Devil's Waltz Part 44

"Looks like it."

"Do you find that unusual?"

"Well," he said, "businesses do fail or close down at a pretty high rate, but this Plumb guy does seem to be the kiss of death."

"Chuck Jones hired him to run the hospital, Lou. Care to revise your thinking about his intentions?"

"Think he's a spoiler, huh?"

"What happened to the other companies Plumb was a.s.sociated with?"

"That would be hard to find out-they were all small, and if they were privately held, there'd be no stock ramifications, little or no coverage in the business press."

"What about the local press?"

"If it was a company town with lots of people being thrown out of work, maybe. But good luck tracking that down."

"Okay, thanks."

"Is this really important, Alex?"

"I don't know."

"It would be a h.e.l.l of a lot easier for me to track," he said, "knowing the ropes. Let me play Tarzan and climb a few."

After he hung up, I called Virginia Information and got the number of the Ferris Dixon Inst.i.tute for Chemical Research. A pleasant female voice answered, "Ferris Dixon, good afternoon, how may I help you?"

"This is Dr. Schweitzer from Western Pediatric Medical Center in Los Angeles. I'm an a.s.sociate of Dr. Laurence Ashmore."

"Just one second, please."

Long pause. Music. The Hollywood Strings doing The Police's Every Breath You Take.

The voice returned: "Yes, Dr. Schweitzer, how may I help you?"

"Your inst.i.tute funds Dr. Ashmore's research."

"Yes?"

"I was just wondering if you knew he was deceased."

"Oh, how horrible," she said, but she didn't sound surprised. "But I'm afraid the person who can help you with that isn't in."

I hadn't asked for help, but I let that pa.s.s. "Who might that be?"

"I'm not exactly sure, Doctor. I'd have to check that."

"Could you, please?"

"Certainly, but it may take a while, Doctor. Why don't you give me your number and I'll get back to you."

"I'll be moving around. How about if I get back to you?"

"Certainly, Doctor. Have a nice-"

"Excuse me," I said. "As long as we're talking, could you give me some information on the inst.i.tute? For purposes of my own research?"

"What would you like to know, Dr. Schweitzer?"

"What kinds of projects do you prefer to fund?"

"That would be a technical question, sir," she said. "I'm afraid I can't help you with that, either."

"Is there some kind of brochure you could send me? A list of previous studies you've funded?"

"I'm afraid not-we're a fairly young agency."

"Really? How young?"

"One moment, please."

Another long break. More Muzak, then she was back.

"Sorry for taking so long, Doctor, and I'm afraid I can't stay with you-I've got several other incoming calls. Why don't you get back to us with all your questions. I'm sure the right person will be able to help you."

"The right person," I said.

"Exactly," she said with sudden cheer. "Have a nice day, Doctor."

Click.

I called back. The line was busy. I asked the operator to put through an emergency interruption, and waited until she came back on the line.

"I'm sorry, sir, that number's out of order."

I sat there, still hearing the pleasant voice.

Smooth . . . well rehea.r.s.ed.

One word she'd used jumped out at me.

"We're a fairly young agency."

Odd way to describe a private foundation.

Virginia . . . anything down there always spells government to me.

I tried the number again. Still off the hook. Checked my notes for the other study the inst.i.tute had funded.

Zimberg, Walter William. University of Maryland, Baltimore.

Something to do with statistics in scientific research.

The med school? Mathematics? Public health?

I got the university's number and called it. No Zimbergs on the medical school faculty. Same at the math department.

At Public Health a male voice answered.

"Professor Zimberg, please."

"Zimberg? No such person here."

"Sorry," I said. "I must have gotten the wrong information. Do you have a faculty roster handy?"

"One moment . . . I've got a Professor Walter Zimberg but he's in the Department of Economics."

"Could you please connect me to his office?"

Click. Female voice: "Economics."

"Professor Zimberg, please."

"Hold, please."

Click. Another female voice: "Professor Zimberg's office."

"Professor Zimberg, please."

"I'm afraid he's out of town, sir."

I threw out a guess: "Is he over in Was.h.i.+ngton?"

"Um . . . Who is this, please?"

"Professor Schweitzer, an old colleague. Is Wal-Professor Zimberg at the convention?"

"What convention is that, sir?"

"National a.s.sociation of Biostatisticians-over at the Capital Hilton? I heard he was going to present some new data on non-parametrics. The study the Ferris Dixon Inst.i.tute's funding."

"I'm-The professor should be calling in soon, sir. Why don't you give me your number and I'll have him get back to you."

"Appreciate the offer," I said, "but I'm about to hop on a plane myself. That's why I didn't make the convention. Did the professor write up an abstract on his paper before he left? Something I could read when I get back?"

"You'd have to talk to the professor about that."

"When do you expect him back?"

"Actually," she said, "the professor's on sabbatical."

"No kidding? I didn't hear that. . . . Well, he's due, isn't he? Where's he off to?"

"Various places, Professor . . ."

"Schweitzer."

"Various places, Professor Schweitzer. However, as I said, he does call in frequently. Why don't you give me your number and I'll have him get back to you."

Repeating, almost word for word, what she'd just said a minute ago.

Word for word what another friendly female voice had said, five minutes ago, speaking from the hallowed offices of the Ferris Dixon Inst.i.tute for Chemical Research.

25.

To h.e.l.l with Alexander Graham Bell.

I drove back to some hallowed halls I could see and touch.

There was one parking meter free near the university administration building. I went to the registrar's office and asked an Indian clerk in a peach-colored sari to look up Dawn Kent Herbert.

"Sorry, sir, we don't give out personal information."

I flashed my clinical faculty card from the med school across town. "I don't want anything personal-just need to know in which department she's enrolled. It has to do with a job. Verification of education."

The clerk read the card, had me repeat Herbert's name, and walked away.

A moment later she returned. "I show her as a graduate student in the School of Public Health, sir. But her enrollment's been terminated."

I knew Public Health was in the Health Sciences building, but I'd never actually been there. Shoving more money in the meter, I headed toward south campus, pa.s.sing the Psych building, where I'd learned to train rats and listen with the third ear, crossing the Science quad, and entering the Center at the west end, near the Dental School.

The long hall that led to Public Health was a quick jog from the library, where I'd just studied Ashmore's academic history. Walls on both sides were lined with group photos of every cla.s.s the medical school had graduated. Brand-new doctors looking like kids. The white-coats milling in the halls seemed just as young. By the time I reached the School of Public Health, the corridor had quieted. A woman was leaving the main office. I caught the door for her and stepped in.

Another counter, another clerk working in cramped s.p.a.ce. This one was very young, black, with straightened hennaed hair and a smile that seemed real. She wore a fuzzy lime-green sweater with a yellow-and-pink parrot embroidered on it. The bird was smiling too.

"I'm Dr. Delaware from Western Pediatric Hospital. One of your graduate students worked at our hospital and I'd like to know who her faculty adviser is."

"Oh, sure. Her name, please."

"Dawn Herbert."

No reaction. "What department is she in?"