Devil's Waltz

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “No problem,” I said, “I’ll catch you the next time.”

  “Great— and if something comes up that you want to ask me about, just call. I gave you my number here, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Great. Then it’s all set.”

  I hung up, bothered by his call but not sure why. Robin called from the bathroom and I went in. The light was dim and she was up to her neck in suds, head tilted back against the rim of the tub. A few clusters of bubbles dotted her pinned-up hair, shiny as gems. Her eyes were closed and she kept them that way as I got in.

  Covering her breasts, she said, “Shudder, shudder— hope that’s not Norman Bates.”

  “Norman preferred showers.”

  “Oh. Right. Norman’s meditative brother, then.”

  “Norman’s wet brother— Merman.”

  She laughed. I stretched out, closed my eyes too. She put her legs atop mine. I sank, feeling myself warm, massaging her toes, trying to loosen up. But I kept thinking of the conversation I’d just had with Chip and remained tight.

  Cindy just phoned me to say you’re coming by tomorrow afternoon.

  Meaning he hadn’t been home when I’d called.

  Hadn’t been the man I’d heard Cindy speaking to.

  The edginess . . .

  Robin said, “What’s the matter? Your shoulders are all bunched.”

  I told her.

  “Maybe you’re reading too much into it, Alex. It could have been a relative visiting— her father or her brother.”

  “She doesn’t have either.”

  “So it was a cousin or an uncle. Or a service call— the plumber, the electrician, whatever.”

  “Try getting one of those guys on a Sunday evening,” I said.

  “They’re rich. The rich get what they want when they want it.”

  “Yeah, maybe that’s all it was. . . . Still, I thought she sounded nervous. As if I’d caught her off guard.”

  “Okay, let’s say she’s having a fling. You already suspect her of poisoning her kid. Adultery’s a misdemeanor in comparison.”

  “Having a fling the first day back from the hospital?”

  “Hubby didn’t see anything wrong with flying off to his office the first day, did he? If that’s his usual pattern, she’s probably a lonely lady, Alex. He isn’t giving her what she needs, so she’s getting it elsewhere. Anyway, does adultery relate to this Munchausen business?”

  “Anything that makes someone with those tendencies feel helpless could have an effect. But it’s more than that, Robin. If Cindy’s having an affair, that could provide a motive. Ditch hubby and kids, get free to be with her lover.”

  “There are easier ways to get free of your family.”

  “We’re talking about someone sick.”

  “Really sick.”

  “I don’t get paid to deal with healthy heads.”

  She leaned forward and touched my face. “This is really getting to you.”

  “Sure is. Cassie’s so damned dependent and everyone’s failing her.”

  “You’re doing everything you can.”

  “I suppose.”

  We stayed in the water. I worked at relaxing again, settled finally for loose muscles and a tight mind. Soapsud clouds gathered around Robin’s shoulders like an ermine stole. She looked beautiful and I told her so.

  She said, “What a flatterer, Mer.” But her grin was deep and heartfelt. At least I’d made someone feel good.

  • • •

  We got back into bed and tackled the Sunday paper. I read carefully this time, searching for anything on Western Peds or Laurence Ashmore but finding nothing. The phone rang at ten forty-five. Robin answered. “Hi, Milo.”

  He said something that made her laugh. She said, “Absolutely,” handed me the receiver, and returned to her crossword puzzle.

  “Nice to hear her voice again,” he said. “Finally, you show some good judgment.” The connection was clear, but it sounded distant.

  “Where are you?”

  “Alley behind a leather-goods store, little pilfering surveillance, nothing so far. Am I interrupting something?”

  “Domestic bliss,” I said, stroking Robin’s arm. She was concentrating hard on the puzzle, pencil in mouth, but her hand rose to meet mine and we laced fingers.

  “Let’s hear it for any kind of bliss,” said Milo. “Got a couple of things for you. First, your Mr. Huenengarth has an interesting pattern. Valid driver’s license and social security number, but the address on the license traces to a mail drop in Tarzana, and he’s got no phone number, credit history, or IRS file. No county records either. No record of him in the military or on the voter roster. Similar pattern to a long-term con just out of the joint— someone who hasn’t voted or paid taxes. Though he doesn’t show up on NCIC or the parole rolls either, so maybe it’s a computer glitch or I screwed up technically. I’ll have Charlie try tomorrow.”

  “Phantom of the hospital,” I said. “I feel so much better knowing he’s head of Security.”

  Robin looked up briefly, then down again.

  “Yeah,” said Milo. “You’d be surprised how many strange types get into security— nutcases who try out for police departments, don’t pass the psych evaluation. Meantime, keep your distance from him until I can find out more. Second thing is, I’ve been nosing around the Herbert file and plan to do a little late-night downtown prowl— talk to that bartender witness.”

  “Does he have something new to offer?”

  “No, but Gomez and his partner didn’t follow through enough for my taste. The guy has a serious dope record and they figured him for an unreliable witness. So they let him off easy, not enough questions. I got hold of his number, spoke to his girlfriend, and found out he got a job at another club nearby, over in Newton Division. Thought I’d go over and talk to him. Thought you might be interested in a tag-along. But you’ve obviously got better things to do.”

