Devil's Waltz

30

I didn’t hear from Milo and had doubts if he’d make our eight o’clock meeting. When he hadn’t shown up by twenty after, I figured whatever had held him up at Parker Center had gotten in the way. But at 8:37 the bell rang, and when I opened the door it was him. Someone was standing behind him.

Presley Huenengarth. His face floated over Milo’s shoulder like a malignant moon. His mouth was as small as a baby’s.

Milo saw the look in my eyes, gave an it’s-okay wink, put his hand on my shoulder, and walked in. Huenengarth hesitated for a moment before following. His hands were at his sides. No gun. No bulge in his jacket; no sign of coercion.

The two of them could have been a cop team.

Milo said, “Be right with you,” and went into the kitchen.

Huenengarth stood there. His hands were thick and mottled and his eyes were everywhere. The door was still open. When I closed it, he didn’t move.

I walked into the living room. Though I couldn’t hear him, I knew he was following me.

He waited for me to sit on the leather sofa, unbuttoned his jacket, then sank into an armchair. His belly bulged over his belt, straining the white broadcloth of his button-down shirt. The rest of him was broad and hard. His neck flesh was cherry-blossom pink and swelled over his collar. A carotid pulse plinked through, steady and rapid.

I heard Milo messing in the kitchen.

Huenengarth said, “Nice place. Any view?”

It was the first time I’d heard his voice. Midwest inflections, medium-pitched, on the reedy side. On the phone it would conjure a much smaller man.

I didn’t answer.

He put a hand on each knee and looked around the room some more.

More kitchen noise.

He turned toward it and said, “Far as I’m concerned, people’s personal lives are their own business. As long as what he is doesn’t get in the way of the job, I could care less. Matter of fact, I can help him.”

“Great. You want to tell me who you are?”

“Sturgis claims you know how to keep a secret. Few people do.”

“Especially in Washington?”

Blank stare.

“Or is it Norfolk, Virginia?”

He pursed his lips and turned his mouth into a peeved little blossom. The mustache above it was little more than a mouse-colored stain. His ears were close-set, lobeless, and pulled down into his bull neck. Despite the season, the gray suit was a heavy worsted. Cuffed pants, black oxfords that had been resoled, blue pen in his breast pocket. He was sweating just below the hairline.

“You’ve been trying to follow me,” he said. “But you really have no idea what’s going on.”

“Funny, I felt followed.”

He shook his head. Gave a stern look. As if he were the teacher and I’d guessed wrong.

“So educate me,” I said.

“I need a pledge of total discretion.”

“About what?”

“Anything I tell you.”

“That’s pretty broad.”

“That’s what I need.”

“Does it have to do with Cassie Jones?”

The fingers on his knees began drumming. “Not directly.”

“But indirectly.”

He didn’t answer.

I said, “You want a pledge from me, but you won’t give an inch. You’ve got to work for the government.”

Silence. He examined the pattern of my Persian rug.

“If it compromises Cassie,” I said, “I can’t pledge anything.”

“You’re wrong,” he said, and gave another headshake. “If you really cared about her, you wouldn’t obstruct me.”

“Why’s that?”

“I can help her too.”

“You’re a pretty helpful guy, aren’t you?”

He shrugged.

“If you’re able to stop the abuse, why haven’t you?”

He ceased drumming and touched one index finger to the other. “I didn’t say I was omniscient. But I can be useful. You haven’t made much progress so far, have you?”

Before I could answer, he was up and headed for the kitchen. He returned with Milo, who was carrying three cups of coffee.

Taking one for himself, Milo put the remaining two on the coffee table and settled on the other end of the sofa. Our eyes met. He gave a small nod. Trace of apology.

Huenengarth sat back down, in a different chair from the one he’d just gotten out of. Neither he nor I touched our coffee.

Milo said, “Skoal,” and drank.

“Now what?” I said.

“Yeah,” said Milo. “He’s low on charm, but maybe he can do what he says he can.”

Huenengarth turned toward him and glared.

Milo sipped, crossed his legs.

I said, “You’re here of your own free will, huh?”

Milo said, “Well, everything’s relative.” To Huenengarth: “Stop playing Junior G-man and give the man some data.”

Huenengarth glared some more. Turned to me. Looked at his coffee cup. Touched his mustache.

“This theory you have,” he told me, “about Charles Jones and George Plumb destroying the hospital — who’ve you discussed it with so far?”

“It’s not my theory. The entire staff thinks the administration’s screwing the place over.”

“The entire staff hasn’t taken it as far as you have. Who’ve you talked to besides Louis B. Cestare?”

I hid my surprise and my fear. “Lou’s not involved in this.”

Huenengarth half-smiled. “Unfortunately, he is, Doctor. A man in his position, all those links to the financial world — he could have turned out to be a knotty problem for me. Fortunately, he’s being cooperative. At this very moment. Conferring with one of my colleagues up in Oregon. My colleague says Mr. Cestare’s estate is quite lovely.”

Full smile. “Don’t worry, Doctor, we only bring out the thumbscrews as a last resort.”

Milo put down his coffee. “Why don’t you just cut to the chase, bucko?”

Huenengarth’s smile vanished. He sat up straighter and looked at Milo.

Silent stare.

Milo gave a disgusted look and drank coffee.

