The Conspiracy Club (29 page)

When Jeremy passed her on the way to the covered walkway, she smiled at him, and said, “Brrr, it’s chilly.”

Jeremy smiled back.

Diamond wedding ring on her finger. What was her name? Gwen something . . .

Should he warn her?

Or did other women need to be warned about
her
?

Every two years, a face book was issued to the medical staff. Jeremy had never found it necessary to consult his, wasn’t even sure he’d kept it. But he found it in a bottom drawer of his desk. Hundreds of faces, but only 20 percent were women, so the tale was told soon enough.

Gwynn Alice Hauser, M.D. Internal medicine.
An assistant professor.

Dr. Hauser had a secret life.

How far did it go?

Over the next four days, Jeremy observed Gwynn Hauser on the wards and in the doctors’ dining room. She made no contact at all with Dirgrove, generally took her meals alone or in the company of other women. A cheerful sort, prone to laughter and flamboyant gestures. When she really got into a conversation, she removed her eyeglasses and leaned forward. Listened actively, as if what the person before her was saying was profound beyond belief.

One time, she lunched with a tall, dark, handsome man in a blue, double-breasted suit and the square, impassive face of a CEO. Wedding band on his hand, too, and he was openly affectionate with her.

The husband she’s cheating on.

Not a doctor, some sort of financial type, Jeremy was willing to bet. Taking the time out to share a meal with his busy wife. If he only knew how busy she was.

He encountered an internist he’d worked with, a man named Jerry Sallie, and asked him if he knew Gwynn Hauser.

“Gwynn? Sure. She make a move on you?”

“She’s like that?”

“Big tease, I’m not sure she’d come through,” said Sallie. “At least not that I’ve heard. She’s married to a bank president, has a sweet deal — he lets her do what she wants. She’s a pretty good doc. World’s biggest tease, though. Nice legs, huh?”

Friday night, Gwynn Hauser left the hospital at seven-thirty. Jeremy, sitting low in his Nova, behind a pylon in the doctors’ lot, waited as she drove away in her sky-colored Lexus. Dirgrove’s Buick was still in place.

Twenty minutes later, the surgeon appeared, at a near run, jumped into the Buick, started the engine up with a roar, and squealed out.

Exact same block in the nameless industrial neighborhood.

Dr. Gwynn Hauser stepped out of the shadows just as she had the first time. This time she had on an enormous white fur coat. Cloud-woman in spike heels; someone’s vision of heaven.

When Dirgrove pulled up, she parted the coat, revealed herself naked but for garters and stockings.

How could she stand the cold?

She couldn’t. Shivered and drew the fur closed and jumped up and down, pointing to the car.

Let me in, I’m freezing my ass off.

Dirgrove did.

Twenty-two minutes later, they parted ways.

This time, Jeremy followed Dirgrove. The surgeon headed straight for his luxury condo on Hale. He stayed home all night.

Family man.

When would he make his move?

D
oug Vilardi looked bad. Some of the skin on his face and arms had sloughed — an unexpected, allergic reaction to chemo — his white count remained way too high, his spleen was engorged, and his liver function had worsened. In no shape to talk, he remained awake and seemed to react well to Jeremy’s presence. Jeremy sat there, talked a bit, found something on TV that caused the young man to smile — recap of a week-old college football game.

Once again, Jeremy took Doug’s slumber as his cue to leave, and, once again, he encountered the family on the way out.

Mrs. Vilardi and Marika. Doug, Sr. was at work. They sat down in an empty waiting area. The previous occupants had left behind a stack of interior design magazines, and Jeremy swept them aside.

This time, Marika talked. About everything other than Doug’s illness. What he liked to eat, the dishes she’d learned to cook from her mother-in-law. How she was thinking of getting a puppy, and did Jeremy think that would be a good or a bad idea with a new baby coming.

The two women appeared close, literally leaned against each other for support.

When Jeremy asked about Marika’s family, Mrs. Vilardi answered for her. “They both passed on. Her poor mama was very young. Rosanna was one of my best friends, a wonderful, wonderful person. When she got sick, I used to take Mari in, to give her a quiet place to play, because Joe — her dad — was working and all she had was this aunt who was . . . you know.”

She smiled uneasily.

