The Conspiracy Club

50

Eight-fifteen.

Jeremy located Augusto Graves’s office number by phoning the hospital operator. She had no listing of any home address; nor did Dr. Graves carry a beeper.

No patients to see, pure research.

Graves’s hospital base was the east wing of an auxiliary building across the street from the hospital. A newer building, set apart from the clinical world. Hushed space reserved for the laboratories of promising scientists. A refuge where a brilliant, cruel mind could run wild.

The hospital structure nearest to the nurses’ parking lot.

Graves watching, waiting. Seeing Jocelyn walk to her car every day.

Jocelyn happy after a day’s work, happier, yet, to be going home to Jeremy. Meeting-greeted by a good-looking man in a white coat.

Young nurse, older doctor. Hospital hierarchy dictated respect.

His badge would have firmed it up. M.D., Ph.D., full professor. When he spoke, smooth, urbane. Why would she have been suspicious?

Graves’s lab was on the ground floor, and the door was open.

Jeremy stood by the doorway and peered in. Large windows on the north wall afforded a clear view of the lot.

He entered. The layout was nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual mix of black-topped tables and glistening glassware and high-tech accoutrements. Jeremy recognized several lasers- stationery and handheld devices, arranged in a compulsive bank, each one labeled and all tagged with DO NOT TOUCH stickers. Computers, scanners, printers, a host of other equipment that meant nothing to him.

One wall had been given over to books. Basic science and surgery. Medical journals collected in open-faced boxes. Everything perfectly organized. No chemical smells; this was clean research.

Graves wasn’t there. The only person in view was a woman in a navy blue housekeeping uniform, sweeping the floor, positioning chairs. Probably another Eastern European immigrant, going about her job with a resigned look on her dumpling face.

Graves had created an office space in one corner of the lab. His desk was wide, substantial, covered by a spotless sheet of glass.

Bare, except for a rosewood in-out box. Both compartments contained neatly stacked documents.

Jeremy hurried behind the desk, tried the drawers, all locked.

“Hey,” said the sweeper, “you kanna do dat.”

Jeremy began rifling through the contents of the in-box. Nothing he could use. He moved on to the out-box.

“Hey,” said the woman.

Before she could protest further, he was out of there. Hot little hand clamped over his find.

Subscription card for a magazine-The Nation.

Graves had opted for another year. The card was preprinted with his new home address.

Hale Boulevard.

Four blocks south of the high-rise where his brother played at family man.