Devil's Waltz Read Online Free PDF Page A

chart and went over it with a fine-tooth comb. But there was nothing iffy. Rita’s ongoing notes were good — he was perfectly healthy before he died and the autopsy was inconclusive, as so many of them are. Now here I am with a living, breathing child and I can’t do a thing to help
her
.”
    “Sounds like you’re doing everything you can.”
    “Trying, but it’s so damned frustrating.”
    I said, “What about the father? We haven’t talked about him.”
    “I don’t really have a good feel for him. Mother’s clearly the primary caretaker and it’s her I’ve been dealing with most of the time. Once I started to think of it as a possible Munchausen by proxy, she seemed especially important to focus on, because aren’t mothers always the ones?”
    “Yes,” I said, “but in some cases the father turns out to be a passive accomplice. Any sign he suspects something?”
    “If he has, he hasn’t told me. He doesn’t seem especially passive — nice enough. So is she, for that matter. They’re both nice, Alex. That’s one of the things that makes it so difficult.”
    “Typical Munchausen scenario. The nurses probably love them.”
    She nodded.
    “What’s the other?” I said.
    “The other what?”
    “Thing that makes it so difficult.”
    She closed her eyes and rubbed them and took a long time to answer.
    “The other thing,” she said, “and this may sound horribly cold-hearted and political, is who they
are
. Socially. Politically. The child’s full name is Cassie Brooks
Jones
— set off any buzzers?”
    “No,” I said. “Jones isn’t exactly memorable.”
    “Jones, as in Charles L. Junior. Hotshot financier? The hospital’s primary money manager?”
    “Don’t know him.”
    “That’s right — you don’t read your newsletters. Well, as of eight months ago he’s also chairman of the board. There was a big shake-up.”
    “The budget?”
    “What else. Anyway, here’s the genealogy: Charles Junior’s only son is Charles the Third — like royalty. He goes by
Chip
— Cassie’s daddy. The mom is Cindy. The dead son was Chad — Charles the Fourth.”
    “All
C
s,” I said. “Sounds like they like order.”
    “Whatever. The main thing is, Cassie is Charles Junior’s only
grandchild
. Isn’t that wonderful, Alex? Here I am with a potential Munchausen by proxy that could explode in everyone’s face, and the patient’s the only grandchild of the guy who took away the free coffee.”
     
3
     
    We got up from the table and she said, “If you don’t mind, we can take the stairs up.”
    “Morning aerobics? Sure.”
    “You hit thirty-five,” she said, smoothing her dress and buttoning her white coat, “and the old basal metabolism goes to hell. Got to work hard not to be lumpy. Plus, the elevators still move on Valium Standard Time.”
    We walked toward the cafeteria’s main exit. The tables were completely empty now. A brown-uniformed maintenance worker was wet-mopping the floor, and we had to step gingerly to maintain traction.
    I said, “The elevator I took to your office was converted to key lock. Why the need for all the security?”
    “The official line is crime prevention,” she said. “Keeping all the street craziness out of here. Which to some extent is valid — there
have
been increased problems, mostly during the night shift. But can you remember a time when East Hollywood didn’t get bad after dark?”
    We reached the door. Another maintenance man was locking it and when he saw us, he gave a world-weary look and held it open for us.
    Stephanie said, “Reduced hours — another budget cut.”
    Out in the hallway, things had gotten frantic. Doctors blew past in boisterous groups, filling the air with fast talk. Families traipsed through, wheeling doll-sized veteran journeyors to and from the ordeals wrought by science.
    A silent crowd was assembled at the elevator doors, clumped like human droplets, waiting for any of three lifts that had settled simultaneously on