Devil's Waltz Part 19

No Herberts in the medical roster. In the following section, listing nonmedical staff, I found a Ronald Herbert, tagged as a.s.sistant Food Services Manager. But the extension didn't match the one on the slip and I couldn't see a catering specialist having an interest in sudden infant death.

I thanked her and left. Just before the door closed, I heard her say, "Come again, Doctor."

I retraced my steps through the sub-bas.e.m.e.nt, pa.s.sing Laurence Ashmore's office again. The door was still closed and when I stopped to listen, I thought I heard movement on the other side.

I kept going, looking for a phone, finally spotted a pay unit just past the elevators. Before I got to it the elevator door opened and Presley Huenengarth stood there, looking at me. He hesitated, then walked out of the lift. Standing with his back to me, he removed a pack of Winstons from his suit pocket and took a long time cracking the seal.

The elevator door started to shut. I checked it with the heel of my hand and got on. The last thing I saw before it closed was the security man's placid stare behind a rising cloud of smoke.

After riding up to the first floor I used an in-house phone near Radiation Therapy to dial D. Kent Herbert's extension. The hospital's main switchboard answered.

"Western Pediatrics."

"I was dialing extension two-five-oh-six."

"One moment and I'll connect you, sir." A series of clicks and mechanical burps, then: "Sorry, sir, that extension's been disconnected."

"Since when?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Any idea whose extension it was?"

"No, sir. Who were you trying to reach?"

"D. Kent Herbert."

"Is that a doctor?"

"I don't know."

Pause. "One moment . . . The only Herbert I have listed is Ronald, in Food Services. Would you like me to connect you?"

"Why not?"

Five rings.

"Ron Herbert." Crisp voice.

"Mr. Herbert, this is Medical Records, calling about the chart you requisitioned?"

"Come again?"

"The medical chart you checked out in February? From SPI?"

"You must have the wrong guy, pal. This is the cafeteria."

"You never requested an SPI chart on February 14 of this year?"

Laughter. "Now why the heck would I do that?"

"Thank you, sir."

"No prob. Hope you find what you're after."

I hung up, took the stairs to the ground floor and entered the throng in the lobby. Easing my way through hard-packed bodies, I made it to the Information counter and, after spotting a hospital directory near the clerk's hand, slid it toward me.

The clerk, a dyed-blond black woman, was answering a Spanish-speaking man's question in English. Both of them looked tired and the acid of strife embittered the air. The clerk noticed the book in my hand and looked down her nose at me. The man's gaze followed. The queue behind him swayed and rumbled like a giant serpent.

"You can't have that," said the clerk.

I smiled, pointed at my badge, and said, "Just want to borrow it for a minute."

The clerk rolled her eyes and said, "Just for a minute, that's all."

I moved to the far end of the counter and flipped the book open to the first page, running my eyes and my index finger down the numbers column on the right side of each page, prepared to scan hundreds of extensions until I found 2506. But I hit the jackpot after only a couple of dozen.

ASHMORE, L.W. (TOX.) 2506.

I replaced the book and thanked the clerk. She glared again, s.n.a.t.c.hed it, and placed it out of reach.

"Half a minute," I said. "Do I get a refund?"

Then I saw the faces of the people waiting in line and regretted being a wise-a.s.s.

I went up to see Ca.s.sie, but there was a DO NOT DISTURB sign on her door and the nurse on duty told me both she and Cindy were sleeping.

On my way out of the hospital, my thoughts were intruded upon by someone calling my name. Looking up, I saw a tall, mustachioed man approaching from the main entrance. Late thirties, white coat, rimless gla.s.ses, Ivy League clothes. The mustache was an extravagant waxed black handlebar. The rest of him seemed arranged around it.

He waved.

I reached into the past and drew out a name.

Dan Kornblatt. Cardiologist. Former UC San Francisco chief resident. His first year at the hospital had been my last. Our relationship had been limited to case conferences and casual chats about the Bay Area-I'd done a fellowship at Langley Porter and Kornblatt delighted in pushing the proposition that no civilization existed south of Carmel. I remembered him as long on brains and short on tact with peers and parents, but tender with his young patients. Four other doctors were walking with him, two women, two men, all young. The five of them moved rapidly, accompanied by swinging arms-physical fitness or a strong sense of purpose. As they got closer I saw that Kornblatt's hair had grayed at the temples and his hawk face had taken on a few seams.

"Alex Delaware. My, my."

"Hi, Dan."

"To what do we owe the honor?"

"Here on a consult."

"Really? Gone private?"

"A few years ago."

"Where?"

"The West Side."

"But of course. Been back up to the real city lately?"

"Not lately."

"Me neither. Not since two Christmases ago. Miss that Tadich Grill, all that real-city culture."

He made introductions all around. Two of the other doctors were residents, one was a Cardiology fellow and one of the women-a short, dark, Mideastern woman-was an attending physician. Obligatory smiles and hand-shakes all around. Four names that pa.s.sed right through me.

