The Conspiracy Club (33 page)

“All I want is the information.”

“About — why?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“What has
he
done?”

“You’re assuming
he’s
done something,” said Jeremy. “You’re not surprised that
he’d
do something.”

Hauser replaced the phone in its cradle. The tendons of her hands were bowstring tight. Jeremy watched as she pushed sheets of paper into a six-inch pile that she interposed between herself and Jeremy.

Pathetic barrier. She knew it. Her eyes were bright with confusion and fear.

“I don’t know enough to be surprised. All I know is what Ted tells me.”

She tried a little-girl pout. Smiled. When Jeremy remained stoic, she snarled, “Asshole. You don’t have any pictures, how could you have pictures?”

“Are you willing to bet on that?” said Jeremy. Sounding cool — the cool fellow surfacing, despite all the noise in his head.

“What do you want?”

“Tell me about him.”

“
What
about him?”

“For starters, his name.”

“You don’t even know his — are you out of your . . . his name is Graves. Augusto Graves, he’s part South American. Augie. He’s not Ted’s full brother. He’s a half brother. They’re not close. They grew up separately. Ted wants nothing to do with him, they had a big fight years ago, and Ted thought he was free of him, but then Augie showed up.”

“He works here?”

“He’s here temporarily. One-year research grant in Ob-Gyn. Some corporate grant. Ted’s convinced he obtained it just to make trouble for him.”

A temporary appointment would account for no photo in the face book.

Jeremy said, “Research in laser surgery.”

Her pretty blue eyes widened. “You didn’t know his name, but you know that? What the hell’s going on?”

“Where’s Graves’s home base?”

“The West Coast, Seattle, I think. One of the big academic hospitals, there. And England — Cambridge. He travels all over the world lecturing. He’s a genius. Full professor by thirty-five. Ted’s still an associate. He hates him.”

“Jealousy?”

“That’s part of it. But I believed Ted when he says Augie’s intent on outdoing him at every turn.”

“Ted talks about him a lot.”

Gwynn Hauser exhaled. “The topic comes up.”

“Thorn in the side.”

“Big thorn. What did he do, and why do you care?”

“You’re assuming he did something bad.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

Jeremy remained silent. Therapist’s silence, one of the few “tricks” in his puny arsenal. Aimed straight at her resistance.

She said, “Ted says he’s got a mean streak. They didn’t meet until Ted was in college and Augie was in high school. Ted’s father abandoned him and his mother. Married Augie’s mother and lived in some Arab country, then South America. Later, Augie and his mother came to America and Augie went to school, there. One day, out of the clear blue, he appeared at Ted’s fraternity house, introduced himself, tried to insinuate himself into Ted’s life.”

“Ted didn’t welcome the reunion.”

“He’d never known about Augie. No one had ever
mentioned
another family. He didn’t know much about his father, period. All his mom said was that he was a doctor and had died doing research in the jungle somewhere.”

“Research into what?”

“I have no idea,” said Hauser. “No doubt something brilliant. Ted’s brilliant, and so is Augie. That’s part of the problem. I assume they got it somewhere.”

“Like father, like son.”

She nodded.

Jeremy prompted her: “Part of what problem?”

“Two oversize brains, two massive egos. Ted’s convinced Augie went to med school only because he did. And Augie did outdo him. Got into the number one school, while Ted’s was ranked third. Plus, Augie received a full scholarship and enrolled under a double degree program. M.D.-Ph.D., all in five years.”

“What’s his Ph.D. in?”

“Bioengineering. He’s a laser honcho. Plus, he’s board certified in general surgery and Ob-Gyn, even did some work in Ophthalmology. We’re talking major brainiac.” She managed a wry smile. “Poor Ted, he’s merely brilliant.”

Bioengineering. Jeremy flashed back to the
Curiosity
file. The second article. Laser surgery on women. An American team, from the West Coast. Physicians and engineers.

Arthur had led him straight.
He’d
missed the cue.

“Have you ever met him?”

“I’ve seen him around but only talked to him once. Last week as a matter of fact. Ted and I were lunching in the DDR, and he waltzed over, sat down with us.” She smiled. “The moment his butt touched the chair he was coming on to me. Nothing you could call him on. Subtly. Looks, smiles. He’s a smooth one. Ted was
not
amused. I told him not to worry, the guy’s not my type.”

“Why not?”

“Too refined. I like ’em a little ragged.” She cast a knowing glance at Jeremy.

Trying to take what belonged to his brother. That explained the argument.

He said, “What about the mean streak?”

Gwynn Hauser said, “Ted never got specific. He just said Augie had been known to be cruel — to do cruel things. That Augie made him nervous, he didn’t want him near his family. Or me. I didn’t press him for details.” Another flutter of eyelash. “To be honest, hearing Ted go on about him bores me to tears. Playing nursie to his insecurities wasn’t what I’d bargained for.”

“Neurotic, not ragged.”

“Exactly. Give me raw, misguided energy any day.”

