“Great. You want to tell me who you are?”
“Sturgis claims you know how to keep a secret. Few people do.”
“Especially in Washington?”
Blank stare.
“Or is it Norfolk, Virginia?”
He pursed his lips and turned his mouth into a peeved little blossom. The mustache above it was little more than a mouse-colored stain. His ears were close-set, lobeless, and pulled down into his bull neck. Despite the season, the gray suit was a heavy worsted. Cuffed pants, black oxfords that had been resoled, blue pen in his breast pocket. He was sweating just below the hairline.
“You’ve been trying to follow me,” he said. “But you really have no idea what’s going on.”
“Funny, I felt followed.”
He shook his head. Gave a stern look. As if he were the teacher and I’d guessed wrong.
“So educate me,” I said.
“I need a pledge of total discretion.”
“About what?”
“Anything I tell you.”
“That’s pretty broad.”
“That’s what I need.”
“Does it have to do with Cassie Jones?”
The fingers on his knees began drumming. “Not directly.”
“But indirectly.”
He didn’t answer.
I said, “You want a pledge from me, but you won’t give an inch. You’ve got to work for the government.”
Silence. He examined the pattern of my Persian rug.
“If it compromises Cassie,” I said, “I can’t pledge anything.”
“You’re wrong,” he said, and gave another headshake. “If you really cared about her, you wouldn’t obstruct me.”
“Why’s that?”
“I can help her too.”
“You’re a pretty helpful guy, aren’t you?”
He shrugged.
“If you’re able to stop the abuse, why haven’t you?”
He ceased drumming and touched one index finger to the other. “I didn’t say I was omniscient. But I can be useful. You haven’t made much progress so far, have you?”
Before I could answer, he was up and headed for the kitchen. He returned with Milo, who was carrying three cups of coffee.
Taking one for himself, Milo put the remaining two on the coffee table and settled on the other end of the sofa. Our eyes met. He gave a small nod. Trace of apology.
Huenengarth sat back down, in a different chair from the one he’d just gotten out of. Neither he nor I touched our coffee.
Milo said, “Skoal,” and drank.
“Now what?” I said.
“Yeah,” said Milo. “He’s low on charm, but maybe he can do what he says he can.”
Huenengarth turned toward him and glared.
Milo sipped, crossed his legs.
I said, “You’re here of your own free will, huh?”
Milo said, “Well, everything’s relative.” To Huenengarth: “Stop playing Junior G-man and give the man some data.”
Huenengarth glared some more. Turned to me. Looked at his coffee cup. Touched his mustache.
“This theory you have,” he told me, “about Charles Jones and George Plumb destroying the hospital — who’ve you discussed it with so far?”
“It’s not my theory. The entire staff thinks the administration’s screwing the place over.”
“The entire staff hasn’t taken it as far as you have. Who’ve you talked to besides Louis B. Cestare?”
I hid my surprise and my fear. “Lou’s not involved in this.”
Huenengarth half-smiled. “Unfortunately, he is, Doctor. A man in his position, all those links to the financial world — he could have turned out to be a knotty problem for me. Fortunately, he’s being cooperative. At this very moment. Conferring with one of my colleagues up in Oregon. My colleague says Mr. Cestare’s estate is quite lovely.”
Full smile. “Don’t worry, Doctor, we only bring out the thumbscrews as a last resort.”
Milo put down his coffee. “Why don’t you just cut to the chase, bucko?”
Huenengarth’s smile vanished. He sat up straighter and looked at Milo.
Silent stare.
Milo gave a disgusted look and drank coffee.
Huenengarth waited a while before turning back to me. “Is there anyone else you’ve spoken to in addition to Mr. Cestare? Not counting your girlfriend, Ms. — uh — Castagna. Don’t worry, Doctor. From what I know about her, she isn’t likely to leak a story to The Wall Street Journal.”
“What the hell do you want?” I said.
“The names of anyone you’ve included in your fantasy. Specifically, people with business connections or a reason to harbor a grudge against Jones or Plumb.”
I glanced at Milo. He nodded, though he didn’t look happy.
“Just one other person,” I said. “A doctor who used to work at Western Peds. Now he lives in Florida. But I didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know and we didn’t go into any details—”
“Dr. Lynch,” said Huenengarth.
I swore. “What’d you do, tap my phone?”
“No, that wasn’t necessary. Dr. Lynch and I talk once in a while. Have been talking for a while.”
“He tipped you off?”
“Let’s not get sidetracked, Dr. Delaware. The main thing is you told me about speaking to him. That’s good. Admirably frank. I also like the way you wrestled with it. Moral dilemmas mean something to you — I don’t get to see that too often. So now I trust you more than when I walked into this room, and that’s good for both of us.”
“Gee, I’m touched,” I said. “What’s my reward? Learning your real name?”
“Cooperation. Maybe we can be mutually helpful. To Cassie Jones.”
“How can you help her?”
He folded his arms across his barrel chest. “Your theory — the entire staff’s theory — is appealing. For a one-hour TV episode. Greedy capitalists sucking the lifeblood out of a beloved institution; the good guys come in and clean it up; cut to commercial.”
“Who’re the good guys here?”
He put a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt, Doctor.”
“What are you, FBI?”
“A different collection of letters — it wouldn’t mean anything to you. Let’s get back to your theory: appealing, but wrong. Do you remember Cestare’s first reaction when you floated it by him?”
“He said it was unlikely.”
“Why?”
“Because Chuck Jones was a builder, not a destroyer.”
“Ah.”
“But then he looked up Plumb’s job history and found out companies he’s been associated with tend not to live long. So maybe Jones has changed his style and is going for slash and burn.”
“Plumb is a slash-and-burn man,” he said. “Got a long history of setting up companies for raiders, then taking fat commissions on the buy-out. But those were companies backed up by assets that made them worth plundering. Where’s the incentive to destroy a nonprofit money-loser like Western Pediatrics? Where are the assets, Doctor?”
“The real estate the hospital sits on, for a start.”
“The real estate.” Another headshake, accompanied by a finger wag. The guy had a definite tutorial bent. “As a matter of fact, the land is owned by the city and leased to the hospital under a ninety-nine-year contract, the contract’s renewable for another ninety-nine at the hospital’s request, and the rent’s a dollar a year. Public record — look it up at the assessor’s office, just as I did.”
“You’re not here because Jones and his gang are innocents,” I said. “What are they after?”
He moved forward on his chair. “Think convertible assets, Doctor. A massive supply of high-quality stocks and bonds at Chuck Jones’s disposal.”