Devil's Waltz (31 page)

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.”

His hands were still linked together, two stubby, fleshy grapples. He separated them, fanned them on the table. Closed the fingers. Scratched the Formica.

“Sounds like you’re pretty proud of him,” I said.

“I most certainly am. Cindy too. Lovely girl, no pretensions. They’ve created something solid — proof of the pudding is Cassie. I know I’m not objective but that little girl is adorable and beautiful and smart. Great disposition to boot.”

“No mean feat,” I said. “Considering.”

His eyes wandered. Closed and opened.

“You know we lost one before her, don’t you? Beautiful little boy — crib death. They still don’t know why that happens, do they?”

I shook my head.

“That was
hell
on earth, Doctor. Clear out of the blue — one day he’s here; the next… I just can’t understand why no one can tell me what’s wrong with this one.”

“No one really knows, Chuck.”

He waved that off. “I still don’t understand why you’re involved. Don’t take that personally. I know you’ve heard all sorts of horror stories about why we abolished the Psychiatry division. But the truth is, that had nothing to do with approving or disapproving of mental health treatment. I certainly do approve — what’s not to approve? Some people need help. But the fact is that the weak sisters running Psychiatry had no idea how to construct a budget and stick to it, let alone do their own jobs competently. The clear picture I got from the other doctors was that they were inept. Of course, to hear it now, they were all geniuses — we destroyed a center of psychiatric brilliance.”

He rolled his eyes. “No matter. Hopefully, one day we’ll be able to establish a good, solid department. Bring in some top people. You used to work here, didn’t you?”

“Years ago.”

“Would you ever consider returning?”

I shook my head.

“Why’d you leave?”

“Various reasons.”

“The freedom of the private sector? Be your own boss?”

“That was part of it.”

“So maybe if you step back you can be objective and understand what I mean. About the need for efficiency. Being realistic. In general, I’m finding doctors out in the private sector do understand. Because running a practice is running a business. It’s only the ones who live off the — But no matter. Getting back to what I was saying, about your involvement with my granddaughter. No one’s got the gall to say her problems are in her
head
, do they?”

“I really can’t talk about details, Chuck.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Confidentiality.”

“Chip and Cindy don’t keep secrets from me.”

“I need to hear that from them. It’s the law.”

“You’re a tough one, aren’t you?”

“Not particularly.” I smiled.

He smiled back. Linked his hands again. Drank hot water.

“All right. This is
your
business and you have to stick to your own rules. Guess I’ve got to get some kind of permission note from them.”

“Guess so.”

He smiled wide. His teeth were severely misaligned and brown.

“In the meantime,” he said, “am
I
allowed to talk to
you
?”

“Sure.”

He locked in on my face, studying it, with a mixture of interest and skepticism, as if it were a quarterly report. “I’ll just assume no one seriously thinks Cassie’s problems are mental, because that’s just too ridiculous.”

Pause. Assess. Hoping for a nonverbal clue?

I made sure not to move.

He said, “So, the only other thing I can come up with to explain your getting involved is that someone thinks something’s wrong with Cindy or Chip. Which is ridiculous.”

He sat back. Kept studying. A triumphant look came on his face. I was sure I hadn’t even blinked. Wondered if he’d seen something or was just finessing.

I said, “Psychologists aren’t called in only to analyze, Chuck. We also give support to people under stress.”

“Being a hired friend, huh?” He jiggled his nose again, stood, smiled. “Well, then, be a
good
friend. They’re good kids. All three of them.”

I drove away trying to figure out what he’d been after and whether I’d given it to him.

Wanting me to see him as a concerned grandfather?

Chip and Cindy don’t keep secrets from me.

Yet Chip and Cindy hadn’t taken the trouble to inform him Cassie was being discharged. I realized that during all the contacts I’d had with both of them, his name hadn’t come up once.

A tightly wound little man who was
all
business — even during our few minutes together, he’d mixed family matters with hospital affairs.

He hadn’t wasted a moment on debate, had never tried to change my opinion.

Choosing, instead, to
shape
the conversation.

Even the choice of meeting place had been calculated. The dining room he closed and now treated as his personal galley. Getting refreshments for himself, but not me.

Brandishing a ring of keys to let me know he could open any door in the hospital. Bragging about it, but letting me know he had too much integrity to grab office space.

Bringing my presumed hostility toward the despoiler of the Psychiatry department out in the open, then trying to neutralize me by appending a bribe just subtle enough to be taken as casual conversation:

Hopefully, one day we’ll be able to establish a good, solid department. Bring in some top people… Would you ever consider returning?

When I’d demurred, he’d backed off immediately. Empathized with my good sense, then used it to support his point of view.

If he’d been a hog farmer, he’d have found a way to use the squeal.

So I had to believe that though ours had been a chance encounter, if we hadn’t bumped into each other soon, he would have arranged a meeting.

I was too small a fry for him to care what I thought about him.

Except as it related to Cassie and Chip and Cindy.

Wanting to know what I’d learned about his family.

Meaning there was probably something to hide and he didn’t know if I’d discovered it.

I thought of Cindy’s worry:
People must think I’m crazy.

Was there a breakdown in her past?

The entire family fearful of a psychological probe?

If so, what better place to avoid scrutiny than a hospital without a Psychiatry department?

Another
reason not to transfer Cassie.

Then Stephanie had gone and ruined things by bringing in a free-lance.

I remembered Plumb’s surprise when she told him what I was.

Now his boss had checked me out personally.

Shaping, molding. Painting a rosy picture of Chip and Cindy.

Mostly Chip — I realized he’d spent very little time on Cindy.

Paternal pride? Or directing me
away
from his daughter-in-law because the less said about her the better?

I stopped for a red light at Sunset and La Brea.

My hands were tight on the steering wheel. I’d cruised a couple of miles without knowing it.

When I got home I was in a bad mood and thankful that Robin wasn’t there to share it.

The operator at my service said, “Nothing, Dr. Delaware. Isn’t that nice?”

“You bet.” We told each other to have a nice day.

Unable to get Ashmore and Dawn Herbert out of my head, I drove over to the university, hooking into the campus at the north end and continuing southward until I came to the Medical Center.

A new exhibit on the history of leeching lined the hallway leading to the Biomed library — medieval etchings and wax simulations of patients being feasted upon by rubbery parasites. The main reading room was open for another two hours. One librarian, a good-looking blond woman, sat at the reference desk.