Devil's Waltz

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “One AIDS patient, alone, can cost us millions,” lamented one East Coast administrator. “And we still haven’t seen the light at the end of that tunnel. This is a disease no one knew about when any of the plans were put together. The rules have been changed in the middle of the game.”

  The HIV epidemic was cited repeatedly by executives, as if the plague were a bit of naughtiness devised to throw the actuaries off track.

  Plumb’s special contribution to the gripe-fest had to do with the difficulties of running inner-city hospitals due to “unfavorable demographics and social problems that seep into the institution from the surrounding neighborhoods. Add to that, rapidly deteriorating physical plants and shrinking revenues, and the paying consumer and his or her provider is unwilling to contract for care.”

  When asked for solutions, Plumb suggested that the wave of the future might be “decentralization— replacing the large urban hospital with smaller, easily managed health-care units strategically located in positive-growth suburban areas.”

  “However,” he cautioned, “careful economic analyses need to be done before planning anything of that magnitude. And nonpecuniary issues must also be considered. Many established institutions inspire a high degree of loyalty in those whose memories are grounded in the good old days.”

  It sounded awfully like a trial balloon— testing public opinion before proposing radical surgery: putting the “physical plant” up for sale and heading for suburban pastures. And if cornered, Plumb could always brush off his comments as detached expert analysis.

  Kornblatt’s remark about selling off the hospital’s real estate began to sound less like paranoia and more like an educated guess.

  Of course, Plumb was only a mouthpiece. Speaking for the man I’d just proposed as a possible murder contractor and accessory to child abuse.

  I remembered what Stephanie had told me about Chuck Jones’s background. Before becoming Western Peds’s chairman of the board, he’d managed the hospital’s investment portfolio. Who’d know more about the precise value of Western Peds’s assets— including the land— than the man who kept the books?

  I visualized him and Plumb and the gray-twin numbers crunchers, Roberts and Novak, hunched over a moldy ledger, like predators out of a Thomas Nast cartoon.

  Could the hospital’s dismal financial situation be due to more than unfortunate demographics and shrinking revenues? Had Jones mismanaged Western Peds’s money to the point of crisis, and was he now planning to cover his losses with a flashy real estate sale?

  Adding insult to injury by taking a nice fat commission on the deal?

  Strategically located in positive-growth suburban areas.

  Like the fifty lots Chip Jones owned out in the West Valley?

  One hand feeding the other . . .

  But to pull off that kind of thing, appearances would have to be kept up, Jones and company exhibiting unwavering loyalty to the urban dinosaur until it drew its last breath.

  Pulling the chairman’s granddaughter out of treatment wouldn’t be part of that.

  In the meantime, though, steps could be taken to hasten the dinosaur’s death.

  Shut down clinical programs. Discourage research. Freeze salaries and keep the wards understaffed.

  Encourage senior doctors to leave and replace them with inexperienced help, so that private physicians lost confidence and stopped referring their paying patients.

  Then, when redemption was out of the question, give an impassioned speech about insoluble social issues and the need to move fearlessly into the future.

  Destroying the hospital to save it.

  If Jones and his minions pulled it off, they’d be viewed as visionaries with the courage and foresight to put a tottering almshouse out of its misery and replace it with healing grounds for the upper middle class.

  There was a certain vicious beauty to it.

  Thin-lipped men planning a war of attrition with flow-charts, balance sheets, computer printouts.

  Printouts . . .

  Huenengarth confiscating Ashmore’s computers.

  Was he after data that had nothing to do with sudden infant death syndrome or poisoned babies?

  Ashmore had no interest in patient care, but a strong attraction to finance. Had he stumbled upon Jones’s and Plumb’s machinations— overheard something down in the sub-basement, or hacked into the wrong data base?

  Had he tried to profit from the knowledge and paid for it?

  Big leap, Milo would say.

  I remembered the glimpse I’d caught of Ashmore’s office before Huenengarth shut the door.

  What kind of toxicology research could be carried out without test tubes or microscopes?

  Ashmore, crunching numbers and dying because of it . . . Then what of Dawn Herbert? Why had she pulled a dead infant’s chart? Why had she been murdered two months before Ashmore?

  Separate schemes?

  Some sort of collusion?

  Big leap . . . And even if any of it was true, what the hell did it have to do with Cassie Jones’s ordeal?

  I phoned the hospital and requested room 505W. No one answered. Dialing again, I asked to be put through to the Chappy Ward nursing desk. The nurse who picked up had a Spanish accent. She informed me the Jones family was off the floor, taking a walk.

  “Anything new?” I said.“In terms of her status?”

  “I’m not sure— you’ll have to ask the primary. I believe that’s Dr. . . .”

