Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

Jeremy breathed slowly, deeply- keeping his rage in his belly, no way would he let this bastard in.

“You’re a romantic, Mr. Doresh. Do you buy your wife flowers? Are you good about remembering anniversaries? Do the two of you trade pet names?”

Now it was the detective’s turn to color.

“Anything else?” said Jeremy.

“As a matter of fact,” said Doresh, “I was wondering about Dr. Chess. He’s your pal, right? He have theories about the cases?”

So that was it. Detective Inspector Michael Shreve, ever the inquisitive detective- ever the suspicious sonofabitch- had gotten off the phone with him and worked feverishly at finding a colleague in this city on the trail of a psychopathic killer. Something Jeremy had said- or had failed to say- had revved the Englishman’s suspicions, and he’d decided to check things out.

The surgical question, had to be the surgical question. Meaning he’d been right about the English murders. Or, rather, Arthur had.

He said, “Dr. Chess has a general interest in crime. He’s a pathologist, used to work at the Coroner’s Office.”

“Did he? So, what does he think? Insight-wise.”

“That I couldn’t tell you,” said Jeremy. “He’s traveling, right now.”

“Where?”

“Norway.”

“Pretty place,” said Doresh.

Him, too?

“Ever been there?” said Jeremy.

The detective snorted. “Except for the Army, I’ve been out of the country exactly once. Four days in Rome, and that was years ago. My wife likes to eat. She came back all excited about learning to cook Italian, but it’s still pot roast and macaroni casserole.”

Doresh’s domesticity set Jeremy’s teeth on edge. Lucky man…

“Where’d you serve in the Army, Detective?”

“Philippines. How ’bout you? Any service?”

“You don’t know?”

“Why would I?”

“I figured you’ve checked me out thoroughly.”

Doresh’s smile said Jeremy had delusions of grandeur. “No service, huh?”

Jeremy shook his head.

“Too bad,” said Doresh. “You missed out.”

“No doubt.”

The detective got to his feet. “I mean that in all seriousness, Doc. Service to your country- anything you do for others- is good for the soul. Then again, you probably get that by working. Your hypnosis work, whatever.”

Mentioning hypnosis more than once to let Jeremy know he had checked him out.

Games, always games. Meanwhile, women died. This guy was useless.

Jeremy got up.

Doresh said, “Relax, don’t bother seeing me out. And anytime you have an idea, Doc, feel free to call.”

Doresh’s drop-in left Jeremy rattled.

He barges in, and I feel like a suspect. What’s the matter with me?

Maybe it was the woman on Saugatuck Finger, no name. Tyrene Mazursky had been named. What did that mean? Old hat? Throwaway victims? Now, they didn’t even merit a name ?

His breath quickened, and his eyes hurt. The walls of his office closed in on him. He paged Angela, but she didn’t answer. Tried it again- thinking a second time meant dependence and was he ready for that?

Still, no answer.

So tired of going it alone.

The air shaft outside his window was black, and all at once the window was wet and oily. Rain, a hard, dirty downpour, spitting at the glass.

He threw on his coat, left the hospital, walked to the surly mute’s bookstore.

By the time he got there, his coat was soaked through, his shoes sloshed, and his hair was plastered to his skull.

No one else was out on the street. No one stupid enough. A late-model station wagon was parked in front of the store. White, that made it easy to see. The blackened windows rendered the shop nearly invisible in the gloom. The door was open, and he walked in.

No fat man at the desk.

No desk.

No bookshelves, books. Nothing. The lights were on, but the space was empty, save for a coat folded over a chair, an unplugged cash register on the gray linoleum floor, and a strawberry blond woman sweeping up.

She said, “You poor thing- are you a customer?”

“I was.”

“You don’t know. I’m sorry. I wish I had a towel or something.”

“Don’t know what?”

“The shop’s gone. My father died.”

Jeremy groped for the fat man’s name- Arthur had mentioned it… Renfrew. Finally, some neurons were firing correctly.

“Mr. Renfrew died?” he said.

The woman leaned her broom against the wall and came forward. She had a roundish, pleasant face, hips you could rest your hands on, maternal breasts, and curly, shoulder-length hair of the prettiest shade Jeremy had ever seen. Buttermilk complexion, light freckles, green eyes, forty or so. Little makeup because she knew she was aging well.

Her clothes were ill suited for janitorial work- a well-cut, mint green suit and matching shoes, discreet gold necklace, a diamond-studded wedding band. The raincoat on the chair was camel-colored, dry, folded neatly.

“I’m Shirley Renfrew DePaul, Mr. Renfrew’s daughter.” She gazed around the empty shop. “It’s the end of an era, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, it is.” Jeremy introduced himself.

“From the hospital,” she said. “Lots of doctors and nurses came here. Dad created an institution. Back when the neighborhood was better, you had all kinds of intellectuals dropping in- writers, poets, people of artistic stature. They weren’t loyal. It was you hospital people who helped sustain Dad during the last few years. Did you know that he studied medicine when he was young?”

“Really.”

“For two years, then he decided against it. Poetry was more to his liking. He was a soft man, raised me all by himself.”

Shirley Renfrew DePaul shoved a weak smile past her grief, and Jeremy pushed aside memories of the old grump who’d never acknowledged him. “This was a great place, Mrs. DePaul, and your father made a big impact. When did he pass on?”

“Just over a month ago. He’d had throat cancer years before- he used to puff on a pipe, nonstop. They took out most of his palate and damaged his vocal cords, but he beat the disease. Then his heart started to go bad, and we knew it was only a matter of time. My husband and I wanted him to come live with us, but he refused, insisted he wanted to be close to the shop.”

Palate surgery. Jeremy had attributed the fat man’s mutism to general surliness.

With my track record, I’ve got to stop assuming.

Renfrew dying a month ago meant shortly after Jeremy’s last visit.

The man had been terminal, gave no indication.

Shirley DePaul’s smile failed, and tears misted her eyes. Green irises, deepened by the suit. Stunning, really. Not a beautiful woman- not by far- she was barely handsome. But Jeremy was certain she’d never lacked for male attention.

She said, “I hoped it would happen the way it did. Dad came into the shop on a Monday, sat down, brewed his Postum and drank it, put his head down on the desk and never woke up. He couldn’t have scripted it better, dying among the books he loved.”

The last time Jeremy had been here he’d encountered Arthur reading something on war strategy. A couple of weeks later, Arthur had shown up at his office and turned on the charm. As an old customer- someone who’d known Renfrew’s name- he must’ve been aware of the bookseller’s passing. Yet he’d never said anything.

He said, “He didn’t suffer.”

“A blessing. So was his life.” Shirley DePaul’s new smile flickered and faded. “For the most part.”

She took a deep breath and eyed her broom. “Dad adored everything to do with bookselling. I’m an only child, but not really. This place was my sibling. There were times when I considered it a rather daunting rival.”