Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “What’d you give her?” I said, dialing the phone.

  He pouted.

  The page operator came on and I called for an emergency resuscitation.

  Chip watched, wide-eyed.

  Huenengarth advanced toward him again. Milo stilled him with a look and said, “If she’s in danger and you don’t tell us, you’re only making matters worse for yourself.”

  Chip cleared his throat, as if preparing for an important announcement. But he said nothing.

  I went to Cassie’s bed.

  “Okay,” said Milo, “let’s go to jail.” He pushed Chip forward. “We’ll let the lab figure it out.”

  Chip said, “Probably diazepam—Valium. But I didn’t give it to her.”

  “How much?” I said.

  “Forty milligrams is what she usually takes.”

  Milo looked at me.

  “Probably not lethal,” I said. “But it’s a heavy dose for someone her size.”

  “Not really,” said Chip. “She’s habituated.”

  “Bet she is,” I said, lacing my fingers to keep my hands still.

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Chip. “Search me—see if you find drugs of any kind.”

  “You’re not holding because you gave it all to her,” said Huenengarth.

  Chip managed to laugh, though his eyes were frightened. “Go ahead, search.”

  Huenengarth patted him down, turned his pockets inside out, and found only a wallet and keys.

  Chip looked at him, shook hair out of eyes, and smiled.

  “Something funny, Junior?”

  “You are making a big mistake,” said Chip. “If I wasn’t the victim, I’d really feel sorry for you.”

  Huenengarth smiled. “That so?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Junior, here, thinks this is funny, gents.” He wheeled on Chip: “What the fuck do you think is going on here? You think one of Daddy’s attorneys is going to get you out of this? We’ve got you on videotape trying to kill your kid—everything from loading the needle to sticking it in. Want to guess where the camera is?”

  Chip kept smiling but panic fueled his eyes. They blinked, popped, raced around the room. Suddenly he shut them and dropped his head to his chest, muttering.

  “What’s that?” said Huenengarth. “What’d you say?”

  “Discussion closed.”

  Huenengarth came closer. “Atttempted murder’s not some dinky-shit Chapter Eleven. What kind of scum would do this to his own flesh and blood?”

  Chip kept his head down.

  “Well,” said Huenengarth, “you can always start a new project—Cliff Notes for jailhouse lawyers. Those big bucks in maximum lockup are gonna love your educated anus.”

  Chip didn’t move. His body had gone loose—meditative—and Milo had to work at holding him upright.

  A sound came from the bed. Cassie shifting position. Chip looked at her.

  She moved again, but remained asleep.

  A terrible look came onto his face—disappointment at an unfinished job.

  Enough hatred to fuel a war.

  All three of us saw it. The room got very small.

  Huenengarth reddened and puffed like a bullfrog.

  “Happy rest of your life, fuckhead,” he whispered. Then he stomped out.

  When the door closed, Chip snickered, but it sounded forced.

  Milo. pushed him toward the door. They got out just before Stephanie arrived with the emergency team.

  33

  I watched Cassie sleep. Stephanie left with the team, but came back about a half hour later.

  “How’s Cindy doing?” I said.

  “She’ll probably have a monster headache but she’ll survive.”

  “She may need to be detoxed,” I said, lowering my voice to a whisper. “He said she was habituated, though he denied dosing her—made a real big point of saying he didn’t have any drugs on him. But I’m sure he slipped it in her coffee, did it plenty of times before tonight. Every time I saw him here, he had a cup with him.”

  She shook her head, sat on the bed, and pulled her stethoscope from around her neck. Warming the disk with her breath, she placed it on Cassie’s chest and listened.

  When she was through, I said, “Any dope in Cassie’s system?”

  “No, just low sugar.” Her whisper was weak. She lifted Cassie’s free arm and took a pulse. “Nice and regular.” She put the arm down.

  She sat there for a moment, then tucked the covers up around Cassie’s neck and touched a soft cheek. The drapes were open. I saw her look out at the night with tired eyes.

