Devil’s Waltz. By: Jonathan Kellerman

“Here,” she said, jamming one of the keys into Stephanie’s lock and

turning. Just as I caught the door, she yanked the key out sharply and

walked away.

The espresso machine was off but a half-full demitasse sat on the desk,

next to Stephanie’s stethoscope. The smell of fresh roast overpowered

the alcohol bite seeping in from the examining rooms. Also on the desk

were a pile of charts and a memo pad stuffed with drug company

stationery. As I slipped my note under it I noticed writing on the top

sheet.

Dosages, journal references, hospital extensions. Below that, a

solitary notation, scrawled hastily, barely legible.

B. Browsers

Browsers–the place where she’d gotten the leather-bound

Byron. I saw the book, up in the shelf.

B for Byron? Getting another one?

Or meeting someone at the bookstore? If it meant today, she was there

now.

It seemed an odd assignation in the middle of a hectic afternoon.

Not like her.

Until recently, if Kohler was to be believed.

Something romantic that she wanted segregated from the hospital rumor

mill? Or just seeking out some privacy-a quiet moment among the mildew

and the verse.

Lord knew she was entitled to her privacy.

Too bad I was going to violate it.

Only a half-mile from the hospital to Los Feliz and Hollywood, but

traffic was lobotomized and it took ten minutes to get there.

The bookstore was on the west side of the street, its facade the same

as it had been a decade ago: cream-colored sign with black gothic

letters spelling out ANTIQUARIAN BOOK MERCHANT above dusty windows. I

cruised past, looking for a parking space. On my second go-round I

spotted an old Pontiac with its back-up lights on, and waited as a very

small, very old woman eased away from the curb.

Just as I finished pulling in, someone came out of the bookstore.

Presley Huenengarth.

Even at this distance his mustache was nearly invisible.

I slumped low in the car. He fiddled with his tie, took a pair of

sunglasses out, slipped them on, and shot quick looks up and down the

street. I ducked lower, pretty sure he hadn’t seen me. He touched his

tie again, then began walking south until he came to the corner.

Turning right, he was gone.

I sat up.

Coincidence? There’d been no book in his hand.

But it was hard to believe he was the one Stephanie was meeting. Why

would she call him “B”?

She didn’t like him, had called him spooky.

Gotten me thinking of him as spooky.

Yet his bosses were promoting her.

Had she been talking the rebel line while fraternizing with the

enemy?

All for the sake of career advancement?

Do you see me as a division head, Alex?

Every other doctor I’d spoken to was talking about leaving, but her eye

was on a promotion.

Rita Kohler’s hostility implied it wouldn’t be a bloodless

transition.

Was Stephanie being rewarded for good behavior-treating the chairman’s

grandchild without making waves?

I remembered her absence at the Ashmore memorial. Her showing up late,

claiming she’d been tied up.

Maybe true, but in the old days she’d have found a way to be there.

Would have been up on the dais.

I kept thinking about it as I sat there, wanting to see it another

way.

Then Stephanie came out of the store and I knew I couldn’t.

Satisfied smile on her face.

No books in her hand either.

She looked up and down the block the same way he had.

Big plans for Dr. Eves.

Rat jumping onto a sinking ship?

I’d driven over intending to show her the Insuject cartridges.

Ready to study her reaction, declare her innocent and make her a part

of tomorrow night’s confrontation of Cindy Jones.

Now, I didn’t know where she stood. Milo’s first suspicions of her

began to solidify. Something wrong something off.

I lowered my head again.

She began walking. In the same direction he had.

Came to the corner, looked to the right. Where he’d gone.

She lingered there for a while. Still smiling. Finally crossed the

street and kept going.

I waited until she was out of sight, then drove away. The moment I

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