Free Devil's Waltz by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

referrals from doctors driven crazy by them. But I never treated them for long. When they showed up at all, they tended to be pretty hostile and almost always dropped out quickly.”
    “Doctor-hoppers,” she said. “Never thought of them as mini-Munchausens.”
    “Could be the same dynamic at a milder level. Obsession with health, seeking attention from authority figures while dancing around with them.”
    “The waltz,” she said. “What about Cassie? How’s she functioning?”
    “Exactly as you described — she freaked out when she saw me, but calmed down eventually.”
    “Then you’re doing better than I am.”
    “I don’t stick her with needles, Steph.”
    She gave a sour smile. “Maybe I went into the wrong field. Anything else you can tell me about her?”
    “No major pathology, maybe some minor language delay. If her speech doesn’t get better in the next six months, I’d have it checked out with a full psych battery, including neuropsych testing.”
    She began ordering the piles on her desk. Swiveled and faced me.
    “Six months,” she said. “If she’s still alive by then.”
     
6
     
    The waiting room was hot with bodies and impatience. Several of the mothers flashed hopeful looks at Stephanie as she walked me out. She smiled, said, “Soon,” and ushered me into the hall.
    A group of men — three white-coated doctors and one business suit in gray flannel — was heading our way. The lead white-coat noticed us and called out, “Dr. Eves!”
    Stephanie grimaced. “Wonderful.”
    She stopped and the men came abreast. The white-coats were all in their fifties and had the well-fed, well-shaven look of senior attending physicians with established practices.
    Business-suit was younger — mid-thirties — and hefty. Six feet, 230 or so, big round shoulders padded with fat under a broad columnar head. He had short dishwater hair and bland features, except for a nose that had been broken and reset imperfectly. A wispy narrow mustache failed to give the face any depth. He looked like an ex-jock playing the corporate game. He stood behind the others, too far away for me to read his badge.
    The lead doctor was also thickset, and very tall. He had wide razor-edge lips and thinning curly hair the color of silver plate that he wore longish and winged at the sides. A heavy, outthrusting chin gave his face the illusion of forward movement. His eyes were quick and brown, his skin pinkish and gleaming as if fresh from the sauna. The two doctors flanking him were medium-sized, gray-haired, and bespectacled. In one case, the hair was a toupee.
    Chin said, “How’re things in the trenches, Dr. Eves?” in a deep, adenoidal voice.
    Stephanie said, “Trenchlike.”
    He turned to me and did some eyebrow calisthenics.
    Stephanie said, “This is Dr. Delaware, a member of our staff.”
    He shot his hand out. “Don’t believe it’s been my pleasure. George Plumb.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Plumb.”
    Vise-grip handshake. “Delaware,” he said. “What division are you with, Doctor?”
    “I’m a psychologist.”
    “Ah.”
    The two gray-haired men looked at me but didn’t talk or move. Suit seemed to be counting the holes in the acoustical ceiling.
    “He’s with pediatrics,” said Stephanie. “Serving as a consultant on the Cassie Jones case — helping the family cope with the stress.”
    Plumb swung his eyes back to her. “Ah. Very good.” He touched her arm lightly. She endured it for a moment, then backed away.
    He renewed his smile. “You and I need to confer, Stephanie. I’ll have my girl call yours and set it up.”
    “I don’t have a girl, George. The five of us share one
woman
secretary.”
    The gray twins looked at her as if she were floating in a jar. Suit was somewhere else.
    Plumb kept smiling. “Yes, the ever-changing nomenclature. Well, then my
girl
will call your
woman
. Be well, Stephanie.”
    He led his entourage away, stopped several yards down the hall, and ran his eyes up