The Conspiracy Club

42

Night work.

Jeremy avoided scrutiny by keeping odd hours and entering the hospital through another out-of-the way rear door- one on the basement level that led to a loading bay. One of those forgotten places inevitable in a place as old and sprawling as City Central. Same level as Pathology and the morgue, but the opposite wing. Here, he passed laundry rooms, boiler housing, electrical entrails, storage space for defunct medical charts.

The guts. He liked that.

He kept to a schedule: saw Doug, and his other patients, at the assigned times, but left the wards by the stairs, rather than the elevators.

No coffee or meals in the DDR or the cafeteria. When he was hungry- which was infrequent- he grabbed something at a fast-food stand. His skin grew greasy, but that was the price you paid.

Once, as he stuffed french fries down his gullet without tasting, he thought: a far cry from foie gras. Cheap food sat in his gut, just dandy, thank you. Perhaps, he’d never been destined for better.

He made sure to check his mail at day’s end but received no more cards from Arthur, no surprises in interoffice envelopes.

They know: I’ve been educated sufficiently.

When he left the hospital, he put the place out of his mind. Concentrating on night work. Driving.

Cruising through the garbage-strewn alleys of Iron Mount, past the pawnbrokers and bail bondsmen and rescue missions and discount clothing stalls that filled the slum. A couple of times he headed out to Saugatuck Finger, where he removed his shoes despite the frozen air and walked barefoot in the hard, wet sand. No remnants of the crime scene remained, just beach and lake and gulls and ragged picnic tables. Behind the spit loomed the backdrop of big trees that would have served the killer so well.

Both times, he stayed for just a few moments, studying the rippling murk of the water, finding a dead crab here, a storm-buffeted rock, there. When the rain came, so cold it was a step away from sleet, he allowed it to pummel his bare head.

Sometimes he cruised the industrial stretch that separated the two kill spots and wondered where the next woman would be found. Driving openly, with the Nova’s radio blasting oldies. Thinking about terrible things.

After dark, he took the scenic route, north. The same route that had led him to the gates of the Haverford Country Club and the brief, cool talk with Tina Balleron. This time, he stopped well before Hale gave way to estate acreage, at the far end of the boulevard, where he motored slowly up chic, elm-shaded streets edged with bistros and boutiques and custom jewelers and graystone town houses, until he found the kind of parking space he needed.

A spot that gave him a full, close view of a particular, cream-colored, limestone high-rise.

A postmodern thing, with gratuitous trim, a green-canopied awning, a cobbled circular drive, not one, but two maroon-liveried doormen. One of the best addresses on Hale, a premium condo.

The place Theodore G. Dirgrove, M.D. listed on his curriculum vitae under “Home Address.”

Exactly the kind of sleek, stylish building in which you’d expect a successful surgeon to live with his wife and two children.

That had been a bit of a surprise, Dirgrove married, with kids, playing at domestic life. Then Jeremy thought: No, it’s not. Of course he’d play the game. Just as his father had done.

Spouse: Patricia Jennings Dirgrove

Children: Brandon, 9; Sonja, 7.

Sweet.

Another surprise: Dirgrove drove a dull car- a five-year-old Buick. Jeremy had expected something pricier- something smooth and German, wouldn’t that have been a nice tribute to Daddy?

Once again, Dirgrove’s cleverness became apparent: Who’d notice the grayish blue sedan nosing its way out of a darkened alley in a low-rent neighborhood?

When you knew what you were dealing with, everything made sense.

Clarity was a heady drug. Jeremy worked all day, drove all night, lived on insight, convinced himself he rarely needed to eat or sleep.

The surgeon kept surgeon’s hours, often leaving for work before 6 A.M. and not returning until well after dark.

On the third day of watching, Dirgrove took his family out to dinner, and Jeremy got a good look at the wife and kids as they piled into the Buick.

Patricia Jennings Dirgrove was short and pleasant-looking, a brunette with a curly, rather mannish hairdo. Good figure, high energy, nimble. From the flash of face Jeremy caught, a determined woman. She wore a black, fur-collared wrap and left it unbuttoned. Jeremy caught a glimpse of red knit pants and matching top. One step above sweats. Dressing for comfort. Dirgrove hadn’t changed out of the day’s suit and tie.

The children resembled Patty- as Jeremy came to call her- more than Ted. Brandon was stocky with a mop of dark hair, little Sonja slightly fairer but with none of Dirgrove’s Nordic bone structure.

For their sake, Jeremy hoped the lack of resemblance to their father didn’t end there.

Cute kids. He knew what was in store for them.

