Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle

by Jonathan Kellerman

White cardboard box, about five inches square, imprinted on top with a red-arrow logo above stylized red script that read HOLLOWAY MEDICAL CORP. Above that was an arrow-shaped gold foil sticker: SAMPLE, PRESENTED TO: Ralph Benedict, M.D.

  A string-and-disc tie held the box shut. I unwound it, pushed back the flaps, and exposed a sheet of corrugated brown paper. Under that was a row of white plastic cylinders the size of ballpoint pens, nestled in a bed of Styrofoam peanuts. A folded slip of printed paper was rubber-banded to each one.

  I fished out a cylinder. Feather-light, almost flimsy. A numbered ring girdled the bottom of the shaft. At the tip was a hole surrounded by screw thread; on the other end, a cap that twisted but didn’t come off.

  Black letters on the barrel said INSUJECT. I removed the printed paper. Manufacturer’s brochure, copyrighted five years ago. Holloway Medical’s home office was in San Francisco.

  The first paragraph read:

  INSUJECT (TM) is a dose-adjustable ultra-lightweight

  delivery system for the subcutaneous

  administration of human or purified pork insulin

  in 1 to 3 unit doses. INSUJECT should be used in

  conjunction with other components of the

  Holloway INSU-EASE (TM) system, namely, INSUJECT

  disposable needles and INSUFILL (TM) cartridges.

  The second paragraph highlighted the selling points of the system: portability, an ultra-thin needle that reduced pain and the risk of subdermal abscesses, increased “ease of administration and precise calibration of dosage.” A series of boxed line drawings illustrated needle attachment, loading of the cartridge into the cylinder, and the proper way to inject insulin beneath the skin.

  Ease of administration.

  An ultra-thin needle would leave a minuscule puncture wound, just as Al Macauley had described. If the injection site was concealed, the mark just might escape detection.

  I groped around inside the box, looking for needles.

  None, just the cylinders. Shoving my hands into the recesses of the cabinet yielded nothing more.

  Probably cool enough to store insulin, but maybe someone was picky. Could Insufill cartridges be sitting on one of the shelves of the chrome-faced refrigerator in the kitchen?

  Standing, I placed the box on the counter and the brochure in my pocket. The water in the toilet bowl had just stopped spinning. I cleared my throat, coughed, flushed again, looking around the room for another hiding place.

  The only possibility I could see was the toilet tank. I lifted the cap and peered in. Just plumbing and the gizmo that dyed the water.

  Ultra-thin needle … The bathroom was an ideal hiding place—perfect conduit from the master suite to the nursery.

  Perfect for fixing up a middle-of-the-night injection:

  Lock the door to the master suite, fetch the gear from beneath the sink, assemble it, and tiptoe into Cassie’s room.

  The bite of the needle would startle the little girl awake, probably make her cry, but she wouldn’t know what had happened.

  Neither would anyone else. Waking up in tears was normal for a child her age. Especially one who’d been sick so often.

  Would darkness conceal the needle-wielder’s face?

  On the other side of the nursery door Cindy was talking, sounding sweet.

  Then again, maybe there was an alternative explanation. The cylinders were meant for her. Or Chip.

  No—Stephanie had said she’d tested both of them for metabolic disease and found them healthy.

  I looked at the door to the master bedroom, then down at my watch. I’d spent three minutes in this blue-tile dungeon, but it felt like a weekend. Unlocking the door, I padded across the threshold into the bedroom, grateful for thick, tight-weave carpeting that swallowed my footsteps.

  The room was darkened by drawn shutters and furnished with a king-size bed and clumsy Victorian furniture. Books were stacked high on one of the night-stands. A phone sat atop the stack. Next to the table was a brass-and-wood valet over which hung a pair of jeans. The other stand bore a Tiffany revival lamp and a coffee mug. The bedcovers were turned down but folded neatly. The room smelled of the pine disinfectant I’d found in the bathroom.

  Lots of disinfectant. Why?

  A double chest ran along the wall facing the bed. I opened a top drawer. Bras and panties and hose and floral sachet in a packet. I felt around, closed the drawer, got to work on the one below, wondering what thrill Dawn Herbert had gotten from petty theft.

