Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

He needed to talk to someone. Look into their eyes, read the nonverbal messages he’d supposedly been trained to decode.

That left Judge Tina Balleron, formerly of superior court.

Now of the golf course.

The woman’s gigantic black pearls said she was fixed financially. Perhaps the good life included country club golf.

The city hosted three clubs. The Haverford, a relative upstart at sixty years old, accepted selected minorities. The Shropshire and the Fairview remained Protestant and lily-white.

Was Balleron a Latin name?

He called the Haverford first and asked for the judge. The man who answered said, “I don’t believe she’s arrived yet.”

“This is Dr. Carrier. When’s she due?”

“Let’s see… she’s scheduled to tee off at 3 P.M. A doctor… is the judge all right?”

“She’s dandy,” said Jeremy, hanging up. The man had made no inquiries about a husband or other family member. Assuming any trouble would be the judge’s.

Did that mean Tina Balleron lived alone? Just like Arthur.

Just like Jeremy?

So what?

No more assuming.

He saw his patients nonstop, eschewed coffee or lunch or breaks, hurried through his charts and kept his trench coat with him so he’d be able to leave the hospital without returning to his office.

At two-fifteen, he drove city streets to Hale Boulevard, continued on that sleek condominium-lined byway with its views of the lake, and continued out to the northern countryside.

The scenic route. Opposite direction from the journey to Arthur’s rooming house in Ash View.

This trip was upper-level exurbia, then equestrian estates and gentleman’s farms, the occasional riding academy, a couple of boarding schools surrounded by obstructive greenery. A mesh of finger lakes appeared, the land between them sodden as rice paddies. More empty meadows followed. Brightly painted signs advertised hundred-acre parcels. At 2:40 P.M., Jeremy was rolling up to the twenty-foot stone posts and iron gates of the Haverford Country Club.

Beyond the scrollwork was a sloping drive bordered by a low fieldstone ledge. Monumental trees sprouted on all sides. A white guardhouse sat in the distance. Jeremy parked at the side of the road.

The sun was recalcitrant, but that did little to ruin the scenery. He rolled down his window, and the air smelled sweet. Miles of barbered grass were too green, and rain-inked tree trunks glistened like obsidian columns. Stalwart rhododendrons and courageous roses defied the season and tossed off arrogant color. Ferns dripped with promise, and a few scarlet cardinals flitted in and out of the foliage.

No marauding ravens out here. A sky that had gloomed the city managed to be pretty: planes of polished silver striped with apricot deepening to crimson where the moisture refused to budge.

Jeremy thought of a poster in one of his colleague’s offices. A psychologist named Selig, a kind, smart man who’d made a bundle in the stock market but continued to see patients because he enjoyed healing. He drove an old Honda to work, kept a new Bentley in the garage.

I’ve Been Poor and I’ve Been Rich. Rich Is Better.

Jeremy wondered what it would be like to be rich. He’d treated enough wealthy depressives to know that money didn’t buy you happiness. Could it do anything to blunt the misery when things went really bad?

He sat in his car, eyes on the country club’s gates. During a fourteen-minute period, five luxury cars arrived, punched in at the call box and, when the ironwork swung open, cruised through confidently.

The sixth car was Tina Balleron’s white Cadillac and Jeremy was waiting, standing several feet in front of the gate, when she pulled up.

Not a new Caddy. Five, six years old, with dark-tinted windows and chromed, spoked wheels. A thin red pinstripe bisected the robust chassis, and a fresh wax job repelled moisture.

Like Arthur’s Lincoln, beautifully maintained.

The dark windows were rolled up. When they lowered, Jeremy noticed they were much thicker than usual- a good half inch of convex glass.

He’d expected Tina Balleron to be startled by his presence, but her face was serene. “Dr. Carrier.”

“Your Honor.”

“Do you golf?”

Jeremy smiled. “Not quite. I was hoping to speak with you before you teed off.”

She glanced at a diamond wristwatch. No black pearls today; a pink cameo on a gold chain. Diamond chip in the coral woman’s eyes. One of Tina Balleron’s silver-nailed hands curled on the Cadillac’s padded steering wheel. The other rested on a cream-colored ostrich handbag. A long fur coat lay across the rear seat.

She said, “Let me pull over.”

She parked behind Jeremy’s car. He followed on foot, heard a click that meant she’d unlocked the doors, and headed for the passenger door.

The passenger window lowered. The same thick glass. “Come in out of the cold, Jeremy.”

When he opened the door, he felt its extra weight. The panel closed with the hiss of a bank vault. An armored car.

He slid onto the passenger seat. The car’s interior was ruby red leather. A tiny gold plaque on the glove compartment was inscribed: To Tina, With All My Love, Bob. Happy Birthday!

An August date, just over five years ago.

So there had been a husband. Maybe there still was.

The ostrich purse rested in Tina Balleron’s sleek lap. She wore a baby blue, knit pantsuit and navy patent shoes. Her champagne-tinted hair was freshly done. The fur across the backseat was dyed mink- a precise match to her coiffure. A crystal bud vase bracketed between the windows on the driver’s side held a single white rose.

“So,” she said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Sorry to barge in like this, but I’m looking for Arthur. I haven’t been able to reach him in nearly a week.”

“He’s traveling.”

“I know that,” said Jeremy. “He’s been sending me postcards.”

“Has he? Well, that’s good.”

“Why is that?”

Tina Balleron smiled. “Arthur’s fond of you, Jeremy. It’s good when people express their fondness, don’t you think?”

“I suppose… does he travel much?”

“From time to time- Jeremy, my dear, you can’t have driven all the way out here to discuss Arthur’s travel habits. What’s really on your mind?”

“I’ve been getting other things in the mail- the hospital mail.”

“Things,” she said. Her fingers played with the clasp of the ostrich-skin bag.

“Articles from medical journals- on laser surgery. Then an account of a ten-year-old murder in England and a piece on physician suicide.”

He waited for her reaction.

She didn’t offer one.

“Judge, I assumed Arthur was sending them to me because I couldn’t think who else might be behind it. But he’s in Europe, so it’s not him.”

“And you’re puzzled.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“And you drove all the way out here to indulge your puzzlement.”

Indulge; same word he’d used when rationalizing.

“What’s behind it,” said Tina Balleron, stroking the bag. “That sounds as if you think it’s a plot of some sort.”

“I guess I do feel that way. The articles arrive unannounced, unexplained, and I can’t find any reason why I’d be the recipient. It’s a little unnerving, wouldn’t you say?”

Tina Balleron turned contemplative.

When she didn’t speak, Jeremy said, “I assumed Arthur was sending them because he’s interested in violence- from what I heard at supper, you all are.”

Balleron unclasped the purse, clicked it shut. “And you consider that an unusual interest.”

“Violence?”

“Life-and-death issues,” she said. “Wouldn’t they be core issues for any civilized person?” She waved a hand around the car. “Pretty things are nice, Jeremy, but in the end they’re all diversions.”