Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

Jocelyn had been none of that, and yet…

He bent low, cradled Angela’s head, kissed her brow.

She shifted position, reached down. “ You’re interested.”

“Physically, only.”

“Bull.”

“I’m offended that you would think me so crass.”

She laughed and moved back to eye level. They began kissing, stayed with it for a long time. No groping, no tongue duels, just whispery grazes of lip upon lip.

Angela said, “Oh, boy.”

“What?”

“Just oh, boy. You make me happy.”

“I’m glad.”

“Do I make you happy?”

“Sure.”

“Are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you happy? It’s hard to tell; you don’t say much,” she said. “In general, I like that. My dad and my brother are talky guys. Great guys but overpoweringly verbal. Whenever my brother was home from college, I was relegated to bystander.”

“What about your mother?”

“She just leaves the room. Being a doctor, she can be as busy as she’d like.”

“The convenient patient call,” said Jeremy.

“You know of such things, huh? So tell me, why are you reluctant to talk about yourself?”

“It’s a boring story.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Jeremy didn’t answer. Angela’s windows were covered by cheap shades. Moonlight transformed them to oversize sheets of parchment. Somewhere out on the street, a radio was playing. Scratchy rock music. A too-strong bass.

Angela said, “I’ve upset you.”

“Not at all.”

“I don’t want to be nosy, but we have been… intimate.”

“You’re right,” said Jeremy. “What do you want to know?”

“Where you were born, what your family’s like-”

“I don’t have a family.”

“None at all?”

“Not really.” He told her why. Kept talking. Starting with the accident, being shunted from place to place. The feelings of being alone- feelings he’d never put into words, not during his training analysis, not during clinical supervision, or pillow-talk ventures with other women.

Not with Jocelyn. He realized, with a shock, how little he and Jocelyn had talked.

He finished breathless, convinced opening up had been a grave mistake. A nice, wholesome girl from a well-to-do, intact family- a clan of confident professionals- would be put off by his rootlessness, the sadness of it all.

People talk about sharing, but you can’t share the past. Or anything else of consequence.

He was reflecting upon what that implied for his chosen profession when Angela sat up and cradled him and stroked his hair and played with his ears.

“That’s the whole sordid tale,” he said.

She placed one of his hands on her breast. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I changed my mind.”

“About what?”

“Not doing it.”

Later, when she began to yawn, Jeremy said, “I’ll let you sleep.”

“Sorry. I’m so bushed .” She squeezed him hard. “Do you want to stay the night?”

“I’d better not,” he said.

“You haven’t yet. I suppose there’s a reason.”

“I’m a restless sleeper, don’t want to disturb you. You’ve got a long day ahead of you, what with taking that guy’s shift.”

“Yes,” she said. “Guess so.”

Simultaneously they said, “The schedule.”

When she walked him to the door, she said, “So how was that dinner with Dr. Chess?”

“Not much of anything.”

“Was it a medical thing?”

“No,” he said. “More of a general thing. Believe me, it’s not worth getting into.”

He left her rooming house, got into his Nova and started up the engine. When his headlights went on, so did those of another car, behind him, midway down the block. When he pulled from the curb, the other car followed suit, driving in the same direction.

What the hell is this?

Jeremy sped up. The other car behind him didn’t. A big SUV from the height of the headlights. When he turned left on Saint Francis Avenue, it continued straight.

So much for high intrigue.

“I’ve got to get hold of myself,” he said, aloud.

No matter what those old fools think about reality, I need some.

Arthur wasn’t at tumor board. Another pathologist presided, an associate professor named Barnard Singh, bright and turbaned and dressed in a perfect gray suit. He got right to business, flashing slides of a synovial sarcoma. Gentian violet stain turned the specimens beautiful.

Jeremy asked the radiotherapist next to him, “Where’s Dr. Chess?” and received a shrug.

He sat through the hour, restless, and, despite himself, curious.

He called Arthur’s office extension, heard the phone ring. Went up to see his patients and tried three hours later. Not knowing what he’d say if Arthur picked up.

Just saying hi, old chap. Harumph pshaw. How’re the old CCC chumskys?

No answer.

Then he thought: What if something’s happened to him? Despite his outward robustness, Arthur was an old man. And the way he packed away alcohol and cholesterol…

Perhaps he’d had a heart attack and lay untended on the floor of his lab. Or worse.

Jeremy pictured the pathologist’s long frame stretched out, surrounded by jars of floating viscera, skeletal specimens, bodies in various states of dissection. Sterile tools laid out in preparation for human carpentry… laser scalpel? … an expensive gizmo. Would there be any reason for a pathologist to invest in one?

He hurried to the main wing, took the stairs down to the basement. Once again, Arthur’s office door was closed, and no one responded to Jeremy’s knock.

The morgue sat at the far end of the hall, and its door was open. The sleepy-looking attendant at the front desk was doing paperwork. No, he hadn’t seen Dr. Chess today, had no idea where he was.

“Was he here yesterday?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so.”

Jeremy backtracked to the Pathology Office, on the opposite end and around a bend.

A chubby woman in her forties sat sentry.

“Hi,” she said. “Can I help you, Doctor?”

“I’m looking for Dr. Chess.”

“He’s out.”

“Is he okay?”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“I just wondered,” said Jeremy. “He wasn’t at Tumor Board, and I’ve never known him to miss one.”

“Well,” she said, “he’s as fine as he could possibly be. I believe he’s taken some time off.”

“Vacation?”

“It’s not like that,” said the receptionist.

Jeremy’s puzzled look made her smile. She said, “You don’t know him well, do you? How long have you been attending T.B.?”

“A year.”

“Ah,” she said. “Well, Dr. Chess isn’t really on staff, anymore. Not officially, anyway.” She cupped her hand around her mouth, and whispered, “He doesn’t get paid.”

“He’s volunteering his time?” said Jeremy.

“You could call it that, but that really doesn’t describe it.” She lowered her voice even further, forcing Jeremy to lean in close. “He doesn’t do autopsies anymore, or analyze specimens. Doesn’t do much at all, except Tumor Board. But he’s such a brilliant man, has given so much to this hospital, that they allow him to keep his office, do any research he wants to do. It’s not a secret, but we don’t publicize it either. For Dr. Chess’s sake. It’s not like he’s deadweight or anything. He’s a major asset to this department because of his reputation. In fact, I’ll have you know, he turned this department into what it is.”

Her voice had risen. Indignant. Protective.

“He’s brilliant,” Jeremy agreed, and that seemed to mollify her.