Huenengarth waited a while before turning back to me. “Is there anyone else you’ve spoken to in addition to Mr. Cestare? Not counting your girlfriend, Ms. — uh — Castagna. Don’t worry, Doctor. From what I know about her, she isn’t likely to leak a story to The Wall Street Journal.”

“What the hell do you want?” I said.

“The names of anyone you’ve included in your fantasy. Specifically, people with business connections or a reason to harbor a grudge against Jones or Plumb.”

I glanced at Milo. He nodded, though he didn’t look happy.

“Just one other person,” I said. “A doctor who used to work at Western Peds. Now he lives in Florida. But I didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know and we didn’t go into any details—”

“Dr. Lynch,” said Huenengarth.

I swore. “What’d you do, tap my phone?”

“No, that wasn’t necessary. Dr. Lynch and I talk once in a while. Have been talking for a while.”

“He tipped you off?”

“Let’s not get sidetracked, Dr. Delaware. The main thing is you told me about speaking to him. That’s good. Admirably frank. I also like the way you wrestled with it. Moral dilemmas mean something to you — I don’t get to see that too often. So now I trust you more than when I walked into this room, and that’s good for both of us.”

“Gee, I’m touched,” I said. “What’s my reward? Learning your real name?”

“Cooperation. Maybe we can be mutually helpful. To Cassie Jones.”

“How can you help her?”

He folded his arms across his barrel chest. “Your theory — the entire staff’s theory — is appealing. For a one-hour TV episode. Greedy capitalists sucking the lifeblood out of a beloved institution; the good guys come in and clean it up; cut to commercial.”

“Who’re the good guys here?”

He put a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt, Doctor.”

“What are you, FBI?”

“A different collection of letters — it wouldn’t mean anything to you. Let’s get back to your theory: appealing, but wrong. Do you remember Cestare’s first reaction when you floated it by him?”

“He said it was unlikely.”

“Why?”

“Because Chuck Jones was a builder, not a destroyer.”

“Ah.”

“But then he looked up Plumb’s job history and found out companies he’s been associated with tend not to live long. So maybe Jones has changed his style and is going for slash and burn.”

“Plumb is a slash-and-burn man,” he said. “Got a long history of setting up companies for raiders, then taking fat commissions on the buy-out. But those were companies backed up by assets that made them worth plundering. Where’s the incentive to destroy a nonprofit money-loser like Western Pediatrics? Where are the assets, Doctor?”

“The real estate the hospital sits on, for a start.”

“The real estate.” Another headshake, accompanied by a finger wag. The guy had a definite tutorial bent. “As a matter of fact, the land is owned by the city and leased to the hospital under a ninety-nine-year contract, the contract’s renewable for another ninety-nine at the hospital’s request, and the rent’s a dollar a year. Public record — look it up at the assessor’s office, just as I did.”

“You’re not here because Jones and his gang are innocents,” I said. “What are they after?”

He moved forward on his chair. “Think convertible assets, Doctor. A massive supply of high-quality stocks and bonds at Chuck Jones’s disposal.”

“The hospital’s investment portfolio — Jones manages it. What’s he doing, skimming?”

Yet another headshake. “Proximate but no panatela, Doctor. Though that’s also a reasonable assumption. As it turns out, the hospital’s portfolio is a joke. Thirty years of dipping into it to balance the operating budget has stripped it down to bare bones. In fact, Chuck Jones has built it up some — he’s a very savvy investor. But rising costs keep eating away at it. There’ll never be enough in there to make it worth fooling with — not at Jones’s level.”

“What’s his level?”

“Eight figures. Major-league financial manipulation. Fisk and Gould would have counted their fingers after shaking hands with Chuck Jones. His public image is that of a financial wizard and he’s even saved a few companies along the way. But it’s his plundering that fuels it all. The man’s destroyed more businesses than the Bolsheviks.”

“So he’s a slash-and-burn man, too, as long as the price is high enough.”

Huenengarth looked up at the ceiling.

“Why doesn’t anyone know about it?” I said.

He scooted forward a bit more. Very little of him was touching the chair.

“They will soon,” he said quietly. “I’ve been on his trail for four and a half years and the end’s finally in sight. No one’s going to fuck it up — that’s why I need total discretion. I won’t get derailed. Understand?”

The pink of his neck had deepened to tomato-aspic. He fingered his collar, loosened his tie and opened it.

“He’s discreet,” he said. “Covers himself beautifully. But I’m going to beat him at his own game.”

“Covers himself how?”

“Layers of shadow corporations and holding companies, phony syndicates, foreign bank accounts. Literally hundreds of trading accounts, operating simultaneously. Plus battalions of lackeys like Plumb and Roberts and Novak, most of whom only know a small part of each picture. It’s a screen so effective that even people like Mr. Cestare don’t see through it. But when he falls, he’s going to fall hard, Doctor, I promise you. He’s made mistakes and I’ve got him in my sights.”

“So what’s he plundering at Western Peds?”

“You really don’t need to know the details.”

He picked up his coffee cup and drank.

I thought back to my conversation with Lou.

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

Could be any number of reasons... They wanted the company’s resources, rather than the company itself

What kinds of resources?

Hardware, investments, the pension fund...

“The doctors’ pension fund,” I said. “Jones manages that, too, doesn’t he?”

He put down the cup. “The hospital charter says it’s his responsibility.”

“What’s he done with it? Turned it into his personal cashbox?”

