Devil’s Waltz. By: Jonathan Kellerman

But then, why hadn’t she panicked whenever she saw Chip?

Why had she jumped up into his arms, so willingly, the first time I’d

seen them together?

“Eh eh eh.

“Shh, baby.”

……. eh …. . eh.”

“Go back to sleep, honey. Go back to sleep.”

Very faintly: “Eh. .

“Shh.”

“Eh…”

Closed eyes.

Soft snores.

Stephanie held her for several moments, then slipped her hands free.

“Must be the magic touch,” she said sadly. Looping her stethoscope

over her neck, she walked out of the room.

A nurse and a policewoman arrived soon after.

I gave the cop the packet of pills and sleepwalked my way to the teak

doors.

Out in Five East, people were moving and talking, but I didn’t focus on

them. I rode the elevator down to the basement. The cafeteria was

closed. Wondering if Chip had a key to that, too, I bought coffee from

a machine, found a pay phone, and sipped as I asked information for a

number on a Jennifer Leavitt. Nothing.

Before the operator could break the connection, I had him check for any

leavitts in the Fairfax district. Two. One of them matched my vague

memory of Jennifer’s parents’ home number.

My watch said 9:30. I knew Mr. Leavitt went to sleep early in order

to make it to the bakery by 5:00 A.M. Hoping it wasn’t too late, I

punched numbers.

“Hello.”

“Mrs. Leavitt? It’s Dr. Delaware.”

“Doctor. How are you?”

“Time, and you?”

“Very good.”

Am I calling too late?”

“Oh, no. We’re just watching television. But Jenny’s not here.

She has her own apartment now-my daughter the doctor, very

independent.”

“You must be proud of her.”

“What’s not to be proud of? She’s always made me proud. Do you want

her new number?”

“Please.”

“Hold on. . . She’s in Westwood Village, right near the U.

With another girl, a nice girl . . . Here it is. If she’s not there,

she’s probably in her office–she’s got an office, too.” Chuckle.

“That’s great.” I copied down the numbers.

An office,” she said. “You know, raising a child like that, it’s a

privilege. . . . I miss her. For my taste, the house is too quiet.”

“I’ll bet.”

“You were very helpful to her, Dr. Delaware. College at her age wasn’t

so easy–you should be proud of yourself”

No one answered at

Jennifer’s apartment. But she picked up her office phone after one ring: “leavitt.”

“Jennifer, it’s Alex Delaware.”

“Hi, Alex. Did you solve your Munchausen by proxy?”

“The whodunit,” I said. “But the whydunit’s not clear yet. It turned

out to be the father.”

“Well, that’s a twist,” she said. “So it isn’t always the mother.”

“He was counting on our assuming it was. He set her up.”

“How Machiavellian.”

“He fancies himself an intellectual. He’s a professor.”

“Here?”

“No, at a junior college. But he does his serious research at the U,

which is why I’m calling you. My bet is he read up exhaustively on the

syndrome in order to create a textbook case. His first child died of

SIDS. Another textbook case, so I’m wondering if he set that up

too.”

“Oh, no–this sounds gr’tesque.”

“I was thinking about the SAP system,” I said. “If he’s got a faculty account, would there be some way to find out?”

“The library keeps a record of all users, for billing.”

“Do the bills list which articles were pulled?”

Absolutely. What time is it? Nine forty-seven. The library’s open

till ten. I could call down there and see if anyone I know is

working. Give me the bastard’s name.”

“Jones, Charles L. Sociology, West Valley Community College.”

“Got it. I’m going to put you on hold and call them on the other

line. Just in case we get cut off, give me your number.”

Five minutes later she clicked in.

“Boy, Alex. The idiot left a beautiful paper trail. Pulled

everything the system’s got on three topics–Munchausen, sudden infant

death, and the sociological structure of hospitals. Plus a few

isolated articles on two other topics: diazepam toxicity and–are you

ready for this?–women’s fantasies about penis size. It’s all there:

names, dates, exact hour. I’ll get a printout for you tomorrow.”

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