  Robin looked up. I realized my fingers had tightened around hers and eased my grip.

  “When are you going?” I said.

  “Hour or so. Figured I’d make it over there after midnight, when the scene just starts. I want to catch him in his element, but before it gets too intense. Anyway, enjoy your bliss.”

  “Wait. I’ve got a few things for you. Got time?”

  “Sure. Nothing here in this alley but us cats. What’s up?”

  “I got buttonholed by Grandpa Chuck today, just as I left the hospital. He gave me a one-big-happy-family speech— defending the clan’s honor, just like we discussed. Topped it off by offering me a job. The implication I got was I should behave myself, not dig too deeply.”

  “Not very subtle.”

  “Actually, he managed to do it quite subtly. Even if it had been taped, he could never have been pinned down. Not that the offer was worth much, because a job at Western Peds isn’t likely to have much security.”

  I recounted Plumb’s newspaper interview, and the financial-scheme hypotheses that had led me to look further into Laurence Ashmore’s research. By the time I got to the Ferris Dixon Institute, Robin had put her puzzle down and was listening intently.

  “Virginia,” said Milo. “Been there a couple of times for fed training seminars. Pretty state, but anything down there always spells government to me.”

  “The institute’s listed in a roster of private agencies. I figured it for some kind of corporate front.”

  “What kind of grant was it?”

  “Pesticides in the soil, Ashmore analyzing his old data. Way too much money for that kind of thing, Milo. I thought I’d call the institute tomorrow morning, see what else I can learn. I’m also going to try to contact Mrs. Ashmore again. Find out if Huenengarth the Mystery Man’s dropped by.”

  “Like I said, Alex, keep your distance.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t get any closer than the phone. Afternoon I’ll be doing what I went to school for over at Chip and Cindy’s. Who may not be in a state of domestic
bliss.”

  I reviewed my suspicions, including the caveats Robin had raised. “What do you think?”

  “I think, who the hell knows? Maybe she did have a leaky faucet, or maybe she’s the Hester Prynne of the San Fernando Valley. Tell you one thing, if she is stepping out on the Chipper, she’s being pretty sloppy about it, wouldn’t you say? Letting you hear Lover Boy’s voice.”

  “Maybe she didn’t mean to— I caught her off guard. She sounded antsy— covered the phone almost immediately. All I actually made out were a few low tones. And if she’s a Munchausen type, flirting with another kind of danger would be right up her alley.”

  “Low tones, huh? Sure it wasn’t the TV?”

  “No, this was a real-life conversation. Cindy talked and the guy answered. I assumed it was Chip. If he hadn’t called me later, I’d never have known it wasn’t.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “So what does it mean? In terms of Cassie?”

  I repeated my motive theory.

  He said, “Don’t forget Chip’s dough— that’s one hell of an incentive.”

  “One hell of a family embarrassment, too, if it blows wide open and there’s a nasty divorce. Maybe that’s what Chuck’s trying to keep me away from. He talked about Chip and Cindy creating something solid— called Cindy a lovely girl. Even though she doesn’t seem like the girl a guy in his position would have wanted for his only daughter-in-law. On the other hand, from the look of his teeth, he came up the hard way himself. So maybe he’s not a snob.”

  “His teeth?”

  “They’re crooked and discolored. No one ever shelled out on orthodontia on his account. Fact is, his entire manner’s pretty rough.”

  “Self-made man,” he said. “Maybe he respects Cindy for doing the same thing.”

  “Who knows? Anything on why she left the army?”

  “Not yet. Gotta press Charlie on that . . . Okay, I’ll check with you tomorrow.”

  “If you find out anything from the bartender, call me first thing.”

  There was a strain in my voice. My shoulders had bunched again.

  Robin touched them and said, “What is it?”

  I covered the phone and turned to her. “He’s found a lead to something that may or may not be related to the case.”

  “And he called to invite you along.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And you want to go.”

  “No, I—”

  “Is it anything dangerous?”

  “No, just interviewing a witness.”

  She gave me a gentle shove. “Go.”

  “It’s not necessary, Robin.”

  She laughed. “Go anyway.”

  “I don’t need to. This is nice.”

  “Domestic bliss?”

  “Mega-bliss.” I put my arm around her.

  She kissed it, then removed it.

  “Go, Alex. I don’t want to lie here listening to you toss.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You know you will.”

  “Being alone is preferable?”

  “I won’t be. Not in my head. Not with what we’ve got going for us now.”

  23

  I tucked her in bed and went out to the living room to wait. Milo knocked softly just before midnight. He was carrying a hard-shell case the size of an attacheé and had on a polo shirt, twill pants, and windbreaker. All in black. Regular-guy parody of the L.A. hipster ensemble.

  I said, “Trying to fade into the night, Zorro?”

  “We’re taking your car. I’m not bringing the Porsche down there.”

  I pulled out the Seville; he put the case in the trunk, got in the passenger seat. “Let’s roll.”