He said nothing.

Milo said, “Shit.”

“Something like that,” said Huenengarth, frowning.

“The pension fund is eight figures?” I said.

“A healthy eight.”

“Come on, how’s that possible?”

“Some luck, some skill, but mostly just the passage of time, Doctor. Ever calculate what a thousand dollars left in a five percent savings account for seventy years would be worth? Try it some time. The doctors’ pension fund is seventy years’ worth of blue chip stocks and corporate bonds that have increased ten, twenty, fifty, hundreds of times over, split and resplit dozens of times, and paid out dividends that are reinvested in the fund. Since World War Two the stock market’s been on a steady upward swing. The fund’s full of gems like IBM purchased at two dollars a share, Xerox at one. And, unlike a commercial investment fund, almost nothing goes out. The rules of the fund say it can’t be used for hospital expenses, so the only outflow is payments to doctors who retire. And that’s only a trickle, because the rules also minimize payments to anyone who leaves before twenty-five years.”

“The actuarial structure,” I said, remembering what Al Macauley had said about not collecting any pension. “Anyone who leaves before a certain period gets paid nothing.”

He gave an enthusiastic nod. The student was finally getting things right.

“It’s called the fractional rule, Doctor. Most pension funds are set up that way — supposedly to reward loyalty. When the medical school agreed to contribute to the fund seventy years ago, it stipulated that a doctor who left before five years wouldn’t get a penny. Same goes for one who leaves after any time period and continues to work as a physician at a comparable salary. Doctors are very employable, so those two groups account for over eighty-nine percent of cases. Of the remaining eleven percent, very few doctors serve out the full twenty-five and qualify for full pension. But the money paid into the fund for every doctor who’s ever worked at the hospital stays right there, earning interest.”

“Who contributes besides the med school?”

“You were on staff there. Didn’t you read your benefits package?”

“Psychologists weren’t included in the fund.”

“Yes, you’re right. It does stipulate M.D. Well, count yourself lucky to be a Ph.D.”

“Who contributes?” I repeated.

“The hospital kicks in the rest.”

“The doctors don’t pay anything?”

“Not a penny. That’s why they accepted such strict regulations. But it was very shortsighted. For most of them, the pension’s worthless.”

“Stacked deck,” I said. “Giving Jones an eight-figure cashbox — that’s why he’s making the staff’s lives miserable. He doesn’t want to destroy the hospital — he wants to keep it limping along with no doctor staying very long. Keep turnover high — staff leaving before five years or when they’re young enough to get comparable jobs. The pension keeps accruing dividends, he doesn’t have to pay out, and he’s able to rape the surplus.”

He nodded with passion. “Gang rape, Doctor. It’s happening all over the country. There are over nine hundred thousand corporate pension funds in the U.S. Two trillion dollars held in trust for eighty million workers. When this last bull market created billions of dollars of surplus, corporations got Congress to ease up on how surpluses can be used. The money’s now considered a company asset, rather than the property of the workers. Last year alone, the sixty largest corporations in the U.S. had sixty billion dollars to play around with. Some companies have started buying insurance policies so they can use the principal. It’s part of what fueled the whole takeover mania — pension status is one of the first things raiders look at when they choose their targets. They dissolve the company, use the surplus to buy the next company, and dissolve it. And so on and so on. People get thrown out of jobs — too bad.”

“Getting rich with other people’s money.”

“Without having to create any goods or services. Plus, once you start thinking you own something, it gets easier to bend the rules. Illegal pension manipulations have skyrocketed — embezzlement, taking personal loans out of the fund, awarding management contracts to cronies and taking kickbacks while the cronies charge outrageous management fees — that’s organized crime’s contribution. Up in Alaska we had a situation where the mob cleaned out a union fund and workers lost every cent. Companies have also changed the rules in the middle of the game by switching over to defined-contribution plans. Instead of monthly payments the retiree gets one lump sum based on his life expectancy, and the company buys itself predictability. It’s legal, for the time being, but it defeats the whole purpose of pensions — old-age security for working people. Your average blue-collar guy doesn’t have any idea how to invest. Only five percent ever do. Most defined-benefit payouts get frittered away on miscellaneous expenses, and the worker’s left high and dry.”

“Surpluses,” I said. “Bull markets. What happens when the economy slows, like right now?”

“If the company goes belly-up and the plan’s been looted, the workers have to collect from any private insurance companies that hold paper. There’s also a federal fund — PBGC. Pension Benefits Guarantee Corporation. But just like FDIC and FSLIC, it’s grossly underfunded. If enough companies with looted plans start folding, you’ll have a crisis that’ll make the S and L thing look like a picnic. But even with PBGC functioning, it can take years for a worker to collect on a claim. The employees with the most to lose are the oldest and sickest — the loyal ones who gave their lives to the company. People go on welfare, waiting. Die.”

His whole face had gone red and his hands were big mottled fists.

“Is the doctors’ fund in jeopardy?” I said.

“Not yet. As Mr. Cestare told you, Jones saw Black Monday coming and turned mega-profits. The hospital board of directors loves him.”

“Building up his cashbox, for future plundering?”

“No, he’s plundering right now. As he’s putting dollars in, he’s slipping them out.”

“How can he get away with it?”

