Devil's Waltz

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Aw, shit—”

  “She was packing her bags when I spoke to her. Pretty shaken up by your approach to domestic life.”

  Gabray said nothing.

  Milo said, “She had enough of being pounded on, Robert.”

  Gabray dropped the cigarette and stomped it out hard.

  “She lies,” he said. “Fucking bitch.”

  “She made your bail.”

  “She owed me. She still owes me.”

  “Let it go, Robert. Think of those letters.”

  “Yeah,” said Gabray, tapping his foot. “Whatever. I’m cool with it. I got a good attitude about life.”

  24

  When we were out of the maze and back on San Pedro, Milo turned on his penlight and studied the Identikit face.

  “Think he’s reliable?” I said.

  “Not very. But in the unlikely event a real suspect ever shows up, this might help.”

  I stopped for a red light and glanced at the composite. “Not very distinctive.”

  “Nope.”

  I leaned over and gave a closer look. “It could be Huenengarth, minus the mustache.”

  “That so?”

  “Huenengarth’s younger than the guy Gabray described— mid-thirties— and his face is a bit fuller. But he’s thickly built and his hair’s styled like that. His mustache could have been grown since March, and even if not, it’s very faint— might have been hard to spot from a distance. And you said he might be an ex-con.”

  “Hmm.”

  The light turned green, and I headed back toward the freeway.

  He chuckled.

  “What?”

  “Just thinking. If I ever actually make sense out of the Herbert thing, my troubles will just be beginning. Sneaking her file out. Moving in on Central’s territory, offering Gabray protection I had no permission to authorize. Far as the department’s concerned, I’m a goddam clerk.”

  “Solving a homicide wouldn’t impress the department?”

  “Not nearly as much as rank conformity— but hell, I suppose I can work something out if it comes to that. Give a gift to Gomez and Wicker— let them take the glory and hope for half a gold star. Gabray may get sold out in the process . . . Hell, he’s no innocent— screw him. If his info turns out to be real, he’ll do okay.”

  He closed the kit and placed it on the floor.

  “Listen to me,” he said, “talking like a goddam politician.”

  I drove up the ramp. All lanes were empty and the freeway looked like a giant drag strip.

  He said, “Putting some bad guys out of commission should be enough satisfaction, right? What you guys call intrinsic motivation.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Be good for goodness’ sake and Santa will remember you.”

  • • •

  We arrived back at my house just after three. He drove away in the Porsche and I slipped into bed, trying to be silent. Robin awoke anyway and reached for my hand. We locked fingers and fell asleep.

  She was up and gone before my eyes cleared. A toasted English muffin and juice were at my place on the kitchen table. I finished them off while planning my day.

  Afternoon at the Joneses’.

  Morning on the phone.

  But the phone rang before I could get to it.

  “Alex,” said Lou Cestare, “all those interesting questions. Branching out into investment banking?”

  “Not yet. How was the hike?”

  “Long. I kept thinking my little guy would tire but he wanted to play Edmund Hillary. Why do you want to know about Chuck Jones?”

  “He’s chairman of the board of the hospital where I used to work. He also manages the hospital’s portfolio. I’m still on staff there, feel some affection for the place. Things aren’t going well there financially, and there’s been talk of Jones running the place down so he can dissolve it and sell the land.”

  “Doesn’t sound like his style.”

  “You know him?”

  “Met him a couple of times at parties. Quick hello-goodbye— he wouldn’t remember. But I do know his style.”

  “Which is?”

  “Building up, not tearing down. He’s one of the best money managers around, Alex. Pays no attention to what other people are doing and goes after solid companies at cut-rate prices. True bargains— the stock-buys everyone dreams about. But he finds them better than anyone else.”

  “How?”

  “He knows how to really figure out how a company’s doing. Which means going way beyond quarterly reports. Once he ferrets out an undervalued stock about to pop, he buys in, waits, sells, repeats the process. His timing’s impeccable.”

  “Does he ferret using inside information?”

  Pause. “This hour of the morning and you’re already talking dirty?”

  “So he does.”

  “Alex, the whole inside trading thing has been blown way out of proportion. As far as I’m concerned, no one’s even come up with a good definition.”

  “Come on, Lou.”

  “Do you have one?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Using data unavailable to the average person in order to make buy-and-sell decisions.”

  “Okay, then, what about an investor who wines and dines a key employee in order to find out if the company’s doing its job properly? Someone who takes the time to really get into the nuts and bolts of company operations? Is that corrupt or just being thorough?”

  “If bribery’s involved, it’s corrupt.”