He followed them to dinner. Ted and Patty chose a midpriced Italian place ten blocks south, where they were seated up front, visible to the street behind a plate-glass window decorated by ornate gold leaf lettering. Inside were wooden booths, a brass-railed cappuccino bar, a copper espresso machine.

Jeremy parked around the corner and made his way past the restaurant on foot, drawing the lapels of his raincoat around his face, a newly purchased black fedora set low.

He strolled past the window, eyes concealed by the hat’s brim. Bought a newspaper from a stand to look normal and repeated the pass. Back and forth. Three more times. Dirgrove never looked up from his lasagna.

The surgeon sat there, bored. All the smiling conversation, between Brandon and Sonja and Mom.

Patty was attentive to the kids, helped the little girl twirl spaghetti on her fork. During his final pass, Jeremy saw her glance at her husband. Ted didn’t notice; he was staring off at the espresso machine.

Family time.

When would he leave the comforts of hearth and home and do what really turned him on?

It happened on the fourth night.

A day full of surprises; that morning, Jeremy received a postcard from Rio.

Beautiful bodies on a white sand Brazilian beach.

He felt smart.

Dr. C:

Traveling and learning. A.C.

So am I, my friend.

As if that wasn’t enough, he received a call from Edgar Marquis at 6 P.M., just before he was ready to embark on the night’s surveillance.

“Dr. Carrier,” said the ancient diplomat. “I’m delivering a message from Arthur.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, he’d like me to inform you that he’s enjoying his vacation- finding it quite educational. He hopes you’ve been well.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jeremy. “Well, and busy.”

“Ah,” said Marquis. “That’s good.”

“I imagine you’d think so, sir.”

Marquis cleared his throat. “Well, then, that’s all. Good evening.”

“Where’d he call from, Mr. Marquis?”

“He didn’t say.”

Jeremy laughed. “You’re not going to tell me a damn thing, are you? Not even now.”

“Now?”

“I’m on the job, Mr. Marquis.”

No answer.

Jeremy said, “Just indulge me on one small detail. ‘CCC.’ What does it stand for. How’d it get started- what drew you together?”

“Good food and wine, Dr. Carrier.”

“Right,” said Jeremy.

Silence.

“What was your ordeal, Mr. Marquis? What lit the fire in your belly?”

The merest hesitation. “Chili peppers.”

Jeremy waited for more.

“The cuisine of Indonesia,” said Marquis, “can be quite piquant. I was educated there, in matters of taste and reason.”

“So,” said Jeremy. “That’s the way it’s going to be.”

The ancient man didn’t respond.

“Mr. Marquis, I don’t imagine you’d tell me when Arthur’s due back.”

“Arthur makes his own schedule.”

“I’m sure he does. Good-bye, sir.”

“Doctor? With regard to the origins of our little group, suffice it to say that your participation would be considered… harmonious in more ways than one.”

“Would it?”

“Oh, yes. Consider it a case of the obvious.”

“Obvious what?”

“Obvious,” Marquis repeated. “Etched in stone.”

No caller ID to trace. The bottom-line people said anything beyond basic phone service was a frivolity.

As Jeremy took the stairs down to the rear exit, he digested what Marquis had told him.

Spicy food in Indonesia. I was educated, there.

Marquis’s baptism of loss had taken place in that island nation. One day, if Jeremy was sufficiently curious, he’d try to find out. At the moment, he had watching to do.

When he got to the rear exit, he found it padlocked. Had someone gotten wise to him? Or was it just a quirk of competence on the part of the security guards?

He made his way back toward the hospital lobby, pausing by the candy machine where he’d spied Bob Doresh and buying himself a chocolate-covered coconut cluster.

He’d never really liked candy; even as a child he’d never been tempted. Now he craved sugar. Chewing happily, he neared the hospital’s main entrance. Passed the donor wall.

Etched in stone. And there it was.

Mr. and Mrs. Robert Balleron. Founders Donation, ten years ago. Below that, a more recent contribution, Founders level, four years ago:

Judge Tina F. Balleron, In Loving Memory of Robert Balleron.

The donor list wasn’t alphabetized, and that made it a bit more time-consuming, but Jeremy found them all. By the time the last speck of coconut had tumbled down his throat he was flushed with insight.

Professor Norbert Levy, In Loving Memory of His Family.

Four years ago.

Mr. Harrison Maynard, In Loving Memory of His Mother, Effie Mae Maynard, and Dr. Martin Luther King.

Same year.

Ditto: Mr. Edgar Molton Marquis, In Loving Memory of Kurau Village.

And:

Arthur Chess, M.D., In Memory of Sally Chess, Susan Chess, and Arthur Chess, Junior.

Arthur had lost his entire family.