Marika said, “I had a crazy aunt.”

“That’s how Doug came to know Mari, from my taking her in all the time. Then Joe passed and it was convent boarding school but she came to visit all the time. Back then Dougie wasn’t interested in girls, right, honey?”

She nudged Marika.

The young woman said, “I was a skinny little stick with funny teeth, and Doug was into sports.”

Mrs. Vilardi said, “Oh, you were always a cutie.” To Jeremy: “I always loved this one, a real good girl. Tell the truth, I thought she’d be perfect for my other boy, Andy. But you never know, right, baby?”

“You sure don’t, Mom.” Marika’s eyes misted up.

“Dr. Carrier, do you come from a big family — excuse my getting personal and all, but you just seem to have that warm heart.”

“Pretty large,” said Jeremy.

“Nice people, I bet.”

“Very nice — I’ll come by later to see how he’s doing.” He squeezed her hand, then Marika’s, and stood.

“Thanks as always, Doctor — I didn’t offend you, did I? By asking about your family?”

“Not at all.” Jeremy patted her shoulder for punctuation.

“Good,” she said. “Because just for a second I thought you looked . . . like I offended you. I’m sure it’s me, I’m probably seeing everything screwy. Going out of my head with all that’s going on, you know.”

“You need to rest,” said Jeremy.

“You’re important to Dougie, Doctor. Back — the other time, he always said you were the only one treated him like a human being.”

“He did,” agreed Marika. “He told me that, too.”

Jeremy smiled. “That’s what he is. A human being.”

“He’s gonna be okay,” said Mrs. Vilardi. “I can feel it.”

As evening approached, with just over an hour to go before he trailed Ted Dirgrove, Jeremy located Angela through the House Staff office. She’d rotated to Endocrinology. He went there, and the charge nurse pointed to an examining room.

“Diabetic admitted for wound management, she shouldn’t be too long.”

Angela came out ten minutes later, looking flustered. “Hi. I’m kind of tired.”

“Take a break. Let’s get some coffee.”

“I’ve already had my caffeine quotient. It didn’t help.”

“Then have more.” He took her arm. “Come on, let’s get you on a serious caf jag.”

“Then what?”

“Then I study you, write it up, publish a paper.”

She tried not to smile. Failed. “Okay, but just for a few minutes.”

Instead of heading for the cafeteria, he steered her to some vending machines on the next floor up, the far end of the Rehab Ward, inserted a dollar bill, got both of them coffee.

“That stuff?” she said. “It’s putrid.”

“Don’t think of it as a beverage. It’s dope.”

He guided her to a couple of hard, orange chairs. Rehab was mostly a daytime thing, and the ward was quiet.

“I really am bushed,” she said. “And I’m nowhere near finished with my patients.”

Jeremy took her hand. Her skin was cool; she looked away, kept her fingers limp.

“You’re important to me,” he said. “I miss you, and I know I screwed up. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I’m willing to talk about anything.”

Angela chewed her lip and stared down at her lap. “None of that’s necessary.”

“Jocelyn’s murder was worse than anything I’d ever imagined. She was a big part of my life, and losing her — thinking about what she went through — ripped chunks out of my heart. I should’ve dealt with it sooner. Instead I let it fester. Cobblers’ kids going barefoot and all that.”

Angela raised her head. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “I should’ve understood. I shouldn’t have made demands.”

“No, it’s good someone’s finally making demands on me. I’ve been disconnected for a long time.”

She drank coffee, made a face. “It really
is
putrid.” Her fingers tightened around Jeremy’s. “I knew her. Not well, but I knew her. From when I rotated through Neuro. She was a sweet, sweet girl. One time, I was charting, and she was talking to another nurse about her boyfriend. How great he was, considerate, caring. How he always made her feel special. The other nurse tried to make a joke out of it. Something like, you know those shrinks, they learn to be sensitive in school. Jocelyn wouldn’t hear it, cut her off, said, ‘Don’t joke it away, I’m serious. I’m serious about him.’ I remember thinking, what kind of guy could inspire that? I didn’t know it was you. Even after we started going out, I had no idea. I just liked you because when you lectured to us, you were so intense. About what you did — about bringing out the humanity in everyone. That’s the message I wanted to hear when I started my internship but seldom did. It wasn’t until
after
we’d gone out a couple of times that someone — one of the other R-IIs — told me you were Jocelyn’s boyfriend. I remember thinking, ‘Uh-oh, this is going to be complicated.’ But I liked you, so . . . oh, Jeremy, I’m not
good
at this.”

