The Conspiracy Club (28 page)

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.

T
he prostitute got into Dirgrove’s car, and Jeremy sat watching, a hundred feet up, his lights off. Same for his engine; no exhaust or noise gave him away.

Between him and the Buick were two parked cars. He opened his window, stuck his head out a bit to get a better view. Cold air seared his lungs. He suffered gladly.

His key remained in the ignition. Ready at any moment to follow the Buick. Knowing he had to be there if —
when
things got ugly.

He’ll have to take her somewhere. Keep his car clean.

He needs space to work. Dissection — some makeshift operatory in the bowels of the slums . . .

The Buick’s lights went off. White smoke curled from its exhaust pipes, then dissipated. The car just sat there, five minutes, ten, fifteen. At twenty, Jeremy began to panic, wondered if he’d been horribly wrong. What if Dirgrove
did
use the car — maybe that’s why he drove an old one. No, too careless. You could never get rid of the blood — perhaps he anesthetized them in the car, strangled them — should he chance a closer look?

The clap of a car door closing broke into his thoughts.

The prostitute had gotten out, was tugging at her clothing. She waved at the Buick, and Dirgrove drove away.

Decision time: follow the car, or talk to the woman? Warn her.
Yes, he’s a charming guy, this time you got off easily —

The prostitute walked up the block, heels clacking, butt swaying, long legs stiltlike.

She got into one of the parked cars.

A streetwalker with her own wheels. That was a switch.

Nice wheels, a Lexus, one of the smaller models, a light color, shiny hubcaps.

Maybe this one had no pimp, kept all her earnings.

But working out here, away from the motorcade of potential customers that cruised Iron Mount, how lucrative could it be? And why work a freezing street if you could afford a car like that?

Unless this one went for quality, not quantity. Men like Dirgrove paying a premium for whatever it was she offered.

The Lexus pulled away from the curb. Jeremy waited until she’d made a right at the next corner before turning the ignition key.

She drove toward downtown. Checking her image in the rearview mirror, talking on a cell phone once, but otherwise driving carefully, conventionally, with no eye toward snagging any more business.

One good customer a night? What did she
do
for him?

The Lexus held its course, neared the hospital district. Neared City Central.

The prostitute drove to a quiet street around the corner from City Central. Just yards from the nurses’ lot, where Jocelyn had been taken. Parking, she switched off her headlights.

She stayed there for four minutes, during which time Jeremy saw her arms rise and a garment slip over her head. Then another piece of clothing — something with long sleeves — was rolled down in its place.

Changing outfits.

When she was through, she consulted the rearview again, switched on a reading light. Not long enough for Jeremy to get a good look at her, but he could tell what she was doing. Touching up her lipstick. Then, she was cruising again.

One block. To the doctors’ lot. Into the lot.

Jeremy followed, okay now out in the open, because this was a place he belonged.

So did she. She slid a card into the slot and the gate opened.

They both parked. The Lexus was pale blue. When she got out of the car he recognized her as a physician he’d seen around but had never met. An internist he was pretty sure had come on staff fairly recently.

Midforties, good figure, pleasant but unremarkable face, blond hair textured in an efficient bob. She wore a knee-length charcoal wool skirt in place of the mini she’d sported during her tryst with Dirgrove. The garment she’d slipped over her head was a pink cashmere cowl neck sweater that she quickly concealed with a long, gray herringbone coat with a black velvet collar. Spike heels had been replaced by sensible loafers. She wore glasses.