“He’s the only one who’s got a handle on each and every transaction — the total picture. He’s also using the fund as leverage for personal purchases. Parking stock in it, merging fund accounts with his own — moving money around hourly. Playing with it. He buys and sells under scores of aliases that change daily. Hundreds of transactions daily.”

“Lots of commission for him?”

“Lots. Plus, it makes it incredibly difficult to keep track of him.”

“But you have.”

He nodded, still flushed — the hunter’s glow. “It’s taken me four and a half years but I’ve finally gained access to his data banks, and so far, he doesn’t know it. There’s no reason for him to suspect he’s being watched, because normally the government doesn’t pay any attention to nonprofit pension funds. If he hadn’t made some mistakes with some of the corporations he killed, he’d be home free, in fiduciary heaven.”

“What kinds of mistakes?”

“Not important,” Huenengarth barked.

I stared at him.

He forced himself to smile and held out one hand. “The point is, his shell’s finally cracked and I’m prying it open — getting exquisitely close to shattering it. It’s a crucial moment, Doctor. That’s why I get cranky when people start following me. Understand? Now, are you satisfied?”

“Not really.”

He stiffened. “What’s your problem?”

“A couple of murders, for starts. Why did Laurence Ashmore and Dawn Herbert die?”

“Ashmore,” he said, shaking his head. “Ashmore was a weird bird. A doctor who actually understood economics and had the technical skills to put his knowledge to use. He got rich, and like most rich people he started to believe he was smarter than anyone else. So smart he didn’t have to pay his share of taxes. He got away with it for a while, but the IRS finally caught on. He could’ve gone to jail for a long time. So I helped him.”

“Go west, young swindler,” I said. “He was your hacker into Jones’s data, wasn’t he? The perfect wedge — an M.D. who doesn’t see patients. Was his degree real?”

“Hundred percent.”

“You bought him a job with a million-dollar grant, plus overhead. Basically, the hospital got paid to hire him.”

He gave a satisfied smile. “Greed. Works every time.”

“You’re IRS?” I said.

Still smiling, he shook his head. “Very occasionally, one tentacle strokes the other.”

“What’d you do? Just put your order in to the IRS? Give me a physician in tax trouble who also has computer skills — and they filled it?”

“It wasn’t that simple. Finding someone like Ashmore took a long time. And finding him was one of the factors that helped convince... my superiors to fund my project.”

“Your superiors,” I said. “The Ferris Dixon Institute for Chemical Research — FDIC. What does the R stand for?”

“Rip-off. It was Ashmore’s idea of a joke — everything was a game with him. What he really wanted was something that conformed to PBGC — the Paul Bowles Garden Club was his favorite. He prided himself on being literary. But I convinced him to be subtle.”

“Who’s Professor Walter William Zimberg? Your boss? Another hacker?”

“No one,” he said. “Literally.”

“He doesn’t exist?”

“Not in any real sense.”

“Munchausen man,” Milo muttered.

Huenengarth shot him a sharp look.

I said, “He’s got an office at the University of Maryland. I spoke to his secretary.”

He lifted his cup, took a long time drinking.

I said, “Why was it so important for Ashmore to work out of the hospital?”

“Because that’s where Jones’s main terminal is. I wanted him to have direct access to Jones’s hardware and software.”

“Jones is using the hospital as a business center? He told me he doesn’t have an office there.”

“Technically that’s true. You won’t see his name on any door. But his apparatus is buried within some of the space he’s taken away from the doctors.”

“Down in the sub-basement?”

“Let’s just say buried deeply. Somewhere hard to find. As head of Security, I made sure of that.”

“Getting yourself in must have been quite a challenge.”

No answer.

“You still haven’t answered me,” I said. “Why’d Ashmore die?”

“I don’t know. Yet.”

“What’d he do?” I said. “Make an end-run around you? Use what he’d learned working for you to extort money from Chuck Jones?”

He licked his lips. “It’s possible. The data he collected are still being analyzed.”

“By whom?”

“People.”

“What about Dawn Herbert? Was she in on it?”

“I don’t know what her game was,” he said. “Don’t know if she had one.”

His frustration seemed real.

I said, “Then why’d you chase down her computer disks?”

“Because Ashmore was interested in them. After we started to decode his files, her name came up.”

“In what context?”

“He’d made a coded notation to take her seriously. Called her a ‘negative integer’ — his term for someone suspicious. But she was already dead.”

“What else did he say about her?”

“That’s all we’ve gotten so far. He put everything in code — complex codes. It’s taking time to unravel them.”

“He was your boy,” I said. “Didn’t he leave you the keys?”

“Only some of them.” Anger narrowed the round eyes.

“So you stole her disks.”

“Not stole, appropriated. They were mine. She compiled them while working for Ashmore, and Ashmore worked for me, so legally they’re my property.”

He blurted the last two words. The possessiveness of a kid with a new toy.

I said, “This isn’t just a job with you, is it?”

His gaze flicked across the room and back to me. “That’s exactly what it is. I just happen to love my work.”

“So you have no idea why Herbert was murdered.”

He shrugged. “The police say it was a sex killing.”

“Do you think it was?”

“I’m not a policeman.”

“No?” I said, and the look in his eyes made me go on. “I’ll bet you were some kind of cop before you went back to school. Before you learned to talk like a business school professor.”

He gave another eye-flick, quick and sharp as a switchblade. “What’s this, free psychoanalysis?”

“Business administration,” I said. “Or maybe economics.”