  “Eves.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I’m just a float, not really familiar with the case.”

  I hung up, looked out the kitchen window at treetops graying under a descending lemon-colored sun. Mulled the financial angle some more.

  I thought of someone who might be able to educate me financially. Lou Cestare, once a stocks-and-bonds golden boy, now a chastened veteran of Black Monday.

  The crash had caught him off guard and he was still scouring the tarnish from his reputation. But he remained on my A list.

  Years ago I’d saved up some cash, working eighty hours a week and not spending much. Lou had given me financial security by investing the money in pre-boom beachfront real estate, selling for healthy profits and putting the gain into blue-chip securities and tax-free bonds. Avoiding the speculative stuff, because he knew I’d never be rich from practicing psychology and couldn’t afford to lose big.

  The income from those investments was still coming in, slow and steady, augmenting what I brought in doing forensic consults. I’d never be able to buy French Impressionist paintings, but if I kept my life-style reasonable, I probably wouldn’t have to work when I didn’t want to.

  Lou, on the other hand, was a very wealthy man, even after losing most of his assets and nearly all of his clients. He split his time now between a boat in the South Pacific and an estate in the Willamette Valley.

  I called Oregon and spoke to his wife. She sounded serene, as always, and I wondered if it was strength of character or a good facade. We made small talk for a while and then she told me Lou was up in Washington State, hiking near Mount Rainier with their son, and wasn’t expected until tomorrow night or Monday morning. I gave her my want-list. It didn’t mean much to her, but I knew she and Lou never talked money.

  Wishing her well and thanking her, I hung up.

  Then I drank another cup of coffee and waited for Robin to come home and help me forget the day.

  21

  She was carrying two suitcases and looking cheerful. A third valise was down in her new truck. I brought it up and watched her unpack and hang her clothes. Filling the space in the closet that I’d left empty for more than two years.

  Sitting down on the bed, she smiled. “There.”

  We necked for a while, watched the fish, went out and had rack of lamb at a sedate place in Brentwood where we were the youngest patrons. After returning home, we spent the rest of the evening listening to music, reading, and playing gin. It felt romantic, a little geriatric, and very satisfying. The
next morning, we went walking in the glen, pretending we were birdwatchers and making up names for the winged things we saw.

  Sunday lunch was hamburgers and iced tea up on the terrace. After we did the dishes she got involved in the Sunday crossword puzzle, biting her pencil and frowning a lot. I stretched out on a lounge chair, feigning relaxation. Shortly after 2:00 P.M. she put the puzzle down, saying, “Forget it. Too many French words.”

  She lay down beside me. We absorbed sun, until I noticed her starting to fidget.

  I leaned over and kissed her forehead.

  “Ummm . . . anything I can do for you?” she said.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Sure?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She tried to sleep, grew more restless.

  I said, “I’d like to get over to the hospital some time today.”

  “Oh, sure . . . As long as you’re going out, I might as well get over to the shop, take care of a few odds and ends.”

  • • •

  Cassie’s room was empty, the bed stripped, the drapes drawn. Vacuum tracks striped the carpet. The bathroom was bare and disinfected; a paper runner was wrapped around the toilet.

  As I stepped out of the room a voice said, “Hold it.”

  I came face to face with a security guard. Wetsanded triangular face, grim lips, and black-framed glasses. Same hero I’d met the first day, enforcing the badge law.

  He blocked the doorway. Looked ready to charge San Juan Hill.

  I said, “Excuse me.”

  He didn’t move. There was barely enough space between us for me to glance down and read his badge. Sylvester, A.D.

  He looked at mine and took a single step backward. Partial retreat but not enough to allow me through.

  “See, got a new one,” I said. “All bright and shiny, full color. Now could you please get out of the way so I can go about my business?”

  He looked up and down a couple of times, matching my face to the photo. Stepping aside, he said, “This ward’s closed.”

  “So I see. For how long?”

  “Till they open it.”

  I walked past him and headed for the teak doors.

  He said, “Looking for anything in particular?”

  I stopped and faced him again. One hand rested on his holster; the other gripped his baton.

  Resisting the urge to bark, “Draw, pardner,” I said, “I came to see a patient. They used to treat them here.”

  • • •

  I used a phone on the public ward to call Admissions and Discharge and confirmed that Cassie had been released an hour ago. I took the stairs down to the first floor and bought a watery cola from a vending machine. I was carrying it across the entrance lobby when I crossed paths with George Plumb and Charles Jones, Jr. They were laughing, keeping up a brisk pace that caused Jones’s short bowlegs to pump. So much for concerned grandpa.

  They got to the door just as I emerged. Jones saw me and his mouth stood still. A few seconds later his feet did the same. Plumb stopped, too, remaining just behind his boss. The pink in his complexion was more vivid than ever.

