onto my lapel and took the stairs down to the sub-basement level, heading for the hospital library, ready to check out Stephanie’s references.

  The door was locked. An undated memorandum taped to the door said new library hours were three to five P.M., Monday through Wednesday.

  I checked the adjoining reading room. Open but unoccupied. I stepped into another world: oiled paneling, tufted leather chesterfields and wing chairs, worn but good Persian rugs over a shoe-buffed herringbone oak floor.

  Hollywood seemed planets away.

  Once the study of a Cotswolds manor house, the entire room had been donated years ago—before I’d arrived as an intern—transported across the Atlantic and reconstructed under the financial guidance of an Anglophile patron who felt doctors need to relax in high style. A patron who’d never spent time with a Western Peds doctor.

  I strode across the room and tried the connecting door to the library. Open.

  The windowless room was pitch-dark and I turned on the lights. Most of the shelves were empty; a few bore thin stacks of mismatched journals. Careless piles of books sat on the floor. The rear wall was bare.

  The computer I’d used to run Medline searches was nowhere in sight. Neither was the golden-oak card catalogue with its hand-lettered parchment labels. The only furniture was a gray metal table. Taped to the top was a piece of paper. An inter-hospital memo, dated three months ago.

  TO: Professional Staff

  FROM: G. H. Plumb, MBA, DBA, Chief Executive Officer

  SUBJECT: Library Restructure

  In accordance with repeated requests by the Professional Staff and a subsequent confirmatory decision by the Research Committee, the Board of Directors in General Assembly, and the Finance Subcommittee of the Executive Board, the Medical Library reference index will be converted to a fully computerized system utilizing Orion and Melvyl-type standard library data search programs. The contract for this conversion has been put out to competitive bid and, after careful deliberation and cost/benefit computation, has been awarded to BIO-DAT, Inc., of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, a concern specializing in medical and scientific research probe systems and health-care workstation integration. BIO-DAT officials have informed us that the entire process should take approximately three weeks, once they are in full receipt of all relevant data. Accordingly, the library’s current card files will be shipped to BIO-DAT headquarters in Pittsburgh for the duration of the conversion process, and returned to Los Angeles for purposes of storage and archival activity, once the conversion has been terminated. Your cooperation and forbearance during the conversion period is solicited.

  Three weeks had stretched to three months.

  I ran my finger along the metal table and ended up with a dust-blackened tip.

  Turning off the light, I left the room.

  Sunset Boulevard was a bouillabaisse of rage and squalor mixed with immigrant hope and livened by the spice of easy felony.

  I drove past the flesh clubs, the new-music caverns, titanic show-biz billboards, and the anorexically oriented boutiques of the Strip, crossed Doheny and slipped into the dollar-shrines of Beverly Hills. Passing my turnoff at Beverly Glen, I headed for a place where serious research could always be done. The place where Chip Jones had done his.

  The Biomed library was filled with the inquisitive and the obligated. Sitting at one of the monitors was someone I recognized.

  Gamine face, intense eyes, dangling earrings, and a double pierce on the right ear. The tawny bob had grown out to a shoulder-length wedge. A line of white collar showed over a navy-blue crewneck.

  When had I last seen her? Three years or so. Making her twenty.

  I wondered if she’d gotten her Ph.D. yet.

  She was tapping the keys rapidly, bringing data to the screen. As I neared I saw that the text was in German. The word neuropeptide kept popping out.

  “Hi, Jennifer.”

  She spun around. “Alex!” Big smile. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and got off her stool.

  “Is it Dr. Leavitt yet?” I said.

  “This June,” she said. “Wrapping up my dissertation.”

  “Congratulations. Neuroanatomy?”

  “Neurochemistry—much more practical, right?”

  “Still planning on going to med school?”

  “Next fall. Stanford.”

  “Psychiatry?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe something a bit more … concrete. No offense. I’m going to take my time and see what appeals to me.”

  “Well, there’s certainly no hurry—what are you, twelve years old?”

  “Twenty! I’ll be twenty-one next month.”

  “A veritable crone.”

  “Weren’t you young, too, when you finished?”

  “Not that young. I was shaving.”