  “What, the wining and dining? Why’s that different from a reporter buttering up a source? Or a cop encouraging a witness with a doughnut and a cup of coffee? I don’t know of any law that makes dinner between business people illegal. Theoretically, anyone could do it, if they were willing to put out the effort. But no one ever bothers, Alex. That’s the thing. Even professional researchers usually rely on graphs and charts and the numbers the company gives them. Lots of them never even bother to visit the company they’re analyzing.”

  “I guess it depends on what the investor learns from the wining and dining.”

  “Exactly. If the employee tells him someone’s going to make a serious takeover bid on such and such a date, that’s illegal. But if that same employee tells him the company’s in a financial position that makes it ripe for takeover, that’s valid data. It’s a thin line— see what I mean? Chuck Jones does his homework, that’s all. He’s a bulldog.”

  “What’s his background?”

  “I don’t think he even went to college. We’re talking rags to riches. I think he shod horses or something when he was a kid. Doesn’t that appeal to your sensibilities? The guy came out of Black Monday a hero because he dumped his stocks months before the crash and shifted to T-bills and metals. Even though his stocks were shooting up. If anyone had known, they would have thought he was going senile. But when the market crashed, he was able to bottom-fish, bought in again and made another fortune.”

  “Why didn’t anyone know?”

  “He’s got a thing for privacy— his kind of strategy depends upon it. He buys and sells constantly, avoids big block trades, stays away from computerized trading. It wasn’t until months later that I found out, myself.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  “The scuttlebutt— twenty-twenty hindsight, while the rest of us licked our wounds.”

  “How was he able to predict the crash?”

  “Prescience. The best players have it. It’s a combination of a great data base and a kind of ESP you get from being in the game a long time. I used to think I had it, but I got chastened— no big deal. Life was getting boring, and rebuilding’s more fun than just treading water. But Chuck Jones does have it. I’m not saying he never loses. Everyone does. But he wins a lot more than he loses.”

  “What’s he into now?”

  “I don’t know— like I said, close-to-the-cuff’s his style. Invests only for himself, so he’s got no shareholders to deal with. I doubt, though, that he’s high on real estate.”


  “Why’s that?”

  “Because real estate’s a turkey. I don’t mean for someone like you who bought in years ago and is just looking for some stable income. But for traders out for a quick profit, the party’s over, at least for now. I divested myself a while ago, moved back into stocks. Jones is smarter than me, so odds to evens he got there before I did.”

  “His son owns a big block of land out in the Valley.”

  “Who said wisdom is genetic?”

  “His son’s a college professor. I don’t think he was able to buy fifty parcels for himself.”

  “Probably his trust fund— I don’t know. You’ll still have to convince me Chuck’s getting into r.e. in a big way. The land the hospital’s on is Hollywood, right?”

  “Several acres,” I said. “Purchased a long time ago— the hospital’s seventy years old— so it’s probably all paid for. Even in a slump, a sale would be pure profit.”

  “Sure it would, Alex. But to the hospital itself. What’s Jones’s incentive?”

  “Commission on the deal.”

  “How many acres are we talking about and where exactly are they?”

  “Five or so.” I told him Western Peds’s address.

  “Okay, so that’s ten, fifteen million— let’s even say twenty because of contiguous lots. Which is liberal, because that big of a chunk would be hard to unload, so you might have to subdivide into smaller parcels. That could take time— there’d be zoning hassles, hearings, permits, environmental shenanigans. The biggest cut Chuck could take for himself without attracting a commotion would be twenty-five percent— ten’s more likely. Meaning two to five mil in his pocket . . . No, I can’t see Chuck messing around for that kind of money.”

  “What if there’s more to it?” I said. “What if he not only plans to close down one hospital but is also figuring to open up a new one on his son’s land?”

  “All of a sudden he’s in the hospital business? I doubt it, Alex. No offense, but health care’s a turkey too. Hospitals have been going belly-up almost as fast as savings and loans.”

  “I know, but maybe Jones figures he can do a good job anyway, bucking the trend. You just said he doesn’t pay attention to what everyone else is doing.”

  “Anything’s possible, Alex, but once again you’d have to prove it to me. Where’d you come up with all this theorizing, anyway?”

  I told him about Plumb’s comments in the paper.

  “Ah, the other name on your list. Him, I’d never heard of him, so I looked him up in every directory I’ve got. What emerges is your basic corporate drone: M.B.A., doctorate, a series of management jobs, climbing the ladder. His first job was at a national accounting firm named Smothers and Crimp. Then he moved into the head office at another place.”

  “Where?”