  “It makes no sense,” she said. “Why did he use insulin, right after you found the injectors? Unless Cindy didn’t tell him you found them. Was their communication that bad?”

  “I’m sure she did tell him, and that’s exactly why he used them. He planted them there for me to find. Made a special call to verify that I was coming out and making sure he wouldn’t be there. Playing concerned daddy, but he was really pinpointing the time. Because he knew we had to suspect Munchausen by now, and he was hoping I’d snoop, discover the cylinders, and suspect Cindy, just as I did. What could be more logical: They were her aunt’s samples. She was in charge of the house, so she’d be the most likely one to hide them there. And she was the mother—that stacked the deck against her from the beginning. The first time I met him he made a point of telling me they had a traditional marriage—child rearing was her bailiwick.”

  “Pointing a finger at her right from the beginning.” She shook her head in disbelief. “So … orchestrated.”

  “Meticulously. And if I hadn’t found the cylinders during yesterday’s visit, there would have been plenty of other opportunities for him to ser her up.”

  “What a monster,” she said.

  “The devil wears jogging clothes.”

  She hugged herself.

  I said, “How big of a dosage was loaded into the Insuject?”

  She looked at Cassie and lowered her voice to a whisper. “More than enough.”

  “So tonight was to be the final chapter,” I said. “Cassie seizing fatally, Cindy right there snoozing, with all of us suspecting her. If we hadn’t caught him he probably would have stashed the needle in her purse or somewhere else incriminating. And the Valium in her system would have added to the picture of guilt: suicide attempt. Remorse for killing her baby, or just an unbalanced mind.”

  Stephanie rubbed her eyes. Rested her head on one hand. “What an incredible prick … How’d he get in without going through Security?”

  “Your friend Bill said he didn’t enter the hospital through the front door, so he probably used one of his father’s keys and came in through the back. Maybe one of the loading docks. At this hour there’d be no one there. We know from the hallway camera that he took the stairs up and waited until the Five East nurse went into the back room before entering Chappy. Probably did the same thing when Cassie had that first seizure here in the hospital. Dress rehearsal. Sneaking up in the wee hours, injecting her with just enough insulin to provide a delayed reaction, then driving home to the Valley and waiting for Cindy’s call before coming back to comfort her in the E.R. The fact that Chappy’s nearly always empty made it easier for him to come and go unnoticed.”

  “And all this time I was obsessing on Cindy. Brilliant, Eves.”

  “I zeroed in on her too. We all did. She was a perfect Munchausen suspect. Low self-esteem, easygoing manner, early experiences with serious illness, health-care training. He probably came across the syndrome in his readings, saw the fit, and realized he had an opportunity to get her. That’s why he didn’t have Cassie transferred to another hospital. He wanted to give us time to develop our suspicions. Worked us like an audience—the way he works his students. He’s the exhibitionist, Steph. But we never saw it because the books say it’s always a woman.”

  Silence.

  “He killed Chad, didn’t he?” she said.

  “It’s a strong possibilit
y.”

  “Why, Alex? Why use his own kids to get at Cindy?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll tell you one thing. He hates Cassie. Before they took him away he gave her a look that was really disturbing. Pure contempt. If the tape caught it and it’s ruled admissible in court, it’s all the prosecutor will need.”

  Shaking her head, she returned to the bed and stroked Cassie’s hair.

  “Poor little baby. Poor little innocent baby.”

  I sat there, not wanting to think or do or talk or feel.

  A trio of LuvBunnies sat on the floor near my feet.

  I picked one up. Passed it from hand to hand. Something hard in the belly.

  Undoing the flap, I poked around the foam stuffing, just as I had in Cassie’s bedroom. This time, I found something tucked into a fold near the groin.

  I drew it out. A packet. About an inch in diameter. Tissue paper fastened with cellophane tape.

  I unwrapped it. Four pills. Pale-blue, each with a heart-shaped cutout.

  Stephanie said, “Valium.”