  Nine drawers. Clothing, a couple of cameras, canisters of film, and a pair of binoculars. Across the room was a closet. More clothes, tennis rackets and canisters of balls, a fold-up rowing machine, garment bags and suitcases, more books—all on sociology. A telephone directory, light bulbs, travel maps, a knee brace. Another box of contraceptive jelly. Empty.

  I searched garment pockets, found nothing but lint. Maybe the dark corners of the closet concealed something but I’d been there too long. Shutting the closet door, I snuck back to the bathroom. The toilet had stopped gurgling and Cindy was no longer talking.

  Had she grown suspicious about my prolonged absence? I cleared my throat again, turned on the water, heard Cassie’s voice—some kind of protest—then the resumption of mommy-talk.

  Detaching the toilet paper holder, I slid off the old roll and tossed it into the cabinet. Unwrapping a refill, I slipped it onto the dispenser. The ad copy on the wrapper promised to be gentle.

  Picking up the white box, I pushed open the door to Cassie’s room, wearing a smile that hurt my teeth.

  28

  They were at the play table, holding crayons. Some of the papers were covered with colored scrawl.

  When Cassie saw me she gripped her mother’s arm and began whining.

  “It’s okay, hon. Dr. Delaware’s our friend.” Cindy noticed the box in my hands and squinted.

  I came closer and showed it to her. She stared at it, then up at me. I stared back, searching for any sign of self-indictment.

  Just confusion.

  “I was looking for toilet paper,” I said, “and came across this.”

  She leaned forward and read the gold sticker.

  Cassie watched her, then picked up a crayon and threw it. When that didn’t capture her mother’s attention, she whined some more.

  “Shh, baby.” Cindy’s squint tightened. She continued to look baffled. “How strange.”

  Cassie threw her arms up and said, “Uh uh uh!”

  Cindy pulled her closer and said, “Haven’t seen those in a long time.”

  “Didn’t mean to snoop,” I said, “but I knew Holloway made equipment for diabetics and when I saw the label I got curious—thinking about Cassie’s blood sugar. Are you or Chip diabetic?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Those were Aunt Harriet’s. Where did you find them?”

  “Beneath the sink.”

  “How odd. No, Cass, these are for drawing, not throwing.” She picked up a red crayon and drew a jagged line.

  Cassie followed the movement, then buried her head in Cindy’s blouse.

  “Boy, I haven’t seen those in a really long time. I cleaned out her house, but I thought I threw all her medicines out.”

  “Was Dr. Benedict her doctor?”

  “And her boss.”

  She bounced Cassie gently. Cassie peeked out from under her arm, then began poking her under the chin.

  Cindy laughed and said, “You’re tickling me.… Isn’t that odd, under the sink all this time?” She gave an uneasy smile. “Guess that doesn’t make me much of a housekeeper. Sorry you had to go looking for paper—I usually notice when the roller’s low.”

  “No problem,” I said, realizing there’d been no dust on the box.

  Pulling out a cylinder, I rolled it between my fingers.

  Cassie said, “Peh-il.”

  “No, it’s not a pencil, honey.” No anxiety. “It’s just a … thing.”

  Cassie reached for it. I gave it to her and Cindy’s eyes go
t wide. Cassie put it to her mouth, grimaced, lowered it to the paper and tried to draw.

  “See, I told you, Cass. Here, if you want to draw, use this.”

  Cassie ignored the proffered crayon and kept looking at the cylinder. Finally she threw it down on the table and began to fuss.

  “C’mon, sweetie, let’s draw with Dr. Delaware.”

  My name evoked a whimper.

  “Cassie Brooks, Dr. Delaware came all the way to play with you, to draw animals—hippos, kangaroos. Remember the kangaroos?”

  Cassie whimpered louder.

  “Hush, honey,” said Cindy, but without conviction. “No, don’t break your crayons, honey. You can’t—C’mon, Cass.”

  “Uh uh uh.” Cassie tried to get off Cindy’s lap.

  Cindy looked at me.

  I offered no advice.

  “Should I let her?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I don’t want to be associated with confining her.”

