Devil's Waltz Part 16

He put his cup down, reached into a hip pocket, and pulled out an Indian silver money clasp inlaid with an irregular turquoise. Twenty-dollar bill on the outside, credit cards and a.s.sorted papers underneath. Removing the entire wad, he shuffled through it and found a white business card. Placing it on the table, he retrieved a blue Bic from another pocket and wrote something on the card, then handed it to me.

Snarling tiger logo, WVCC TYGERS circling it. Below that: WEST VALLEY COMMUNITY COLLEGE.

DEPARTMENT OF SOCIAL SCIENCES.

(818) 5093476

Two lines at the bottom. He'd filled them in using dark block letters: CHIP JONES.

EXT. 23 59.

"If I'm in cla.s.s," he said, "this'll connect you to the message center. If you want me around when you come visiting at the house, try to give me a day's notice."

Before I could reply, heavy rapid footsteps from the far end of the hall made both of us turn. A figure came toward us. Athletic gait, dark jacket.

Black leather jacket. Blue slacks and hat. One of the rent-a-cops patrolling the halls of Pediatric Paradise for signs of evil?

He came closer. A mustachioed black man with a square face and brisk eyes. I got a look at his badge and realized he wasn't Security. LAPD. Three stripes. A sergeant.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, speaking softly but giving us the once-over. His name tag read PERKINS.

Chip said, "What is it?"

The cop read my badge. It seemed to confuse him. "You're a doctor?"

I nodded.

"How long have you gentlemen been out here in the hall?"

Chip said, "Five or ten minutes. What's wrong?"

Perkins's gaze shifted to Chip's chest, taking in the beard, then the earring. "You a doctor too?"

"He's a parent," I said. "Visiting his child."

"Got a visiting badge, sir?"

Chip pulled one out and held it in front of Perkins's face.

Perkins chewed his cheek and swung back to me. He gave off a barbershop scent. "Have either of you seen anything unusual?"

"Such as?" said Chip.

"Anything out of the ordinary, sir. Someone who doesn't belong."

"Doesn't belong," said Chip. "Like somebody healthy?"

Perkins's eyes became slits.

I said, "We haven't seen anything, Sergeant. It's been quiet. Why?"

Perkins said, "Thank you," and left. I watched him slowing for a moment as he pa.s.sed the pathology lab.

Chip and I took the stairs to the lobby. A crowd of night-shifters crowded the east end, pressing toward the gla.s.s doors that led outside. On the other side of the gla.s.s the darkness was cross-cut with the cherry-red pulse of police lights. White lights, too, refracting in starbursts.

Chip said, "What's going on?"

Without turning her head, a nurse nearby said, "Someone got attacked. In the parking lot."

"Attacked? By whom?"

The nurse looked at him, saw he was a civilian and moved away.

I looked around for a familiar face. None. Too many years.

A pale, thin orderly with short platinum hair and a white Fu Manchu said, "Enough, already," in a nasal voice. "All I want to do is go home."

Someone groaned a chorus.

Unintelligible whispers pa.s.sed through the lobby. I saw a uniform on the other side of the gla.s.s, blocking the door. A burst of radio talk leaked through from the outside. Lots of movement. A vehicle swung its lights toward the gla.s.s, then turned away and sped off. I read a flash of letters: AMBULANCE. But no blinkers or siren.

"Whyn't they just bring her in here?" said someone.

"Who says it's a her?"

A woman said, "It's always a her."

"Dinja hear? No howler," someone answered. "Probably not an emergency."

"Or maybe," said the blond man, "it's too late."

The crowd rippled like gel in a petri dish.

Someone said, "I tried to get out the back way but they had it blocked. I'm like, this sucks."

"I think I heard one of them say it was a doctor."

"Who?"

"That's all I heard."

Buzz. Whisper.

Chip said, "Wonderful." Turning abruptly, he began pushing his way toward the rear of the crowd, back into the hospital. Before I could say anything, he was gone.

Five minutes later, the gla.s.s door opened and the crowd surged forward. Sergeant Perkins slipped through and held out a tan palm. He looked like a subst.i.tute teacher before an unruly high school cla.s.s.

"Can I have your attention for a moment?" He waited for silence, finally settled for relative quiet. "An a.s.sault's occurred in your parking lot. We need you to file out one by one and answer some questions."

"What kind of a.s.sault?"

"Is he okay?"

"Who was it?"

"Was it a doctor?"

"Which lot did it happen in?"

Perkins did the slit-eye again. "Let's get this over with as quickly as possible, folks, and then you can all go home."

The man with the white Fu Manchu said, "How about telling us what happened so we can protect ourselves, Officer?"

Supportive rumblings.

Perkins said, "Let's just take it easy."

"No, you take it easy," said the blond man. "All you guys do is give jaywalking tickets out on the boulevard. Then, when something real happens, you ask your questions and disappear and leave us to clean up the mess."

Perkins didn't move or speak.

"Come on, man," said another man, black and stooped, in a nursing uniform. "Some of us have lives. Tell us what happened."

"Yeah!"

Perkins's nostrils flared. He stared out at the crowd a while longer, then opened the door and backed out.

The people in the lobby tw.a.n.ged with anger.

A loud voice said, "Deputy Dawg!"

"d.a.m.ned jaywalking brigade."

"Yeah, buncha stiffs-hospital sticks us across the street and then we get busted trying to get to work on time."

Another hum of consensus. No one was talking anymore about what had happened in the lot.

The door opened again. Another cop came through, young, white, female, grim.

"Okay, everyone," she said. "If you'll just file out one by one, the officer will check your ID and then you can go."

"Yo," said the black man. "Welcome to San Quentin. What's next? Body searches?"

More tunes in that key, but the crowd started to move, then quieted.

It took me twenty minutes to get out the door. A cop with a clipboard copied my name from my badge, asked for verifying identification, and recorded my driver's license number. Six squad cars were parked in random formation just outside the entrance, along with an unmarked sedan. Midway down the sloping walkway to the parking structure stood a huddle of men.

I asked the cop, "Where did it happen?"

He crooked a finger at the structure.

"I parked there."

He raised his eyebrows. "What time did you arrive?"

"Around nine-thirty."

"P.M.?"

"Yes."

"What level did you park on?"

"Two."

That opened his eyes. "Did you notice anything unusual at that time-anyone loitering or acting in a suspicious manner?"

Remembering the feeling of being watched as I left my car, I said, "No, but the lighting was uneven."

"What do you mean by uneven, sir?"

"Irregular. Half the s.p.a.ces were lit; the others were dark. It would have been easy for someone to hide."

He looked at me. Clicked his teeth. Took another glance at my badge and said, "You can move on now, sir."

I walked down the pathway. As I pa.s.sed the huddle I recognized one of the men. Presley Huenengarth. The head of hospital Security was smoking a cigarette and stargazing, though the sky was starless. One of the other suits wore a gold shield on his lapel and was talking. Huenengarth didn't seem to be paying attention.

Our eyes met but his gaze didn't linger. He blew smoke through his nostrils and looked around. For a man whose system had just failed miserably, he looked remarkably calm.