Kornblatt said, "Alex, here, was one of our star psychologists. Back when we had them." To me: "Speaking of which, I thought you guys were verboten around here. Has something changed in that regard?"

I shook my head. "It's just an isolated consult."

"Ah. So where you heading? Out?"

I nodded.

"If you're not crunched for time, why don't you come with us? Emergency staff meeting. Are you still on staff? Yeah, you must be if you're doing a consult." His brows creased. "How'd you manage to avoid the Psychiatry bloodbath?"

"Through a technicality. My affiliation was in Pediatrics, not Psychiatry."

"Pediatrics-that's interesting. Good loophole." To the others: "You see, there's always a loophole."

Four knowing looks. None of them was over thirty.

Kornblatt said, "So, you wanna hang with us? The meeting's an important one-that is, if you're still feeling sufficiently affiliated to care what goes on around here."

"Sure," I said, and fell in alongside him. "What's the topic?"

"The decline and fall of the Western Peds Empire. As evidenced by the murder of Larry Ashmore. Actually, it's a memorial for him." He frowned. "You heard about what happened, didn't you?"

I nodded. "Terrible."

"Symptomatic, Alex."

"Of what?"

"What's happened to this place. Look at the way the whole thing's been handled by the administration. A physician gets murdered and no one even bothers to send around a memo. Not that they're paper-shy when it comes to disseminating their directives."

"I know," I said. "I happened to read one. On the door of the library."

He scowled and his mustache flared. "What library?"

"I saw that too."

"Sucks," he said. "Every time I have research to do I've got to drive over to the med school."

We walked across the lobby and came up against the queues. One of the doctors noticed a patient waiting in line, said "I'll join you in a moment," and left the group to greet the child.

"Don't miss the meeting," Kornblatt called after her, without breaking step. When we were clear of the crowd, he said, "No library, no Psych department, no overhead for grants, total hiring freeze. Now, there's talk about more cutbacks in all departments-straight across the board. Entropy. The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds probably plan to tear the place down and sell the real estate."

"Not in this market."

"No, I'm serious, Alex. We don't make money and these are bottom-line people. Pave it over, put in lots of parking lots."

"Well," I said, "they might start by paving the ones across the street."

"Don't hold your breath. We are peons to these guys. Just another form of service staff."

"How'd they get control?"

"Jones-the new chairman-was managing the hospital's investments. Supposedly did a really good job, so when hard times got harder the board claimed they needed a financial pro and voted him in. He, in turn, fired all the old administration and brought in his own army."

Another crowd milled near the doors. Lots of tapping feet, weary head shakes, and needless punches of the b.u.t.tons. Two of the lifts were stuck on upper floors. An OUT OF ORDER sign was taped across the door of the third.

"Onward, troops," said Kornblatt, pointing to the stairwell and increasing his pace to a near-run. All of them vaulted the first flight with the zest of triathlon junkies. When we got to the top, Kornblatt was bouncing like a boxer.

"Go, team!" he said, pushing the door open.

The auditorium was a few paces down. A couple of doctors were lounging near the entrance, which was topped by a handwritten banner that said ASHMORE MEMORIAL.

I said, "Whatever happened to Kent Herbert?"

Kornblatt said, "Who?"

"Herbert. The toxicologist. Didn't he work with Ashmore?"

"I didn't know anyone worked with Ashmore. The guy was a loner, a real-" He stopped himself. "Herbert? No, can't say I remember him."

We entered the big fan-shaped lecture hall; rows of gray cloth seats sloped sharply to a wooden lecture pit. A dusty green board on wheels stood at the rear of the pit. The upholstery on the seats was dingy and some of the cushions were tattered. The light, fluctuating hum of occasional conversation filled the room.

The auditorium held at least five hundred chairs but no more than seventy were occupied. The spotty attendance gave it the look of a pa.s.s-fail cla.s.s. Kornblatt and his entourage headed down toward the front of the room, shaking hands and trading a few high-fives along the way. I hung back and sat by myself in the uppermost row.

Lots of white coats-full-time staffers. But where were the private pract.i.tioners? Unable to attend on short notice or choosing to stay away? Western Peds had always suffered from town-gown tension, but the full-timers and the physicians out in "the real world" had always managed to achieve a grudging symbiosis.

As I looked around some more, I was struck by another scarcity: gray heads. Where were all the senior people I'd known?

Before I could mull that, a man holding a cordless microphone stepped into the pit and called for quiet. Thirty-five; soft, pale baby face under a big blond Afro. His white coat was slightly yellowed and too big for him. Under it he wore a black shirt, and a brown knit tie.

He said, "Please," and the hum died. A few beepers went off, then silence.

"Thanks to all of you for coming. Could someone get the door?"

Faces turned. I realized I was closest to the exit, got up and shut the door.

"Okay," said Afro. "The first order of business is a moment of silence for our colleague Dr. Laurence Ashmore, so if you could all please rise. . . ."

Everyone stood. Heads drooped. A long minute pa.s.sed.