  “Here’s our secret stash.” I rewrapped the packet and set it aside for Milo. “He made such a big deal about not having any dope with him. Everything’s a game with him.”

  “Vicki bought those bunnies,” Stephanie said. “Vicki’s the one who got Cassie started on them.”

  “Vicki will be talked to after this,” I said.

  “Too weird,” she said. “The stuff they don’t teach you in sch—”

  A squeak came from the bed. Cassie’s eyes blinked spasmodically, then opened. Her little mouth turned down. She blinked some more.

  “It’s okay, baby,” said Stephanie.

  Cassie’s mouth worked, finally producing a sound:

  “Eh eh eh.”

  “It’s okay, honey. Everything’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna be fine now.”

  “Eh eh eh eh.”

  More blinks. A shudder. Cassie tried to move, failed, cried out in frustration. Scrunched her eyes. Crinkled her chin.

  Stephanie held her and rocked her. Cassie tried to twist away from Stephanie’s caress.

  I remembered the way she’d fought me in her bedroom.

  Reacting to her mother’s anxiety? Or memories of another man who came in the night, shrouded by darkness, and hurt her?

  But then, why hadn’t she panicked whenever she saw Chip? Why had she jumped up into his arms, so willingly, the first time I’d seen them together?

  “Eh eh eh …”

  “Shh, baby.”

  “Eh … eh eh … eh.”

  “Go back to sleep, honey. Go back to sleep.”

  Very faintly: “Eh …”

  “Shh.”

  “Eh …”

  Closed eyes.

  Soft snores.

  Stephanie held her for several moments, then slipped her hands free.

  “Must be the magic touch,” she said sadly. Looping her stethoscope over her neck, she walked out of the room.

  34

  A nurse and a policewoman arrived soon after.

  I gave the cop the packet of pills and sleep-walked my way to the teak doors.

  Out in Five East, people were moving and talking, but I didn’t focus on them. I rode the elevator down to the basement. The cafeteria was closed. Wondering if Chip had a key to that, too, I bought coffee from a machine, found a pay phone, and sipped as I asked information for a number on a Jennifer Leavitt. Nothing.

  Before the operator could break the connection, I had him check for any Leavitts in the Fairfax district. Two. One of them matched my vague memory of Jennifer’s parents’ home number.

  My watch said 9:30. I knew Mr. Leavitt went to sleep early in order to make it to the bakery by 5:00 A.M. Hoping it wasn’t too late, I punched numbers.

  “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Leavitt? It’s Dr. Delaware.”

  “Doctor. How are you?”

  “Fine, and you?”

  “Very good.”

  “Am I calling too late?”

  “Oh, no. We’re just watching television. But Jenny’s not here. She has her own apartment now—my daughter the doctor, very independent.”

  “You must be proud of her.”

  “What’s not to be proud of? She’s always made me proud. Do you want her new number?”

  “Please.”

  “Hold on … She’s in Westwood Village, right near the U. With another girl, a nice girl … Here it is. If she’s not there, she’s probably in her office—she’s got an office, too.” Chuckle.

  “That’s great.” I copied down the numbers.

  “An office,” she said. “You know, raising a child like that, it’s a privilege.… I miss her. For my taste, the house is too quiet.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “You were very helpful to her, Dr. Delaware. College at her age wasn’t so easy—you should be proud of yourself.”

  No one answered at Jennifer’s apartment. But she picked up her office phone after one ring: “Leavitt.”

  “Jennifer, it’s Alex Delaware.”

  “Hi, Alex. Did you solve your Munchausen by proxy?”

  “The whodunit,” I said. “But the whydunit’s not clear yet. It turned out to be the father.”

  “Well, that’s a twist,” she said. “So it isn’t always the mother.”

  “He was counting on our assuming it was. He set her up.”

  “How Machiavellian.”

  “He fancies himself an intellectual. He’s a professor.”

  “Here?”

  “No, at a junior college. But he does his serious research at the U, which is why I’m calling you. My bet is he read up exhaustively on the syndrome in order to create a textbook case. His first child died of SIDS. Another textbook case, so I’m wondering if he set that up too.”