  “Dr. Delaware,” said Jones. His gravel voice made it sound like a warning growl.

  “Mr. Jones.”

  “Do you have a moment, Doctor?”

  Caught off guard, I said, “Sure.”

  Casting an eye at Plumb, he said, “I’ll catch up with you later, George.”

  Plumb nodded and marched off, arms swinging.

  When we were alone Jones said, “How’s my granddaughter?”

  “Last time I saw her she was looking better.”

  “Good, good. I’m on my way to see her.”

  “She’s been discharged.”

  His grizzled eyebrows crinkled unevenly, each thatch of steely hair pointing randomly. Beneath the brows were lumps of scar tissue. His eyes got tiny. For the first time I noticed they were a watery brown.

  “That so? When?”

  “An hour ago.”

  “Damn.” He squeezed his broken nose and jiggled the tip back and forth. “I came by expressly to see her because I didn’t get a chance to see her yesterday— blasted meetings all day. She’s my only grandchild, you know. Beautiful little thing, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, she is. Be nice if she were healthy.”

  He stared up at me. Put his hands in his pocket and tapped a wingtip on the marble floor. The lobby was nearly empty and the sound echoed. He repeated it. His posture had lost some of its stiffness, but he straightened quickly. The watery eyes sagged.

  “Let’s find a place to talk,” he said, and barreled forward through the lobby, confident once more. A solid little fireplug of a man who carried himself as if self-doubt wasn’t in his DNA. Jingling as he walked.

  “I don’t keep an office here,” he said. “With all the money problems, the space shortage, last thing I want is to be seen as playing fast and loose.”

  As we passed the elevators one of them arrived. Tycoon’s luck. He strode right in, as if he’d reserved the lift, and jabbed the basement button.

  “How about the dining room?” he said as we rode down.

  “It’s closed.”

  “I know it is,” he said. “I’m the one who curtailed the hours.”

  The door opened. He strode out and headed for the cafeteria’s locked doors. Pulling a ring of keys out of his trouser pocket— the jingle— he thumbed and selected a key. “Early on we did a resource-utilization survey. It showed no one was using the room much during this time of day.”

  He unlocked the door and held it open.

  “Executive privilege,” he said. “Not too democratic, but democracy doesn’t work in a place like this.”

  I stepped in. The room was pitch-dark. I groped the wall for a light switch but he walked right to it and flipped it. A section of fluorescent panels stuttered and brightened.

  He pointed to a booth in the center of the room. I sat down and he went behind the counter, filled a cup with tap water, and dropped a lemon wedge in it. Then he got something from under the counter— a Danish— and put it on a plate. Moving briskly, familiarly, as if he were puttering in his own kitchen.

  He came back, took a bite and a sip, and exhaled with satisfaction.

  “She should be healthy, dammit,” he said. “I really don’t understand why the hell she isn’t, and no one’s been able to give me a straight story.”

  “Have you talked to Dr. Eves?”

  “Eves, the others, all of them. No one seems to know a damn thing. You have anything to offer yet?”

  “Afraid not.”

  He leaned forward. “What I don’t understand is why they called you in. Nothing personal— I just don’t see the point of a psychologist here.”

  “I really can’t discuss that, Mr. Jones.”

  “Chuck. Mr. Jones is a song by that curly character, whatsisname— Bob Dylan?” Tiny smile. “Surprised I know that, right? Your era, not mine. But it’s a family joke. From way back when. Chip’s high school days. He used to ride me, fight everything. Everything was like this.”

  He made hooks of his hands, linked them, then strained to pull them apart, as if they’d become glued.

  “Those were the days,” he said, smiling suddenly. “He was my only one, but he was like half a dozen, in terms of rebellion. Anytime I’d try to get him to do something he didn’t want to do, he’d rear up and buck, tell me I was acting just like the song by that Dylan Thomas character, that guy who doesn’t know what’s going on— Mr. Jones. He’d play it loud. I never actually listened to the lyrics, but I got the point. Nowadays he and I are best of friends. We laugh about those days.”

  Thinking of friendship cemented by real estate deals, I smiled.

  “He’s a solid boy,” he said. “The earring and the hair are just part of the image— you know he’s a college professor, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “The kids he teaches eat that kind of thing up. He’s a great teacher, won awards for it.”


  “That so?”

  “Lots of them. You’ll never hear him toot his own horn. He was always like that. Modest. I’ve got to do his bragging for him. He was winning them back when he was a student. Went to Yale. Always had a flair for it, teaching. Used to tutor the slow boys in his fraternity and get them up to grade. Tutored high school kids, too— got a commendation for it. It’s a gift, like anything else.”