Devil's Waltz

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Into the night . . .

  The door was bolted shut. The room was dark, except for a focused yellow parabola from a corner floor lamp. Double drapes blotted out Hollywood. I sat on an orange chair, as confined as a patient. The piped music barely leaked through from the hallway.

  The man who called himself Huenengarth sat across the room, near the lamp, cradled by a chair identical to mine that he’d pushed up to the empty bed. A small black hand radio rested in his lap.

  The bed was stripped down to the mattress. Resting on the ticking was a sloping paper ramp. Government documents.

  The one he was reading had kept his interest for more than an hour. Down at the bottom was a line of numbers and asterisks and a word that I thought was UPDATE. But I couldn’t be sure because I was too far away and neither of us wanted to change that.

  I had things to read, too: the latest lab reports on Cassie and a brand-new article Huenengarth had shoved at me. Five typed pages on the subject of pension fraud by Professor W. W. Zimberg, written in starchy legalese with lots of words blacked out by a broad-tipped marker.

  My eyes went back to the TV. No movement on the screen other than the slow drip of sugar-water through plastic tubing. I inspected the small, colorless world from edge to edge. For the thousandth time . . .

  Bedclothes and railings, a blur of dark hair and puffy cheek. The I.V. gauge, with its inlets and outlets and locks . . .

  I sensed movement across the room without seeing it. Huenengarth took out a pen and crossed something out.

  According to documents he showed Milo in the deputy chief’s office, he’d been in Washington, D.C., the night Dawn Herbert was butchered in her little car. Milo told me he’d corroborated it, as the two of us drove to the hospital just before sunrise.

  “Who exactly is he working for?” I said.

  “Don’t know the details but it’s some sort of covert task force, probably in cahoots with the Treasury Department.”

  “Secret agent man? Think he knows our friend the colonel?”

  “Wondered about that myself. He found out pretty damn fast that I was playing computer games. After we got out of the D.C.’s office, I shot the colonel’s name at him and got a blank stare, but it wouldn’t surprise me if the two of them attended some of the same parties. Tell you one thing, Alex— asshole’s more than just a field agent, got some real juice behind him.”

  “Juice and motivation,” I said. “Four and a half years to avenge his father. How do you think he managed the million-dollar budget?”

  “Who knows? Probably kissed the right ass, stabbed the right back. Or maybe it was just a matter of the right person’s ox getting gored. Whatever, he’s a smart cookie.”

  “Good actor, too— getting that close to Jones and Plumb.”

  “So one day he’ll run for President. Did you know you were going twenty over the limit?”

  “If I get a ticket, you can fix it for me, right? Now that you’re a real policeman again.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’d you pull it off?”

  “I didn’t pull off anything. When I got to the D.C.’s, Huenengarth was already there. He gets right in my face, demands to know why I’ve been tracing him. I think about it and tell him the truth, because what’s my choice? Play hard to get and have the department cite me for improper use of departmental time and facilities? He then proceeds to ask me lots of questions about the Jones family. All this time, the D.C. is just sitting behind his desk, hasn’t said a word, and I figure this is it, start thinking private enterprise. But soon as I finish, Huenengarth thanks me for my cooperation, says it’s a shame, the crime rate being what it is, that a guy with my experience is sitting in front of a screen instead of working cases. The D.C. looks as if he just sucked pigshit through a straw, but he keeps quiet. Huenengarth asks if I can be assigned to his investigation— LAPD liaison to the Feds. D.C. squirms and says sure, getting me back on active duty was the department’s plan all along. Huenengarth and I leave the office together and the minute we’re alone he tells me he doesn’t give a fuck about me personally, but his case on Jones is just about to break and I’d better not get in his way while he moves in with the killing thrust.”

  “Killing thrust, huh?”

  “Gentle soul, probably doesn’t wear fur . . . Then he said, ‘Maybe we can cut a deal. Don’t fuck me up and I’ll help you.’ Then he told me how he knew about Cassie from Stephanie, but hadn’t done anything because there wasn’t enough evidence, but maybe now there was.”

  “Why all of a sudden?”

