Devil's Waltz Part 53

It didn't make sense-but maybe it did.

If I was right about Chuck Jones wanting to dissolve the hospital, hiring an impaired division head would fit beautifully.

Rat climbing aboard a sinking ship . . .

I thought of someone who'd jumped off.

What had made Melendez-Lynch finally leave?

I didn't know if he'd talk to me. Our last contact, years ago, had been tainted by his humiliation-a case gone very bad, a lapse of ethics on his part that I'd learned about without wanting to.

But what was there to lose?

Miami Information had one listing for him. Our Lady of Mercy Hospital. It was eight-thirty in Florida. His secretary would be gone, but unless Raoul had undergone a personality transplant, he'd still be working.

I dialed. A recorded voice, female and cultured, informed me I'd reached the chief physician's office, which was now closed, and enunciated a series of touch-tone codes for reaching Dr. Melendez-Lynch's voice mail.

I pressed the Instant Page code and waited for a callback, wondering when machines were going to start calling one another and eliminating the messiness of the human factor.

A still-familiar voice said, "Dr. Melendez-Lynch."

"Raoul? It's Alex Delaware."

"Ahleex? No keeding. How are you?"

"Fine, Raoul. And you?"

"Much too fat and much too busy, but otherwise superb . . . What a surprise. Are you here in Miami?"

"No, still in L.A."

"Ahh . . . So tell me, how have you been spending the last few years?"

"Same as before."

"Back in practice?"

"Short-term consults."

"Short term . . . still retired, eh?"

"Not exactly. How about you?"

"Also more of the same, Alex. We are doing some very exciting things-advanced cell-wall permeability studies in the carcinogenesis lab, several pilot grants on experimental drugs. So tell me, to what do I owe the honor of this call?"

"I've got a question for you," I said, "but it's personal, not professional, so if you don't want to answer it, just say so."

"Personal?"

"About your leaving."

"What do you want to know about it?"

"Why you did it."

"And why, may I ask, are you suddenly so curious about my motivation?"

"Because I'm back at Western Peds, consulting on a case. And the place looks really sad, Raoul. Low morale, people quitting-people I never thought would leave. You're the one I know best, so I'm calling you."

"Yes, that is personal," he said. "But I don't mind answering." He laughed. "The answer is very simple, Alex. I left because I was unwanted."

"By the new administration?"

"Yes. The Visigoths. The choice they gave me was simple. Leave, or die professionally. It was a matter of survival. Despite what anyone will tell you, money had nothing to do with it. No one ever worked at Western Peds for the money-you know that. Though the money got worse, too, when the Visigoths took control. Wage freezes, hiring freezes, eating away at our secretarial staff, a totally arrogant att.i.tude toward the physicians-as if we were their servants. They even stuck us out on the street in trailers. Like derelicts. I could tolerate all of that because of the work. The research. But when that ended, there was simply no reason to stay on."

"They cut off your research?"

"Not explicitly. However, at the beginning of the last academic year the board announced a new policy: Because of financial difficulties, the hospital would no longer chip in for overhead on research grants. You know how the government works-on so many grants, any money they give you depends upon the host inst.i.tution contributing expenses. Some of the private foundations are also insisting upon it now. All of my funding came from NCI. A no-overhead rule essentially nullified all of my projects. I tried to argue, yelled, screamed, showed them figures and facts-what we were trying to do with our research; this was pediatric cancer, for G.o.d's sake. No use. So I flew to Washington and talked with government Visigoths, trying to get them to suspend the rules. That, too, was futile. Our kinder and gentler bunch, eh? None of them functions at a human level. So what were my options, Alex? Stay on as an overeducated technician and give up fifteen years of work?"

"Fifteen years," I said. "Must have been hard."

"It wasn't easy, but it turned out to be a fantastic decision. Here, at Mercy, I sit on the board as a voting member. There are plenty of idiots here, too, but I can ignore them. As a bonus, my second child-Amelia-is enrolled at the medical school in Miami and lives with me. My condominium overlooks the ocean and on the rare occasion I visit Little Havana, it makes me feel like a little boy. It was like surgery, Alex. The process was painful but the results were worth it."

"They were stupid to lose you."

"Of course they were. Fifteen years and not even a gold watch." He laughed. "These are not people who hold physicians in awe. All that matters to them is money."

"Jones and Plumb?"

"And that pair of dogs trailing after them-Novak and whatever. They may be accountants but they remind me of Fidel's thugs. Take my advice, Alex: Don't get too involved there. Why don't you come out to Miami and put your skills to use where they'll be appreciated? We'll write a grant together. The AIDS thing is paramount now-so much sadness. Two thirds of our hemophiliacs have received infected blood. You could be useful here, Alex."

"Thanks for the invitation, Raoul."

"It's a sincere one. I remember the good we did together."

"So do I."

"Think about it, Alex."

"Okay."

"But of course you won't."

Both of us laughed.

I said, "Could I ask you one more thing?"

"Also personal?"

"No. What do you know about the Ferris Dixon Inst.i.tute for Chemical Research?"

"Never heard of it. Why?"

"It funded a doctor at Western Peds. With overhead."

"Really. And which guy is this?"

"A toxicologist named Laurence Ashmore. He's done some epidemiologic work on childhood cancer."

"Ashmore . . . never heard of him either. What kind of epidemiology does he do?"

"Pesticides and malignancy rates. Mostly theoretical stuff, playing with numbers."

He snorted. "How much did this inst.i.tute give him?"

"Nearly a million dollars."

Silence.

"What?"

"It's true," I said.

"With overhead?"

"High, huh?"

"Absurd. What's the name of this inst.i.tute?"

"Ferris Dixon. They only funded one other study, much smaller. An economist named Zimberg."

"With overhead . . . Hmm, I'll have to check into that. Thank you for the tip, Alex. And think about my offer. The sun shines here too."

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, unb.u.t.toned his jacket, then sank into an armchair. His belly bulged over his belt, straining the white broadcloth of his b.u.t.ton-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 closeset, 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."