  I followed his directions, taking Sunset west to the 405 south, merging with hurtling trucks and the red-eye crowd heading out to the airport. At the junction with the Santa Monica Freeway, I hooked over toward L.A. and traveled east in the fast lane. The highway was emptier than I’d ever seen it, softened to something impressionistic by a warm, moist haze.

  Milo lowered the window, lit up a panatela, and blew smoke out at the city. He seemed tired, as if he’d talked himself out over the phone. I felt weary, too, and neither of us said a word. Near La Brea a loud, low sports car rode our tail, belched and flashed its brights before passing us at close to a hundred. Milo sat up suddenly— cop’s reflex— and watched it disappear before settling back down and staring out the windshield.

  I followed his gaze upward to an ivory moon, cloud-streaked and fat, though not quite full. It dangled before us like a giant yo-yo, ivory mottled with green-cheese verdigris.

  “Three-quarter moon,” I said.

  “More like seven-eighths. That means almost all the nuts’re out. Stay on the Ten past the interchange and get off at Santa Fe.”

  He kept grumbling directions in a low voice, taking us into a broad, silent district of storehouses, foundries, and wholesale jobbers. No streetlights, no movement; the only vehicles I spotted were penned behind prison-grade security fences. As we’d traveled away from the ocean, the haze had lifted and the downtown skyline had turned chiseled and crisp. But here I could barely make out the shapes, miragelike against the matte-black stasis of the city’s outer limits. The silence seemed glum— a failure of spirit. As if L.A.’s geographical boundaries had exceeded its energy.

  He directed me through a series of quick, sharp turns down asphalt strips that could have been streets or alleys— a maze that I’d never be able to reverse from memory. He’d allowed his cigar to go cold but the smell of tobacco stuck to the car. Though the breeze streaming in was warm and pleasant, he began raising the window. I realized why before he finished: A new smell overpowered the burnt-cloth stink of cheap leaf. Sweet and bitter at the same time, metallic, yet rotten. It leaked through the glass. So did noise— cold and resonant, like giant steel hands clapping— scraping the night-lull from somewhere far away.

  “Packing houses,” he said. “East L.A. all the way down to Vernon, but the sound carries. When I first came on the force I drove a cruiser down here, on the night watch. Sometimes they slaughtered the hogs at night. You could hear them howling, smashing into things, and rattling their chains. Nowadays I think they tranquilize them— Here, turn right, then immediately left. Go a block and park anywhere you can.”

  The maze ended on a skinny block-long straightaway bounded on both sides by cyclone fencing. No sidewalks. Weeds erupted through the tar like hairs on a wen. Cars lined both sides of the street, pushed up close to the fence.

  I pulled into the first space I saw, behind an old BMW with a K-ROQ window sticker and a rear deck piled high with trash. We got out of the Seville. The air had cooled but the slaughterhouse smell remained— dribs and drabs of stench, rather than a constant assault. Changing wind, probably, though I couldn’t sense it. The machine scrape was gone, replaced by music— electric organ elf-squeaks and a murky bass, middle-range tones that might have come from guitars. If there was a beat, I couldn’t sense that either.

  “Party time,” I said. “What’s the dance of the week?”

  “Felony lambada,” said Milo. “Sidle up against your partner and rifle through his/her pockets.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and slouched forward.

  We began walking up the street. It dead-ended at a tall, windowless building. Pale-painted brick walls that a couple of red lights turned pink. Three stories— a trio of successively smaller cubes stacked atop one another. Flat roof, steel doors asymmetrically placed under a random assortment of shuttered windows. A tangle of fire-escape ladders hugged the facade like cast-iron ivy. As we got closer I saw huge, faded letters painted above the dock: BAKER FERTUKUZER AND POTASH CO.

  The music got louder. Heavy, slow, keyboard solo. Voices became audible in between notes. As we got closer, I saw a line of people S-curved in front of one of the doors— a fifty-foot ant-trail that dipped into the street and clogged it.

  We began passing the line. Faces turned toward us sequentially, like animated dominoes. Black
duds were the uniform, sullen pouts the mask. Boot chains, cigarettes— legal and otherwise— mumbles and shuffles and sneers, an amphetamine jerk here and there. Flashes of bare flesh, whiter than the moonlight. A rude comment harmonized with the organ and somebody laughed.

  The age range was eighteen to twenty-five, skewed toward the lower end. I heard a cat snarl at my back, then more laughter. Prom from Hell.

  The door that had drawn the crowd was a rust-colored sheet-metal rectangle blocked by a slide bolt. A big man wearing a sleeveless black turtleneck, green-flowered surfing shorts, and high-laced boots stood in front of it. He was in his early twenties, had clotted features, dreamy eyes, and skin that would have been florid even without the red bulb above his head. His black hair was trimmed to a buzz on top and engraved with lightning bolts of scalp on both sides. I noticed a couple of thin spots that hadn’t been barbered— downy patches, as if he was recovering from chemotherapy. But his body was huge and inflated. The hair at the back of his head was long and knotted in a tight, oiled queue that hung over one shoulder. The shoulder and its mate were graveled with acne. Steroid rash— that explained the hair loss.