  “Oh, no—this sounds grotesque.”

  “I was thinking about the SAP system,” I said. “If he’s got a faculty account, would there be some way to find out?”

  “The library keeps a record of all users, for billing.”

  “Do the bills list which articles were pulled?”

  “Absolutely. What time is it? Nine forty-seven. The library’s open till ten. I could call down there and see if anyone I know is working. Give me the bastard’s name.”

  “Jones, Charles L. Sociology, West Valley Community College.”

  “Got it. I’m going to put you on hold and call them on the other line. Just in case we get cut off, give me your number.”

  Five minutes later she clicked in.

  “Voilà, Alex. The idiot left a beautiful paper trail. Pulled everything the system’s got on three topics—Munchausen, sudden infant death, and the sociological structure of hospitals. Plus a few isolated articles on two other topics: diazepam toxicity and—are you ready for this?—women’s fantasies about penis size. It’s all there: names, dates, exact hour. I’ll get a printout for you tomorrow.”

  “Fantastic. I really appreciate it, Jennifer.”

  “One more thing,” she said. “He’s not the only one who used the account. There’s another signature on some of the searches—a Kristie Kirkash. Know anyone by that name?”

  “No,” I said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s young, cute, and one of his students. Maybe even plays sorority softball.”

  “Sleazy affair for the prof? How do you figure?”

  “He’s a creature of habit.”

  35

  Hot morning and the Valley was frying. A big rig had overturned on the freeway, showering all lanes with eggs. Even the shoulder was blocked and Milo cursed until the highway patrolman waved us through.

  We arrived at the junior college ten minutes behind schedule. Made it to class just as the last students were entering.

  “Damn,” said Milo. “Improv time.” We climbed the stairs to the trailer. I remained in the doorway and he went up to the blackboard.

  It was a small room—half the trailer, partitioned by an accordion wall and set up with a conferen
ce table and a dozen folding chairs.

  Ten of the chairs were occupied. Eight women, two men. One of the women was in her sixties; the rest were girls. Both men were fortyish. One was white, with a full head of light-brown hair; the other, Hispanic and bearded. The white man looked up briefly, then buried himself in a book.

  Milo picked up a pointer and tapped the board. “Mr. Jones won’t be making it today. I’m Mr. Sturgis, your substitute.”

  All eyes on him, except those of the reader.

  One of the girls said, “Is he okay?” in a strained voice. She had very long, dark, frizzy hair, a thin, pretty face, and wore dangling earrings constructed of lavender-and-white plastic balls on nylon fishing line. Her black tube top showed off a big chest and smooth, tan shoulders. Too-blue eye shadow, too-pale lipstick, too much of both.

  Despite that, better-looking than the photo in her student file.

  Milo said, “Not really, Kristie.”

  She opened her mouth. The other students looked at her.

  She said, “Hey, what’s going on?” and grabbed her purse.

  Milo reached into his pocket and pulled out his police badge.

  “You tell me, Kristie.”

  She froze. The other students gawked. The reader’s eyes floated above the pages of his book. Moving slowly.

  I saw Milo look at him. Look down at the floor.

  Shoes.

  Clunky black oxfords with bubble toes. They didn’t go with his silk shirt and his designer jeans.

  Milo’s eyes narrowed. The reader’s fixed on mine, then sank out of view as he raised the book higher.

  Theories of Organizations.

  Kristie started to cry.

  The other students were statues.

  Milo said, “Yo Joe! Cavity check!”

  The reader looked up reflexively. Just for a second, but it was enough.

  Bland face. Dick and Jane’s dad from a half-block distance. Up close, details destroyed the paternal image: five o’clock shadow, pockmarks on the cheeks, a scar across the forehead. Tattoo on one hand.

  And the sweat—a coat of it, shiny as fresh lacquer.

  He stood up. His eyes were hard and narrow; his hands huge, the forearms thick. More tattoos, blue-green, crude. Reptilian.