“I’m a humble civil servant, Doctor. Your taxes pay my salary.”

“Humble civil servant with a false identity and over a million dollars of phony grant money,” I said. “You’re Zimberg, aren’t you? But that’s probably not your real name, either. What does the ‘B’ on Stephanie’s note pad stand for?”

He stared at me, stood, walked around the room. Touched a picture frame. The hair on his crown was thinning.

“Four and a half years,” I said. “You’ve given up a lot to catch him.”

He didn’t answer but his neck tightened.

“What’s Stephanie’s involvement in all this?” I said. “Besides true love.”

He turned and faced me, flushed again. Not anger this time — embarrassment. A teenager caught necking.

“Why don’t you ask her?” he said softly.

She was in a car parked at the mouth of my driveway, dark Buick Regal, just behind the hedges, out of sight from the terrace. A dot of light darted around the interior like a trapped firefly.

Penlight. Stephanie sat in the front passenger seat, using it to read. Her window was open. She wore a gold choker that caught starlight, and had put on perfume.

“Evening,” I said.

She looked up, closed the book, and pushed the door open. As the penlight clicked off, the dome-light switched on, highlighting her as if she were a soloist onstage. Her dress was shorter than usual. I thought: heavy date. Her beeper sat on the dashboard.

She scooted over into the driver’s seat. I sat where she’d just been. The vinyl was warm.

When the car was dark again, she said, “Sorry for not telling you, but he needs secrecy.”

“What do you call him, Pres or Wally?”

She bit her lip. “Bill.”

“As in Walter William.”

She frowned. “It’s his nickname — his friends call him that.”

“He didn’t tell me. Guess I’m not his friend.”

She looked out the windshield and took hold of the wheel. “Look, I know I misled you a bit, but it’s personal. What I do with my private life is really none of your concern, okay?”

“Misled me a bit? Mr. Spooky’s your main squeeze. What else haven’t you told me about?”

“Nothing — nothing to do with the case.”

“That so? He says he can help Cassie. So why didn’t you get him to pitch in sooner?”

She put her hands on the steering wheel. “Shit.”

A moment later: “It’s complicated.”

“I’ll bet it is.”

“Look,” she said, nearly shouting, “I told you he was spooky because that’s the image he wants to project, okay? It’s important that he be seen as a bad guy to get the job done. What he’s doing is important, Alex. As important as medicine. He’s been working on it for a long time.”

“Four and a half years,” I said. “I’ve heard all about the noble quest. Is getting you in as division head part of the master plan?”

She turned and faced me. “I don’t have to answer that. I deserve that promotion. Rita’s a dinosaur, for God’s sake. She’s been coasting on her reputation for years. Let me tell you a story: A couple of months ago we were doing rounds up on Five East. Someone had eaten a McDonald’s hamburger at the nursing station and left the box up on the counter — one of those Styrofoam boxes for takeout? With the arches embossed right on it? Rita picks it up and asks what it is. Everyone thought she was kidding. Then we realized she wasn’t. McDonald’s, Alex. That’s how out of touch she is. How can she relate to our patient mix?”

“What does that have to do with Cassie?”

Stephanie held her book next to her, like body armor. My night-accustomed eyes made out the title. Pediatric Emergencies.

“Light reading?” I said. “Or career advancement?”

“Damn you!” She grabbed the door handle. Let go. Sank back. “Sure it’d be good for him if I was head — the more friends he can get close to them, the better chance he has of picking up more information to nail them with. So what’s wrong with that? If he doesn’t get them, there’ll be no hospital at all, soon.”

“Friends?” I said. “You sure he knows what that means? Laurence Ashmore worked for him, too, and he doesn’t speak very fondly of him.”

“Ashmore was a jerk — an obnoxious little schmuck.”

“Thought you didn’t know him very well.”

“I didn’t — didn’t have to. I told you how he treated me — how blasé he was when I needed help.”

“Whose idea was it to have him review Chad’s chart in the first place? Yours? Or Bill’s? Trying to dish up some additional dirt on the Joneses?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Be nice to know if we’re doing medicine or politics here.”

“What’s the difference, Alex? What’s the damned difference! The important thing is results. Yes, he’s my friend. Yes, he’s helped me a lot, so if I want to help him back, that’s okay! What’s wrong with that! Our goals are consistent!”

“Then why not help Cassie?” Shouting myself. “I’m sure the two of you have discussed her! Why put her through one more second of misery if Mr. Helpful can put an end to it?”

She cowered. Her back was up against the driver’s door. “What the hell do you want from me? Perfection? Well, sorry, I can’t fill that bill. I tried that — it’s a short road to misery. So just lay off, okay? Okay?”

She began to cry.

I said, “Forget it. Let’s just concentrate on Cassie.”

“I am,” she said in a small voice. “Believe me, Alex, I am concentrating on her — always have been. We couldn’t do anything, because we didn’t know — had to be sure. That’s why I called you in. Bill didn’t want me to, but I insisted on that. I put my foot down — I really did.”

I kept silent.

“I needed your help to find out,” she said. “To know for sure that Cindy was really doing it to her. Then Bill could help. At that point, we could confront them.”

“Then?” I said. “Or were you just waiting until Bill gave the signal? Until his plan was in place and he was ready to take down the whole family?”

