Devil's Waltz (47 page)

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?”