Devil’s Waltz. By: Jonathan Kellerman

The people were in their late thirties or early forties. Both had

pasty, desk-job complexions lobstered with patches of fresh sunburn on

upper arm and shoulder, light-brown hair that hung past their

shoulders, and rimless glasses. They wore tank tops, shorts, and

rubber sandals.

The man stood at a hydrangea bush, clippers in hand. Shorn flowers

clumped around his feet like pink fleece. He was thin and sinewy, with

mutton-chop sideburns that trailed down his jaw, and his shorts were

held up by leather suspenders. A beaded band circled his head.

The woman wore no bra and as she knelt, bending to weed, her breasts

hung nearly to the lawn, brown nipples visible. She looked to be the

man’s height five nine or ten but probably outweighed him by thirty

pounds, most of it in the chest and thighs. A possible match for the

physical dimensions on Dawn Herbert’s driver’s license but at least a

decade too old for the 63 birthdate.

As I pulled up I realized that the two of them looked vaguely

familiar.

But I couldn’t figure out why.

I parked and turned off the engine. Neither of them looked up.

The little dog started to bark, the man said, “Down, Homer,” and

continued clipping.

That was a cue for the bark to go nuclear. As the mutt scrunched his

eyes and tested the limits of his vocal cords, the retriever looked on,

bemused. The woman stopped weeding and searched for the source of

irritation.

She found it and stared. I got out of the car. The mutt stood his

ground but went into the face-down submissive posture.

I said, “Hey, boy,” bent and petted him. The man lowered his

clippers.

All four of them were staring at me now.

“Morning,” I said.

The woman stood. Too tall for Dawn Herbert, too. Her thick, flushed

face would have looked right at a barn raising.

“What can I do for you?” she said. Her voice was melodious and I was

certain I’d heard it before. But where?

“I’m looking for Dawn Herbert.”

The look that passed between them made me feel like a cop.

“That so?” said the man. “She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Do you know where she does live?”

Another exchange of glances. More fear than wariness.

“Nothing ominous,” I said. “I’m a doctor, over at Western Pediatric

Hospital-in Hollywood. Dawn used to work there and she may have some

information on a patient that’s important. This is the only address I

have for her.”

The woman walked over to the man. It seemed like a selfdefense move

but I wasn’t clear who was protecting who.

The man used his free hand to brush petals off his shorts. His bony

jaw was set hard. The sunburn had gotten his nose, too, and the tip

was raw.

“You come all the way here just to get information?” he said.

“It’s complicated,” I said, fudging for enough time to build a credible

story. An important case-a small child at risk. Dawn checked his

medical chart out of the hospital and never returned it.

Normally I’d have gone to Dawn’s boss. A doctor named Ashmore.

But he’s dead. Mugged a couple of days ago in the hospital parking

lot-you may have heard about it.”

New look on their faces. Fear and bafflement. The news had obviously

caught them off guard and they didn’t know how to respond. Finally

they chose suspicion, locking hands and glaring at me.

The retriever didn’t like the tension. He looked back at his masters

and started to whine.

“Jethro,” said the woman, and the dog quieted. The black mutt perked

up his ears and growled.

She said, “Mellow out, Homer,” in a singsong voice, almost crooning

it.

“Homer and Jethro,” I said. “Do they play their own instruments or use

backup?”

Not a trace of a smile. Then I finally remembered where I’d seen

them.

Robin’s shop, last year. Repair customers. A guitar and a mandolin,

the former in pretty bad shape. Two folkies with a lot of integrity,

some talent, not much money. Robin had done five hundred bucks’ worth

of work for some self-produced record albums, a plate of home-baked

muffins, and seventy-five in cash. I’d watched the transaction,