  She laughed again. “It’s great to see you. Hear from Jamey at all?”

  “I got a postcard at Christmas. From New Hampshire. He’s renting a farm there. Writing poetry.”

  “Is he … all right?”

  “He’s better. There was no return address on the card and he wasn’t listed. So I called the psychiatrist who treated him up in Carmel and she said he’d been maintaining pretty well on medication. Apparently he’s got someone to take care of him. One of the nurses who worked with him up there.”

  “Well, that’s good,” she said. “Poor guy. He had so much going for and against him.”

  “Good way to put it. Have you had any contact with the other people in the group?”

  The group. Project 160. As in IQ. Accelerated academics for kids with genius intellects. A grand experiment; one of its members ended up accused of serial murder. I’d gotten involved, taken a joyride into hatred and corruption.…

  “… is at Harvard Law and working for a judge, Felicia’s studying math at Columbia, and David dropped out of U. of Chicago med school after one semester and became a commodities trader. In the pits. He always was kind of an eighties guy. Anyway, the project’s defunct—Dr. Flowers didn’t renew the grant.”

  “Health problems?”

  “That was part of it. And of course the publicity about Jamey didn’t help. She moved to Hawaii. I think she wanted to minimize her stress—because of the M.S.”

  Catching up with the past for the second time today, I realized how many loose ends I’d let dangle.

  “So,” she said, “what brings you here?”

  “Looking up some case material.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Munchausen syndrome by proxy. Familiar with it?”

  “I’ve heard of Munchausen—people abusing their bodies to fake disease, right? But what’s the proxy part?”

  “People faking disease in their children.”

  “Well, that’s certainly hideous. What kinds of illnesses?”

  “Almost anything. The most common symptoms are breathing problems, bleeding disorders, fevers, infections, pseudoseizures.”

  “By proxy,” she said. “The word is unnerving—so calculated, like some sort of business deal. Are you actually working with a family like that?”

  “I’m evaluating a family to see if that’s what’s going on. It’s still in the differential diagnosis stage. I have some preliminary references, thought I’d review the literature.”

  She smiled. “Card-file, or have you become computer-friendly?”

  “Computer. If the screen talks English.”

  “Do you have a faculty account for SAP?”

  “No. What’s that?”

  “ ‘Search and Print.’ New system. Journals on file—complete texts
scanned and entered. You can actually call up entire articles and have them printed. Faculty only, if you’re willing to pay. My chairman got me a temporary lectureship and an account of my own. He expects me to publish my results and put his name on it. Unfortunately, foreign journals haven’t been entered into the system yet, so I’ve got to locate those the old-fashioned way.”

  She pointed to the screen. “The master tongue. Don’t you just love these sixty-letter words and umlauts? The grammar’s nuts, but my mother helps me with the tough passages.”

  I remembered her mother. Heavyset and pleasant, fragrant of dough and sugar. Blue numbers on a soft white arm.

  “Get an SAP card,” she said. “It’s a kick.”

  “Don’t know if I’d qualify. My appointment’s across town.”

  “I think you would. Just show them your faculty card and pay a fee. It takes about a week to process.”

  “I’ll do it later, then. Can’t wait that long.”

  “No, of course not. Listen, I’ve got plenty of time left on my account. My chairman wants me to use all of it up so he can ask for a bigger computer budget next year. If you want me to run you a search, just let me finish up with this, and we’ll find all there is to know about people who proxy their kids.”

  We rode up to the SAP room at the top of the stacks. The search system looked no different from the terminals we’d just left: computers arranged in rows of partitioned cubicles. We found a free station and Jennifer searched for Munchausen-by-proxy references. The screen filled quickly. The list included all the articles Stephanie had given me, and more.

  “Looks like the earliest one that comes up is 1977,” she said. “Lancet. Meadow, R. ‘Munchausen syndrome by proxy: The hinterland of child abuse.’ ”

  “That’s the seminal article,” I said. “Meadow’s the British pediatrician who recognized the syndrome and named it.”

  “The hinterland … that’s ominous too. And here’s a list of related topics: Munchausen syndrome, child abuse, incest, dissociative reactions.”