Free Devil's Waltz by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

and down a wall, as if measuring.
    “What are you going to dismantle now, boys?” said Stephanie under her breath.
    Plumb resumed walking and the group disappeared around a corner.
    I said, “What was that all about?”
    “That was about
Doctor
Plumb, our new chief administrator and CEO. Papa Jones’s boy — Mr. Bottom Line.”
    “M.D. administrator?”
    She laughed. “What, the coat? No, he’s no doc. Just some kind of asinine Ph.D. or something—” She stopped, colored. “Jeez, I’m sorry.”
    I had to laugh. “Don’t worry about it.”
    “I’m
really
sorry, Alex. You know how I feel about psychologists—”
    “Forget it.” I put my arm over her shoulder. She slipped hers around my waist.
    “My mind is going,” she said softly. “I am definitely falling apart.”
    “What’s Plumb’s degree in?”
    “Business or management, something like that. He uses it to the hilt — insists on being called Doctor, wears a white coat. Most of his lackeys have doctorates, too — like Frick and Frack over there: Roberts and Novak, his numbers crunchers. They all love to traipse into the doctors’ dining room and take over a table. Show up at medical meetings and rounds for no apparent reason, walking around staring and measuring and taking notes. Like the way Plumb just stopped and sized up that wall. I wouldn’t be surprised if the carpenters show up soon. Dividing three offices into six, turning clinical space into administrative offices. And now he wants to
confer
with me — there’s something to look forward to.”
    “Are you vulnerable?”
    “Everyone is, but General Peds is at the bottom of the barrel. We’ve got no fancy technology or heroics to make headlines. Most of what we do’s outpatient, so our reimbursement level’s the lowest in the hospital. Since Psych’s gone.” She smiled.
    “Even technology doesn’t seem immune,” I said. “This morning, when I was looking for an elevator, I went by where Nuclear Medicine used to be and the suite had been given over to something called Community Services.”
    “Another of Plumb’s coups. But don’t worry about the Nukers — they’re okay. Moved upstairs to Two, same square footage, though patients have trouble finding them. But some of the other divisions have had real problems — Nephrology, Rheumatology, your buddies in Oncology. They’re stuck in trailers across the street.”
    “Trailers?”
    “As in Winnebago.”
    “Those are major divisions, Steph. Why do they put up with it?”
    “No choice, Alex. They signed away their rights. They were supposed to be housed in the old Hollywood Lutheran Tower — Western Peds bought it a couple of years ago, after Lutheran had to divest because of
their
budget problems. The board promised to build fantastic suites for anyone who moved over there. Construction was supposed to start last year. The divisions that agreed were moved to the trailers and their old space was given to someone else. Then they discovered —
Plumb
discovered — that even though enough money had been raised to make a down payment on the tower and do some of the remodeling, insufficient funds had been allocated to do the rest and to
maintain
it. Trifling matter of thirteen million dollars. Try raising that in this climate — heroes are already in short supply because we’ve got a charity hospital image and no one wants their name on a bunch of doctors’ offices.”
    “Trailers,” I said. “Melendez-Lynch must be over-joyed.”
    “Melendez-Lynch went
adios
, last year.”
    “You’re kidding. Raoul
lived
here.”
    “Not anymore. Miami. Some hospital offered him chief of staff, and he took it. I hear he’s getting triple the salary and half the headaches.”
    “It
has
been a long time,” I said. “Raoul had all those research grants. How’d they let him get away?”
    “Research doesn’t matter to these people, Alex. They don’t want to pay the overhead. It’s a whole new game.” She let her arm fall