  “Hold on— I wrote it down somewhere . . . Here we go. Plumb, George Haversford. Born, ’34; married Mary Ann Champlin, ’58; two kids, blah blah blah . . . out of grad school in ’60 with a D.B.A.; Smothers and Crimp, 1960 through ’63, left as a partner. Controller, Hardfast Steel in Pittsburgh, ’63 till ’65; Controller and chief operating officer, Readilite Manufacturing, Reading, Pennsylvania, ’65 through ’68; a step up to CEO at an outfit called Baxter Consulting, stayed there till ’71; ’71 through ’74 at Advent Management Specialists; went out on his own with the Plumb Group, ’74 till ’77; then back into the corporate world in ’78 at a place called Vantage Health Planning, CEO till ’81—”

  “The guy hops around a lot.”

  “Not really, Alex. Moving around every couple of years in order to up your ante is your basic corporate drone pattern. It’s one of the main reasons I dropped out of it early. Hell on the family— lots of booze-hound wives who smile a lot and kids who turn delinquency into an art form. . . . Where was I? Vantage Health till ’81; then it looks as if he began specializing in medical stuff. Arthur-McClennan Diagnostics for three years, Neo-Dyne Biologicals for another three, then MGS Healthcare Consultants— the Pittsburgh place you asked me to look up.”

  “What’d you find out about it?”

  “Small-to-medium hospital outfit specializing in acutecare facilities in small-to-medium cities in the northern states. Established in ’82 by a group of doctors, went public in ’85, OTC issue, poor stock performance, got reprivatized the next year— bought out by a syndicate and shut down.”

  “Why would a syndicate buy it, then shut it down?”

  “Could be any number of reasons. Maybe they discovered buying it was a mistake and tried to cut their losses fast. Or they wanted the company’s resources, rather than the company itself.”

  “What kinds of resources?”

  “Hardware, investments, the pension fund. The other group you asked about— BIO-DAT— was originally a subsidiary of MGS. The data analysis arm. Before the buy-out it got sold to another concern— Northern Holdings, in Missoula, Montana— and was maintained.”

  “Is it a public company?”

  “Private.”

  “What about the other companies Plumb worked for? Are you familiar with any of them?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Are any of them public?”

  “One second and I’ll tell you. . . . Got the old PC cooking. Let me make a scan list. You want to go all the way back to the accountants— Smothers and whatever?”

  “If you’ve got the time.”

  “Got more time than I’m used to. Hold on just one second.”

  I waited, listening to keyboard clicks.

  “All right,” he said, “now let’s scroll up the exchanges and run a search . . . here we go.”

  Beep. “Nothing on the New York.”

  Beep. “No Amex listings on any of them, either. Let’s see about the Nasdaq . . .”

  Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

  “No listings, Alex. Let me check the list of private holdings.”

  Beep.

  “Doesn’t look like it, Alex.” A slight edge in his voice.

  “Meaning none of them are in business?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Do you find that unusual?”

  “Well,” he said, “businesses do fail or close down at a pretty high rate, but this Plumb guy does seem to be the kiss of death.”

  “Chuck Jones hired him to run the hospital, Lou. Care to revise your thinking about his intentions?”

  “Think he’s a spoiler, huh?”

  “What happened to the other companies Plumb was associated with?”

  “That would be hard to find out— they were all small, and if they were privately held, there’d be no stock ramifications, little or no coverage in the business press.”

  “What about the local press?”

  “If it was a company town with lots of people being thrown out of work, maybe. But good luck tracking that down.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Is this really important, Alex?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It would be a hell of a lot easier for me to track,” he said, “knowing the ropes. Let me play Tarzan and climb a few.”

  • • •

  After he hung up, I called Virginia Information and got the number of the Ferris Dixon Institute for Chemical Research. A pleasant female voice answered, “Ferris Dixon, good afternoon, how may I help you?”

  “This is Dr. Schweitzer from Western Pediatric Medical Center in Los Angeles. I’m an associate of Dr. Laurence Ashmore.”

  “Just one second, please.”

  Long pause. Music. The Hollywood Strings doing The Police’s Every Breath You Take.

  The voice returned: “Yes, Dr. Schweitzer, how may I help you?”

  “Your institute funds Dr. Ashmore’s research.”

  “Yes?”

  “I was just wondering if you knew he was deceased.”

  “Oh, how horrible,” she said, but she didn’t sound surprised. “But I’m afraid the person who can help you with that isn’t in.”

  I hadn’t asked for help,
but I let that pass. “Who might that be?”

  “I’m not exactly sure, Doctor. I’d have to check that.”

  “Could you, please?”

  “Certainly, but it may take a while, Doctor. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll get back to you.”