  “Probably because he’s close enough to getting Grandpa and wouldn’t mind doing a total destruct on the family. I also wouldn’t be surprised if on some level he enjoys seeing Cassie suffer— the curse of the Jones family. He really hates them, Alex. . . . On the other hand, where would we be without him? So let’s use the hell out of him, see what happens. How does this look on me?”

  “High fashion, Ben Casey.”

  “Yeah. Take a picture. When it’s over.”

  Movement on the screen.

  Then nothing.

  My neck was stiff. I shifted position while keeping my eyes on the TV.

  Huenengarth continued to do his homework. It had been hours since anything I did caught his attention.

  Time passed, slothfully cruel.

  More movement.

  Shadowing one corner. Upper right-hand.

  Then nothing, for a long time.

  Then . . .

  “Hey!” I said.

  Huenengarth peered over his pamphlet. Bored.

  The shadow grew. Lightened.

  Took shape. White and fuzzy.

  Starfish . . . human hand.

  Something grasped between thumb and forefinger.

  Huenengarth sat up.

  “Go!” I said. “This is it!”

  He smiled.

  The hand on the screen advanced. Grew larger. Big, white . . .

  “C’mon!” I said.

  Huenengarth put down his article.

  The hand jabbed . . . poking at something.

  Huenengarth seemed to be savoring the picture.

  He looked at me as if I’d interrupted a terrific dream.

  The thing between the fingers probed.

  Huenengarth’s smile stretched under his little mustache.

  “Damn you,” I said.

  He picked up the little black radio and held it to his mouth.

  “On your mark,” he said.

  The hand was at the I.V. gauge now, using the thing between its fingers to nuzzle a rubber-tipped inlet.

  Sharp-tipped thing.

  White cylinder, much like a pen. Ultra-thin needle.

  It darted, a bird pecking a wormhole.

  Plunged.

  Huenengarth said, “Go,” to the radio.

  It was only later that I realized he’d skipped “Get set.”

  32

  He moved toward the door, but I threw the bolt and was out first. All those years of jogging and treadmilling finally paid off.

  The door to 505W was already wide open.

  Cassie was on her back in the bed, breathing through her mouth.

  Post-seizure slumber.

  She was covered to the neck. I.V. tubing curled from under the blankets.

  Cindy was sleeping, too, flat on her stomach, one arm dangling.

  Milo stood next to the I.V. pole, baggy in green surgical scrubs. A hospital ID badge was pinned to his shirt. M. B. STURGIS, M.D., his photographed face cross and bearish.

  The real face was policeman-stoic. One of his big hands was clamped over Chip Jones’s wrist. The other bent Chip’s arm behind his back. Chip cried out in pain.

  Milo ignored him and told him his rights.

  Chip had on a camel-colored jogging suit and brown suede running shoes with diagonal leather stripes. His back was arched in Milo’s grip and his eyes were splayed and bright, sick with terror.

  It was his fear that made me want to kill him.


  I ran to the bed and checked the I.V. gauge. Locked— sealed with Krazy Glue. Stephanie’s idea. None of what was in the cylinder was entering Cassie’s blood-stream. Creative, but a risk: seconds later, Chip would have felt the pressure build behind the needle. And known.

  Milo had him cuffed now. Chip started crying, then stopped.

  Huenengarth licked his lips and said, “You’re fucked, Junior.” I hadn’t seen him come in.

  Chip stared at him. His mouth was still open. His beard trembled. He dropped something on the floor. White cylinder with a tiny, sharp tip. It rolled on the carpet before coming to a stop. Chip raised a foot and tried to step on it.

  Milo yanked him away. Huenengarth put on a surgical glove and picked up the cylinder.

  He waved it in front of Chip’s face.

  Chip made a whimpering noise and Huenengarth responded with a masturbatory movement of one arm.

  I went over to Cindy and nudged her. She rolled and didn’t waken. A shake of her shoulders failed to rouse her. I shook harder, said her name. Nothing.

  A cup was on the floor, near her dangling hand. Half-filled with coffee.

  “What did you drug her with?” I asked Chip.

  He didn’t answer. I repeated the question and he looked at the floor. His earring tonight was an emerald.

  “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 set 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.”