Devil’s Waltz. By: Jonathan Kellerman

“Good to see you, Steph.”

We hugged briefly.

“Can I get you something?” She pointed to the coffee machine, arm

jangling. Gold vermeil bracelets looped her wrist. Gold watch on the

other arm. No rings. “Plain old coffee or real cafe ax lait? This

little guy actually steams the milk.”

I said no thanks and looked at the machine. Small, squat, black matte

and brushed steel, logo of a German manufacturer. The carafe was tiny

two cups’ worth. Next to it sat a petite copper pitcher.

“Cute, huh?” she said. “Gift from a friend. Gotta do something to

bring a little style into this place.”

She smiled. Style was something she’d never cared about. I smiled

back and settled in the recliner. A leatherbound book sat on a nearby

table. I picked it up. Collected poems of Byron. Bookmark from a

store named Browsers up on Los Feliz, just above Hollywood. Dusty and

crowded, with an emphasis on verse. Lots of junk, a few treasures.

I’d gone there as an intern, during lunch hour.

Stephanie said, “He’s some writer. I’m trying to expand my

interests.”

I put the book down. She sat in her desk chair and wheeled around

facing me, legs crossed. Pale-gray stockings and suede pumps matched

her dress.

“You look great,” I said.

Another smile, casual but full, as if she’d expected the compliment but

was still pleased by it. “You, too, Alex. Thanks for coming on such

short notice.”

“You piqued my interest.

“Did I?”

“Sure. All those hints of high intrigue.”

She half turned toward the desk, removed a chart from the stack, let it

rest in her lap but didn’t open it.

“Yup,” she said, “it’s a challenging one, that’s for sure.”

Standing suddenly, she walked to the door, closed it, and sat

backdown.

“So,” she said, “how does it feel to be back?”

Almost got busted on the way in.

I told her about my encounter with the security guard.

“Eascist,” she said cheerfully, and my memory banks reactivated:

grievance committees over which she’d presided. White coat disdained

for jeans, sandals, bleached cotton blouses. Stephanie, not Doctor

Titles are exclisionary ths’ices of the p,a”er elite. .

1 said, “Yeah, it was kind of paramilitary, ” but she just gazed at the

chart in her lap.

“High intrigue,” she said. “What we’ve got is a whodunit, howdunit-a

did-anyone-do-it. Only this is no Agatha Christie thing, Alex. This

is a real-life mess. I don’t know if you can help, but I’m not sure

what else to do.”

Voices from the corridor filtered in, squalls and scolding and fleeing

footsteps. Then a child’s cry of terror pierced the plaster.

“This place is a zoo,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

A door at the rear of the clinic opened to a stairway. We descended to

the first basement level. Stephanie moved fast, almost jogging down

the steps.

The cafeteria was nearly empty one orange-topped table occupied by a

male intern reading the sports section, two others shared by slumping

couples who looked as if they’d slept in their clothes.

Parents spending the night. Something we’d fought for.

Empty trays and dirty dishes cluttered some of the other tables.

A hair-netted orderly circulated slowly, filling salt shakers.

On the eastern wall was the door to the doctors’ dining room: polished

teak panels, finely etched brass nameplate. Some philanthropist with a

nautical bent. Stephanie bypassed it and led me to a booth at the far

end of the main room.

“Sure you don’t want coffee?” she said.

Remembering the hospital mud, I said, Already filled my caffeine

quota.”

“I know what you mean.”

She ran her hand through her hair and we sat.

“Okay,” she said. “What we’ve got is a twenty-one-month-old white

female, full-term pregnancy, normal delivery, APGAR of nine.

The only significant historical factor is that just before this child

was born, a male sib died of sudden infant death syndrome at age one

year.”

Any other children?” I said, taking out a note pad and pen.

“No, there’s just Cassie. Who looked fine until she was three months

old, at which time her mother reported going in at night to check on

her and finding her not breathing.”

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