  Cindy released her and Cassie made her way to the floor and crawled under the table.

  “We did a little drawing while we were waiting for you,” said Cindy. “I guess she’s had enough.”

  She bent and looked under the table. “Are you tired of drawing, Cass? Do you want to do something else?”

  Cassie ignored her and picked at the carpet fibers.

  Cindy sighed. “I’m really sorry—for before. I … it just … I really blew it, didn’t I? I really, really screwed things up—don’t know what came over me.”

  “Sometimes things just pile up,” I said, shifting the Insuject box from one hand to another. Keeping it in her view, looking for any sign of nervousness.

  “Yes, but I still blew it for you and Cassie.”

  “Maybe it’s more important for you and me to talk, anyway.”

  “Sure,” she said, touching her braid and casting a glance under the table. “I could sure use some help, couldn’t I? How about coming out now, Miss Cassie?”

  No answer.

  “Could I trouble you for another iced tea?” I said.

  “Oh, sure, no trouble at all. Cass, Dr. Delaware and I are going into the kitchen.”

  Cindy and I walked to the door of the nursery. Just as we reached the threshold, Cassie crawled out, tottered upright, and came running toward Cindy, arms outstretched. Cindy picked her up and carried her on one hip. I followed, carrying the white box.

  In the kitchen Cindy opened the refrigerator door with one hand and reached in for the pitcher. But before she could pull it out, Cassie slipped lower and Cindy needed both hands to hold her.

  “Why don’t you concentrate on her,” I said, placing the box on the kitchen table and taking hold of the pitcher.

  “Let me at least get you a glass.” She went to the open cupboards across the room.

  The moment her back was turned, I conducted a manic visual scan of the fridge. The most medicinal thing on the shelves was a tub of no-cholesterol margarine. Butter was in the butter compartment, the one marked CHEESE held a packet of sliced American.

  Taking hold of the pitcher, I closed the door. Cindy was setting a glass on a place mat. I poured it half-full and drank. My throat felt raw. The tea tasted sweeter than before—almost sickly. Or maybe it was just my mind, lingering on thoughts of sugar.

  Cassie watched me with a child’s piercing suspicion. My smile caused her to frown. Wondering if trust could ever be regained, I put the glass down.

  “Can I get you something else?” said Cindy.

  “No, thanks. Better be going. Here.” Offering her the box.

  “Oh, I don’t need it,” she said. “Maybe someone at the hospital can use it. They’re very expensive—that’s why Dr. Ralph used to give us samples.”

  Us.

  “That’s very nice of you.” I picked up the box.

  “Well,” she said, “we sure can’t use them.” She shook her head. “How strange, your finding them—kind of brings back memories.”

  Her mouth turned down. Cassie saw it, said, “Uh,” and squirmed.

  Cindy replaced the pout with a wide, abrupt smile. “Hello, sweetie.”

  Cassie poked at her mouth. Cindy kissed her fingers. “Yes, Mama loves you. Now let’s walk Dr. Delaware bye-bye.”

  When we got to the entrance I stopped to look at the photos, realizing there were none of Chip’s parents. My eyes settled back on the shot of Cindy and her aunt.

  “We were walking that day,” she said softly. “Along the dock. She used to take lots of walks. Long ones, for her diabetes—the exercise helped her control it.”

  “Did she have it pretty much under control?”

  “Oh, yes—that wasn’t what … what took her. That was an S-T-R-O-K-E. She had really great control—careful about everything that went into her mouth. When I lived with her, I wasn’t allowed any sweets or junk. So I never developed a taste for it, and we don’t keep much around the house.”

  She kissed Cassie’s cheek. “I figure if she doesn’t get a taste of it now, maybe she won’t want it later.”

  I turned away from the photo.

  “We do everything,” she said, “to keep her healthy. Without health, there’s … nothing. Right? That’s the kind of thing you hear when you’re young but it’s only later that you start to believe it.”

  Anguish filled her eyes.

  Cassie wiggled and made wordless sounds.

  “True,” I said. “How about you and me getting together tomorrow, right here.”

  “Sure.”

  “When would be a good time?”