Too horrible to contemplate, and Jeremy couldn’t afford that level of empathy, right now. Jamming the candy wrapper into his pocket, he retraced his steps through the lobby and headed for the Development Office.

“Development” was institutional jargon for fund-raising, and Jeremy recalled the place as staffed by slim, chatty young women in designer suits and headed by a blowhard named Albert Trope. It was 6:20 P.M.- a window of time remained, Dirgrove rarely got home before six-thirty, seven. Nonmedical personnel tended to leave well before five, so it was probably too late to catch the office open, but he was here already.

The chatty young women had left. But the door was open and a janitor- a morose-looking Slav, probably one of the recent immigrants the hospital had taken to hiring because they knew nothing about labor laws- was vacuuming the plush, blue wall-to-wall.

Jeremy, his professional staff badge in full view, walked right past the man and over to a faux-Regency bookshelf in a corner of the generous reception room.

Good perfume- remnants of the young women- hung in the air. The entire room was done up in high-style pretense; the place looked like a movie set of a French salon. Make the deep-pocket crowd feel right at home…

The janitor ignored Jeremy as he pawed through the case. On the shelves were plastic-covered testimonials from satisfied patients, photo albums of cute little kids cured at City Central, gushing accounts of celebrity visits along with the requisite photo ops, and years and years of fund-raising ephemera.

Including journals of the hospital’s biggest event, the yearly Gala Ball.

Jeremy had been to one gala, two years ago. Asked to deliver a speech on humanism, then leave before dinner.

He found the four-year-old edition. In front was an explanation of several tiers of contribution. Within each tier, names were listed alphabetically.

Donor, Sponsor, Patron, Founder, Gold Ribbon Circle.

Founder meant a twenty-thousand-dollar pledge. The CCC people had ponied up generously.

He found a picture of all of them, together. Arthur at the center, surrounded by Balleron, Marquis, Maynard, and Levy.

CCC… the City Central Club?

So this was where it had started. Five altruists convening for the common good, finding common ground.

No doubt Arthur- charismatic, gregarious, curious Arthur- had played a pivotal role in drawing them together.

He’d lost his family, the man could be excused a bit of enthusiasm for camaraderie. For justice.

“You gutta go,” said the janitor. He’d switched off his vacuum cleaner, and the waiting room was quiet.

“Sure, thanks,” said Jeremy. “Good night.”

The man grumbled and picked at his ear.

Jeremy made it to Hale Boulevard by six-forty, found a terrific observation spot, and sat until nine, when Dirgrove finally showed up.

For three nights running, Dirgrove had stayed at home, and Jeremy kept his expectation low. But when Dirgrove left his Buick in the circular drive and the doorman didn’t park it, he knew tonight would be different.

There you go, Ted. Make my life a little bit easier.

At eleven-fifteen, the surgeon emerged, got his keys, tipped the night doorman, and drove off.

South.

Toward Iron Mount.

Straight into Iron Mount. The rain had lifted, and the streetwalkers were out in force, bundled in fake furs and padded ski jackets- short garb that allowed a clear view of shapely legs made longer by maliciously heeled shoes.

Young legs, old faces. A high-stepping, prancing parade. Very little auto traffic. No one but working girls willing to brave the cold.

Dirgrove drove past them, unmindful of Jeremy trailing a block back, the Nova’s headlights switched off.

A stupid, dangerous way to drive, a couple of times Jeremy narrowly missed hitting dope-blurred women who stepped off the curb.

His reward: curses, uplifted fingers, but what was his choice? Worst-case scenario, some cop would pull him over for a traffic violation. Not likely. No patrol cars in sight. Too cold for the cops.

That made him realize something: There was no police presence at all on these meanest of streets.

For all Doresh’s talk about working the killings, these were throwaway women, no one cared. Tyrene Mazursky’s name had made the paper, but the following victim, the woman left on the spit, hadn’t even merited that. At this rate, the next one wouldn’t get a line of ink.

Expediency trumps virtue.

Dirgrove kept going, at a moderate speed, past coveys of hookers. Jeremy waited for him to choose his prey, but the Buick never slowed, cut right through Iron Mount, crossed under a land bridge, passed a grid of shuttered commercial buildings, and entered the neighboring district.

Also low-rent; Jeremy wasn’t sure if this area had a name. Not really a neighborhood, just a dark, uninhabited stretch of businesses closed for the night.

Wholesalers and small factories. No streetwalkers, here. No reason for there to be. The nearest bar or strip joint or dope peddler was a good mile away.

Deserted.

Except for the woman who stepped out of the shadows and stood at the curb, in front of a long stretch of chain-link fence. She waited, bobbed up and down on needle heels.

When the anonymous gray-blue Buick came to a halt, she tossed her hair.