She put her head on his shoulder.

He said, “Complicated, how?”

“This.”

“It won’t be a problem. No taboos, nothing off-limits. If you want me to talk about Jocelyn, I will—”

“That’s just it,” she said. “I’m not sure I want to — you obviously loved her very deeply, she’s still a part of you, and that’s good. If you could just dismiss her, I’d be repulsed. But the selfish part of me just doesn’t know if I can deal with . . . her memory. Hanging over us. It’s like having a chaperone — I know that sounds terrible, but—”

“It’s hanging over me, not us,” said Jeremy. “She’s gone. She’ll be more gone in a month, even more so in a year, and one day I won’t think about her much at all.” The backs of his eyes ached. Now his own tears had welled. “Intellectually I know all that, but my damn soul hasn’t adjusted.”

She dabbed at his eyes with her fingers. “I didn’t know psychology believed in the soul.”

It doesn’t.

Jeremy said, “It’ll take time, there’s no shortcut.” He looked at her.

Angela kissed his forehead.

Jeremy wrapped his arms around her. She felt small. He was about to lift her face for another kiss when a gangly teenage boy, probably someone’s grandson, came out of a patient room, loped down toward the coffee machine, saw them, and grinned lewdly.

“Go, dude,” the kid muttered, plunking coins down the slot.

Angela laughed in Jeremy’s ear.

They moved to his office, spent another quarter hour there, sitting quietly, Angela in Jeremy’s lap, her head resting on his chest. The portable radio Jeremy rarely played was tuned to insipid stuff that billed itself as smooth jazz. Angela’s breathing slowed, and he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. When he lowered his head to look, her eyes fluttered open, and she said, “I really need to get back.”

When they returned to Endocrinology, a prune-faced nurse said, “There’s a catheter waiting for you, Dr. Rios,” and walked away.

Jeremy said, “Nothing like the old Welcome Wagon.”

Angela smiled, grew serious. “Time to do some plumbing — Jeremy, thank you. For taking the initiative. I know it wasn’t easy.”

“Like I said, you’re important to me.”

She played with her stethoscope, kicked one shoe against the other — a little-kid gesture that pinched Jeremy’s chest. “You’re important to
me
, I wish we could spend some real time together, but I’ll be on for the next two nights.”

Me too.

He said, “Let’s aim for lunch.”

“Let’s do that. Dude.”

H
and-holder by day, self-deluded voyeur by night?

For two evenings running, Theodore Gerd Dirgrove left the hospital, drove straight home, and stayed there. Both nights, Jeremy watched the cream-colored high-rise until 3
A.M.
, alternating between sitting in his car and walking around the glossy neighborhood. He no longer felt the cold; some sort of internal oven was raging.

A good place to be spying — the glut of cafés and high-end cocktail lounges ensured a constant sprinkle of pedestrians that made his appearance less conspicuous. The second night, he patronized one of the lounges, a place on Hale called the Pearl Onion, where martinis were the thing. He hazarded one, straight up, mixed with Boodles gin, the eponymous vegetable — a pair — floating in the silky liquid. Arthur’s mix.

One drink, only, chased by coffee. He sat at a window booth that afforded him a view, through lace curtains, of Dirgrove’s building.

Fitting in. Enjoying the soft music — real jazz — the clink of glasses, the eager conversation of good-looking, affluent singles at the bar.

He’d made sure to dress well — had taken to dressing better, in general, to meet the needs of the . . . job. Donning his best sport coat and slacks, and a lush, black merino-cashmere overcoat that he’d bought in a deep-discount sale years ago at Llewellyn’s department store and had never worn since —
saving it for what?

He’d even brought a crisp shirt to his office so he could change before he set out on his—

Mission?

Find me a windmill, and I’ll tilt away.

That night, Dirgrove’s Buick never reappeared. The back of the building was an enclosed courtyard with only one way out of the subterranean parking lot, so even if the surgeon had chosen to retrieve the car himself, he’d have to drive around in front.