“No! He... We just wanted to do it in a way that would... be effective. Just jumping in and accusing them wouldn’t be...”

“Strategic?”

“Effective! Or ethical — it wouldn’t be the right thing. What if she wasn’t guilty?”

“Something organic? Something metabolic?”

“Why not! I’m a doctor, dammit, not God. How the hell could I know? Just because Chuck’s a piece of slime didn’t mean Cindy was! I wasn’t sure, dammit! Getting to the bottom of it is your job — that’s why I called you in.”

“Thanks for the referral.”

“Alex,” she said plaintively, “why are you making this so painful for me? You know the kind of doctor I am.

She sniffed and rubbed her eyes.

I said, “Since you called me in, I feel I’ve been running a maze.”

“Me too. You think it’s easy having meetings with those sleazeballs and pretending to be their little stooge? Plumb thinks his hand was created in order to rest on my knee.”

She grimaced and pulled her dress lower. “You think it’s easy being with a bunch of docs, passing Bill in the hall and hearing what they say about him? Look, I know he’s not your idea of a nice guy, but you. don’t really know him. He’s good. He helped me.”

She looked out the driver’s window. “I had a problem... You don’t need to know the details. Oh, hell, why not? I had a drinking problem, okay?”

“Okay.”

She turned around quickly. “You’re not surprised? Did I show it — did I act pathologic?”

“No, but it happens to nice people too.”

“I never showed it at all?”

“You’re not exactly a drooling drunk.”

“No.” She laughed. “More like a comatose drunk, just like my mom — good old genetics.”

She laughed again. Squeezed the steering wheel.

“Now my dad,” she said, “there was your angry drunk. And my brother, Tom, he was a genteel drunk. Witty, charming — very Noel Cowardish. Everyone loved it when he’d had a few too many. He was an industrial designer, much smarter than me. Artistic, creative. He died two years ago of cirrhosis. He was thirty-eight.”

She shrugged. “I postponed becoming an alcoholic for a while — always the contrary kid. Then, during my internship, I finally decided to join the family tradition. Binges on the day off. I was really good at it, Alex. I knew how to clean up just in time to look clever-and-together on rounds. But then I started to slip. Got my timing mixed up. Timing’s always a tricky thing when you’re a closet lush... A few years ago I got busted for drunk driving. Caused an accident. Isn’t that a pretty picture? Imagine if I’d killed someone, Alex. Killed a kid. Pediatrician turns toddler into road pizza — what a headline.”

She cried again. Dried her eyes so hard it looked as if she were hitting herself.

“Shit, enough with the self-pity — my AA buddies always used to get on me for that. I did AA for a year. Then I broke away from it — no spare time and I was doing fine, right? Then last year, with all the stress — some personal things that didn’t work out — I started again. Those teeny little bottles you get on airplanes? I picked some up on a flight, coming home from an AMA convention. Just a nip before bed. Then a few more... then I started taking the little buggers to the office. For that mellow moment at the end of the day. But I was cool, always careful to put the empties back in my purse, leave no evidence. See, I’m good at subterfuge. You didn’t know that about me till now, did you? But I got you, too, didn’t I? Oh, shit!”

She hit the wheel, then rested her head on it.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Forget it.”

“Sure, it is. It’s okay, it’s great, it’s terrific, it’s wonderful... One night — a really shitty one, sick kids up the wazoo — I polished off a bunch of little bottles and passed out at my desk. Bill was making a security check and found me at three in the morning. I’d vomited all over my charts. When I saw him standing over me I thought I was going to die. But he held me and cleaned me up and took me home — took care of me, Alex. No one ever did that for me. I was always taking care of my mother because she was always...”

She rolled her brow on the steering wheel.

“It’s because of him that I’m pulling it together. Did you notice all the weight I’ve lost? My hair?”

“You look great.”

“I learned how to dress, Alex. Because it finally mattered. Bill bought me my coffee machine. He understood, because his family was also... His dad was a real nasty drunk. Weekend lush, but he held down a job in the same factory for twenty-five years. Then the company got taken over and dissolved, and his dad lost his job, and they found out the pension fund had been looted. Completely stripped. His dad couldn’t find another job and drank himself to death. Bled out, right in his bed. Bill was in high school. He came home from football practice and found him. Do you see why he understands? Why he needs to do what he’s doing?”

“Sure,” I said, wondering how much of the story was true. Thinking of the Identikit face of the man seen walking into the darkness with Dawn Herbert.

“He raised his mom, too,” she said. “He’s a natural problem solver. That’s why he became a cop, why he took the time to go back to school and learn about finance. He has a Ph.D., Alex. It took him ten years because he was working.” She lifted her head and her profile was transformed by a smile. “But don’t try calling him Doctor.”

“Who’s Presley Huenengarth?”

She hesitated.

“Another state secret?” I said.

“It... Okay, I’ll tell you because I want you to trust me. And it’s no big deal. Presley was a friend of his when he was a kid. A little boy who died of a brain tumor when he was eight years old. Bill used his identity because it was safe — there was nothing on file but a birth certificate, and the two of them were the same age, so it was perfect.”

She sounded breathless — excited — and I knew “Bill” and his world had offered her more than just succor.

“Please, Alex,” she said, “can we just forget all this and work together? I know about the insulin injectors — your friend told Bill. You see, he trusts him. Let’s put our heads together and get her. Bill will help us.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, but he will. You’ll see.”