Again, her legs crossed. “To be honest, I’m growing a wee bit tired of Ted. When push came to shove, he turned out like all the others.”

“Boring.”

“Boring and a weenie. He always needs propping up. Thinks he’s a player, but down deep he’s just a family man who sneaks around.”

Jeremy said, “What else can you tell me about Augie Graves?”

“Nothing,” she said. Her left hand grazed her right breast. “Boy, you really took over, didn’t you? Just burst in here like some Visigoth and got me to do things I never thought I’d do.”

Color had returned to her face. Peach tones tinctured by flush.

She smiled, exposed a row of pearly, glistening teeth. “And to look at you, you’d never know it . . . you could show me things, couldn’t you?”

“All part of the training,” said Jeremy, turning to leave.

“Maybe,” she said, “one day you can tell me more about it.”

E
ight-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.

J
eremy knew what he’d find when he located the building. An even better address than Dirgrove’s cream-colored high-rise.

Graves, the ultimate taker.

Now, Jeremy was certain Dirgrove
had
been interested in Jocelyn. Perhaps it had ended at flirtation. Or Jocelyn had enjoyed a fling with the surgeon before meeting Jeremy.

Nearly everything else he’d imputed to Dirgrove was wrong. The man was an adulterer and an insecure skirt-chaser, but no more than that.

Nothing nefarious about the consult on Merilee Saunders. Either Dirgrove had been genuinely concerned about his patient’s reaction to surgery, or he’d been trying to impress Angela with his sensitivity.

Either way, nothing untoward about Merilee’s death. Before leaving the hospital, Jeremy had rushed back to the main building, entered the medical library, and located the M and M sheet on the young woman. Cerebral aneurysm. A hidden little blood vessel in her brain had burst.

As Dirgrove had said, one of those things that happens.

But he had taunted Jeremy . . . sins of the father on a subtler level?

But that was of no concern, now. Augusto Graves was an heir of a different sort. Bought into the complete paternal endowment.

Made
things happen.

Growing up in Brazil, Graves had been well aware of his father’s crimes, the circumstances surrounding his death.

Jailhouse visit. Watching his father treated like a celebrity.

After Degraav’s suicide, Graves’s mother had taken the boy to the States.

Where Graves thrived. And twisted further.

A man who lusted and schemed and exulted in the capture of what belonged to others.

Jocelyn had been chosen because Dirgrove wanted her, and Graves had found out.

Graves came on to Gwynn Hauser as well. She’d blown him off. Not her type. Thinking she was in control. How little she understood.

Angela. Dirgrove had concocted a smooth scheme to seduce her.

Did Graves know about that?

If so . . .

Jeremy needed to let Angela know. His warnings about Dirgrove had irritated her.

Sorry, he’s not the threat. But . . .

How to do it so she didn’t think him mad? It sounded nothing
but
mad.

Jeremy came up with no answer. He paged Angela, anyway. The words would come, they always did.

She didn’t answer.

He tried again.

Nothing.

Maybe she was caught up in a procedure. He’d go up to Endocrinology, the ostensible reason letting her know he’d be busy tonight. Then, somehow, he’d work in the terrible truth.

When he got there, an ill-tempered nurse told him, “You tell
me
where she is.”

“What do you mean?”

“She flaked on us. Disappeared. Poof. A whole ward of patients, and she just walks off without informing anyone. Talk about unprofessional. I’ve informed the chief.”

She was still griping when Jeremy turned his back and ran back to the elevators.

A
beautiful building.

White marble facing, copper trim, art deco angles, a circular driveway more commodious than the one fronting Dirgrove’s condo. A copper fountain — angels trumpeting — spouted from the center of the drive. Tall spruces hugged the corners of the structure.

Tivoli Arms.
Five stories taller than Dirgrove’s high-rise.

But only one doorman. And when he finished helping a white-haired couple into their limousine, Jeremy approached him.

He’d changed into the spare shirt he’d brought that morning, had knotted his tie snugly, slicked his hair, washed his face. He put authority into his walk and posture. His black merino-cashmere topcoat was open, and he made sure the doorman caught a glimpse of the hospital badge clipped to his jacket lapel.

He must have looked right because the doorman smiled at him as if he belonged. “May I help you, sir?”

“I’m Dr. Carrier, an associate of Dr. Graves’s from City Central Hospital. Is he in?”

“Sure is, got in an hour ago. I’ll have someone ring you up. C’mon in out of the cold.”

“Thanks.”

The two of them entered the lobby, and the doorman handed him off to the man behind the reception desk. Young fellow, pleasant, in a navy blazer with gold buttons, button-down shirt, rep tie. His wheat-colored hair was razor cut. His gold name tag said
K. BURNSIDE.

He said, “One moment, Doctor,” and picked up the house phone. Held it to his ear, finally put it down. “That’s odd. I know he’s in.”

“How so?”

“I took his car, and he hasn’t called for it.”

“Maybe he decided to get it himself.”

“Hmm. Doubtful. Dr. Graves always has us bring his car around. Hold on, I’ll check with the parking steward.”