  “With or without … H-E-R?”

  “Without, if possible.”

  “Then it would have to be when she’s asleep. She generally naps from one to two or two-thirty then goes down for the night at seven or eight. How about eight, in order to play it safe? If that’s not too late for you.”

  “Eight’s fine.”

  “Chip will probably be able to be here, too—that should be good, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “See you then.”

  She touched my arm. “Thanks for everything, and I’m really sorry. I know you’ll help us get through this.”

  Back on Topanga, I pulled into the first gas station I saw and used the pay phone to call Milo at work.

  “Perfect timing,” he said. “Just got off the phone with Fort Jackson. Seems little Cindy was sick all right. And back in ’83. But not pneumonia or meningitis. Gonorrhea. They drummed her out because of it, on an ELS—entry-level status. That means she served less than a hundred and eighty days and they wanted to get rid of her before they had to pay benefits.”

  “Just because of a dose?”

  “A dose plus what led up to it. Seems during the four months she was there, she set some kind of record for sexual promiscuity. So if she’s fooling around on hubby, that just means she’s being consistent.”

  “Promiscuity,” I said. “I just finished my home visit and this was the first time I got a sense of her sexuality. I arrived early, on purpose—curious about why she didn’t want me out there until two-thirty. She’d let her hair down. Literally. Was wearing short shorts and a T-shirt with no bra.”

  “Coming on to you?”

  “No. In fact she seemed really uncomfortable. A few minutes later she spilled some dirt on her clothes, hurried off to change and came back dowdied up.”

  “Maybe you just missed her boyfriend.”

  “Could be. She told me one-to-two was Cassie’s nap time and Chip teaches a class that day from twelve to two, so what better time for an affair? And the bedroom smelled of disinfectant.”

  “Masking the smell of love,” he said. “You didn’t see anyone? Pass any cars speeding away?”

  “Just the pool man pulling out of the driveway next door—Oh, shit, you don’t think?”

  “Sure I do.” He laughed. “I see the worst in everyone.” More laughter. “The pool man. Now there’s your basic SoCal thang.”

  “He was next door, not at her house
.”

  “So what? It’s not unusual for those guys to service several pools on one block—that far out of town, he might do the whole damned neighborhood. More ways than one. Do the Joneses have a pool?”

  “Yes, but it was covered.”

  “Get a look at Mr. Chlorine?”

  “Young, tan, ponytail. The sign on his truck said ValleyBrite Pool Service, with an I-T-E.”

  “He see you pull up?”

  “Yup. He stopped short, stuck his head out the window and stared, then gave this big grin with the thumb-up sign.”

  “Friendly, huh? Even if he’d just screwed her, he may not be the only one. Back in the army she was no nun.”

  “How’d you find out about it?”

  “Wasn’t easy. The army buries stuff just on principle. Charlie spent a lot of time trying to get into her file and couldn’t. Finally, I swallowed my pride and called the colonel—only for you, bucko.”

  “Much appreciated.”

  “Yeah … To his credit, the asshole didn’t gloat. Hooked me right up with an unlisted military number in D.C. Some kind of archive. They had no details—just name, rank, serial number, and her ELS designation, but I was lucky to get a records officer who’d done rice-paddy duty same time as me, and I convinced him to call South Carolina and find me someone to talk to. He came up with a female captain who’d been a corporal back when Cindy was a grunt. She remembered Cindy very well. Seems our gal was the talk of the barracks.”

  “It’s an all-female base,” I said. “Are we talking lesbian promiscuity?”

  “Nope. She messed around in town—used to go on leave and party in the local bars. It ended, according to this captain, when Cindy hooked up with a bunch of teenagers and one of them happened to be the son of a local big shot. She gave him the clap. Mayor paid a visit to the base commander, and bye-bye. Sordid little tale, huh? Any relevance to the Munchausen thing?”

  “Promiscuity’s not part of the profile, but if you consider it another form of attention seeking, I guess it would be consistent. Also, Munchausens often report incest in childhood, and promiscuity could be another reaction to that. What definitely fits the profile is early experience with serious illness, and V.D. wasn’t her first. The aunt who raised her was diabetic.”