She hooked her beeper over her belt and the two of us went back up to the house. Milo was still on the couch. Huenengarth/Zimberg/Bill was standing across the room, in a corner, leafing through a magazine.

Stephanie said, “Hi, guys,” in a too-chirpy voice.

Huenengarth closed the magazine, took her by the elbow, and seated her in a chair. Pulling another one close to her, he sat down. She didn’t take her eyes off him. He moved his arm as if to touch her, but unbuttoned his jacket instead.

“Where are Dawn Herbert’s disks?” I said. “And don’t tell me it’s not relevant, because I’ll bet you it is. Herbert may or may not have latched on to what Ashmore was doing for you, but I’m pretty sure she had suspicions about the Jones kids. Speaking of which, have you found Chad’s chart?”

“Not yet.”

“What about the disks?”

“I just sent them over to be analyzed.”

“Do the people analyzing even know what they’re looking at? The random number table?”

He nodded. “It’s probably a substitution code — shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”

“You haven’t unscrambled all of Ashmore’s numbers yet. What makes you think you’ll do better with Herbert’s?”

He looked at Stephanie and gave another half-smile. “I like this guy.”

Her return smile was nervous.

“Man raises a good point,” said Milo.

“Ashmore was a special case,” said Huenengarth. “Real puzzle-freak, high IQ.”

“Herbert wasn’t?”

“Not from what I’ve learned about her.”

“Which is?”

“Just what you know,” he said. “Some smarts in math, but basically she was a klepto and a lowlife — doper and a loser.”

As he spat out each noun, Stephanie flinched. He noticed it, turned and touched her hand briefly, let go.

“If something comes up on the disk that concerns you,” he said, “rest assured I’ll let you know.”

“We need to know now. Herbert’s information could give us some direction.” I turned to Milo. “Did you tell him about our friend the bartender?”

Milo nodded.

“Everything?”

“Don’t bother being subtle,” said Huenengarth. “I saw the masterpiece your junkie bartender produced and no, it’s not me. I don’t hack up women.”

“What are you talking about?” said Stephanie.

“Stupidity,” he told her. “They’ve got a description of a murder suspect — someone who may or may not have murdered this Herbert character — and they thought it bore a resemblance to yours truly.”

She put her hand to her mouth.

He laughed. “Not even close, Steph. Last time I was that thin was back in high school.” To me: “Can we get to work now?”

“I’ve never stopped,” I said. “Do you have any information on Vicki Bottomley?”

Huenengarth waved a hand at Milo. “Tell him.”

“We’ve done phone traces from her home to the Jones house and Chip’s office.”

“We?” said Huenengarth.

“Him,” said Milo. “Federal warrant. Next week he sprouts a fucking pair of wings.”

“Find anything?” I said.

Milo shook his head. “No calls. And none of Bottomley’s neighbors have seen Cindy or Chip around, so if there is a link, it’s pretty damn hidden. My intuition is she’s got nothing to do with it. She’s certainly not the main poisoner. Once the chips fall, we’ll see if she fits in, anywhere.”

“So where do we go now?”

Milo looked at Huenengarth. Huenengarth looked at me and held his hand out toward the couch.

“Been sitting all day,” I said.

He frowned and touched his tie. Stared at everyone else.

Milo said, “Any more federal doublespeak and I’m outa here.”

“All right,” said Huenengarth. “First, I want to reiterate my demand of total discretion — total cooperation from both of you. No improvisation. I mean it.”

“In return for what?” I said.

“Probably enough technical support to bust Cindy. Because I’ve got federal warrants on Chuck Jones, and with a two-minute phone call I can include Junior and everything he owns in the deal. We’re talking audio, video, home, place of business — they go bowling, I can have someone peeking from behind the pins. Give me two hours alone in their house and I can rig it with peep-toys you wouldn’t believe. Got a camera that goes right in their TV so when they’re watching it, it’s watching them. I can toss the house for insulin or whatever crap you’re looking for and they’ll never know it. All you have to do is keep your mouths shut.”

“Cassie’s room is the one that needs to be rigged,” I said. “And the bathroom connecting it to the master bedroom.”

“Tile walls in the bathroom?”

“Tile walls and one window.”

“No problem — whatever toys I don’t have at hand, I can have delivered in twenty-four hours.”

Milo said, “Your tax dollars busy at work.”

Huenengarth frowned. “Sometimes they are.”

I wondered if he knew what a joke was. Stephanie didn’t care if he did; her expression said he danced on water.

“I’ve got a meeting scheduled at the house tomorrow night,” I said. “I’ll try to change it to the hospital. Can you have your equipment ready by then?”

“Probably. If not, it will be soon after — day or two. But can you assure me the house will be totally empty? I’m ready to pounce on Daddy, I can’t afford any screwups.”

I said to Stephanie, “Why don’t you call Chip and Cindy in for a meeting? Tell them something came up on the lab tests, you need to examine Cassie and then speak with them. Once they get there, make sure they stay for a long time.”

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll keep them waiting, tell them the labs got lost or something.”

“Action, camera,” said Huenengarth.

“How come you can get Chip included in the warrant?” I asked him. “Is he involved in his father’s financial dealings?”

No answer.

I said, “I thought we were being frank.”

“He’s a sleaze, too,” Huenengarth said, irritated.

“The fifty parcels he owns? Is that really one of Chuck’s deals?”

He shook his head. “The land deal’s for shit — Chuck’s too smart for that. Junior’s a loser, can’t hold on to a dollar. Gone through plenty of Daddy’s already.”

“What’s he spending it on besides land?” I said. “His life-style’s pretty ordinary.”

“Sure, on the surface it is. But that’s just part of the image: Mr. Self-made. It’s a crock. That dinky junior college he teaches at pays him twenty-four thousand a year — think you can buy a house in Watts on that, let alone that entire tract? Not that he owns it, anymore.”

“Who does?”

“The bank that financed the deal.”

“Foreclosure?”

“Any minute.” Big smile. “Daddy bought the land at a bargain price, years ago. Gave it to Junior, the idea being that Junior would sell at the right time and get rich on his own. He even told Junior when the right time was, but Junior didn’t listen.”

The smile became a lottery-winner’s grin. “Not the first time, either. Back when Junior was at Yale, he started his own business: competition with Cliff Notes because he could do it better. Daddy bankrolled him, hundred thousand or so. Down the drain, because apart from its being a harebrained scheme, Junior lost interest. That’s his pattern. He has a problem with finishing things. A few years later, when he was in graduate school, he decided he was going to be a publisher — start a sociology magazine for the lay public. Another quarter of a million of Daddy’s dough. There’ve been others, all along the same lines. By my calculation, around a million or so urinated away, not including the land. Not much by Daddy’s standards, but you’d figure someone with half a brain could do something constructive with that kind of grubstake, right? Not Junior. He’s too creative.”

“What went wrong with the land?” I said.

“Nothing, but we’re in a recession and property values dropped. Instead of cashing in and cutting his losses, Junior decided to go into the construction business. Daddy knew it was stupid and refused to bankroll it, so Junior went out and got a loan from a bank using Daddy’s name as collateral. Junior lost interest as usual, the subcontractors saw they had a real chicken on their hands and started plucking. Those houses are built like garbage.”

“Six phases,” I said, remembering the architectural rendering. “Not much completed.”

“Maybe half of one phase. The plan was for an entire city. Junior’s own personal Levittown.” He laughed. “You should see the proposal he wrote up when he sent it to Daddy. Like a term paper — delusions of grandeur. No doubt the bank’ll go to Daddy first, before taking over the deed. And Daddy may just divvy up. Because he loves Junior, tells everyone who’ll listen what a scholar his baby boy is — another joke. Junior changed his major a bunch of times in college. Didn’t finish his Ph.D. — the old boredom thing.”

“One thing he has stuck with is teaching,” I said. “And he seems to be good at it — he’s won awards.”

Huenengarth let his tongue protrude through his small lips as he shook his head. “Yeah. Formal Organizations, New Age Management Techniques. We’re talking Marxist theory and rock ’n’ roll. He’s an entertainer. I’ve got tapes of his lectures, and basically what he does is pander to the students. Lots of anti-capitalist rhetoric, the evils of corporate corruption. You don’t have to be Freud to figure that one out, right? He likes rubbing the old man’s face in it — even the wife’s part of that program, wouldn’t you say?”

“In what way?”

“C’mon, Doctor. Milo, here, told me you found out about her military career. The woman’s a slut. A lowlife loser. On top of what she’s doing to the kid. Can’t exactly be what the old man had in mind for Junior.”

He grinned. Scarlet again, and sweating heavily. Nearly levitating off his chair in rage and delight. His hatred was tangible, poisonous. Stephanie felt it; her eyes were thrilled.

“What about Chip’s mother?” I said. “How did she die?”

He shrugged. “Suicide. Sleeping pills. Entire family’s fucked up. Though I can’t say I blame her. Don’t imagine living with Chuck was any barrel of primates. He’s been known to play around — likes ’em in groups of three or four, young, chesty, blond, borderline intelligence.”

I said, “You’d like to get all of them, wouldn’t you?”

“I’ve got no use for them,” he said quickly. Then he got up, took a few steps, turned his back on us, and stretched.

“So,” he said. “Let’s aim for tomorrow. You get ’em out, we move in and play Captain Video.”

“Great, Bill,” said Stephanie. Her beeper went off. She removed it from her belt and examined the digital readout. “Where’s your phone, Alex?”

I walked her into the kitchen and hung around as she punched numbers.

“This is Dr. Eves. I just got... What?... When?... All right, give me the resident on call... Jim? This is Stephanie. What’s up?... Yes, yes, there’s a history of that. It’s all in the chart... Absolutely, keep that drip going. Sounds like you’re doing everything right, but get me a full tox panel, stat. Make sure to check for hypoglycemic metabolites. Check all over for puncture wounds, too, but don’t let on, okay? It’s important, Jim. Please... Thanks. And keep her totally isolated. No one goes in... Especially not them... What?... Out in the hall. Leave the drapes open so they can see her, but no one goes inside... I don’t care... I know. Let it be on my head, Jim... What?... No. Keep her in ICU. Even if things lighten up... I don’t care, Jim. Find a bed somewhere. This one’s crucial... What?... Soon. Soon as I can — maybe an hour. Just — What?... Yes, I will... Okay. Thanks. I owe you.”

She hung up. Her face was white and her chest heaved.

“Again,” I said.

She looked past me. Held her head.

“Again,” she said. “This time she’s unconscious.”