Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

A spot that gave him a full, close view of a particular, cream-colored, limestone high-rise.

A postmodern thing, with gratuitous trim, a green-canopied awning, a cobbled circular drive, not one, but two maroon-liveried doormen. One of the best addresses on Hale, a premium condo.

The place Theodore G. Dirgrove, M.D. listed on his curriculum vitae under “Home Address.”

Exactly the kind of sleek, stylish building in which you’d expect a successful surgeon to live with his wife and two children.

That had been a bit of a surprise, Dirgrove married, with kids, playing at domestic life. Then Jeremy thought: No, it’s not. Of course he’d play the game. Just as his father had done.

Spouse: Patricia Jennings Dirgrove

Children: Brandon, 9; Sonja, 7.

Sweet.

Another surprise: Dirgrove drove a dull car- a five-year-old Buick. Jeremy had expected something pricier- something smooth and German, wouldn’t that have been a nice tribute to Daddy?

Once again, Dirgrove’s cleverness became apparent: Who’d notice the grayish blue sedan nosing its way out of a darkened alley in a low-rent neighborhood?

When you knew what you were dealing with, everything made sense.

Clarity was a heady drug. Jeremy worked all day, drove all night, lived on insight, convinced himself he rarely needed to eat or sleep.

The surgeon kept surgeon’s hours, often leaving for work before 6 A.M. and not returning until well after dark.

On the third day of watching, Dirgrove took his family out to dinner, and Jeremy got a good look at the wife and kids as they piled into the Buick.

Patricia Jennings Dirgrove was short and pleasant-looking, a brunette with a curly, rather mannish hairdo. Good figure, high energy, nimble. From the flash of face Jeremy caught, a determined woman. She wore a black, fur-collared wrap and left it unbuttoned. Jeremy caught a glimpse of red knit pants and matching top. One step above sweats. Dressing for comfort. Dirgrove hadn’t changed out of the day’s suit and tie.

The children resembled Patty- as Jeremy came to call her- more than Ted . Brandon was stocky with a mop of dark hair, little Sonja slightly fairer but with none of Dirgrove’s Nordic bone structure.

For their sake, Jeremy hoped the lack of resemblance to their father didn’t end there.

Cute kids. He knew what was in store for them.

He followed them to dinner. Ted and Patty chose a midpriced Italian place ten blocks south, where they were seated up front, visible to the street behind a plate-glass window decorated by ornate gold leaf lettering. Inside were wooden booths, a brass-railed cappuccino bar, a copper espresso machine.

Jeremy parked around the corner and made his way past the restaurant on foot, drawing the lapels of his raincoat around his face, a newly purchased black fedora set low.

He strolled past the window, eyes concealed by the hat’s brim. Bought a newspaper from a stand to look normal and repeated the pass. Back and forth. Three more times. Dirgrove never looked up from his lasagna.

The surgeon sat there, bored. All the smiling conversation, between Brandon and Sonja and Mom.

Patty was attentive to the kids, helped the little girl twirl spaghetti on her fork. During his final pass, Jeremy saw her glance at her husband. Ted didn’t notice; he was staring off at the espresso machine.

Family time.

When would he leave the comforts of hearth and home and do what really turned him on?

It happened on the fourth night.

A day full of surprises; that morning, Jeremy received a postcard from Rio.

Beautiful bodies on a white sand Brazilian beach.

He felt smart.

Dr. C:

Traveling and learning. A.C.

So am I, my friend.

As if that wasn’t enough, he received a call from Edgar Marquis at 6 P.M., just before he was ready to embark on the night’s surveillance.

“Dr. Carrier,” said the ancient diplomat. “I’m delivering a message from Arthur.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, he’d like me to inform you that he’s enjoying his vacation- finding it quite educational. He hopes you’ve been well.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jeremy. “Well, and busy.”

“Ah,” said Marquis. “That’s good.”

“I imagine you’d think so, sir.”

Marquis cleared his throat. “Well, then, that’s all. Good evening.”

“Where’d he call from, Mr. Marquis?”

“He didn’t say.”

Jeremy laughed. “You’re not going to tell me a damn thing, are you? Not even now.”

“Now?”

“I’m on the job, Mr. Marquis.”

No answer.

Jeremy said, “Just indulge me on one small detail. ‘CCC.’ What does it stand for. How’d it get started- what drew you together?”

“Good food and wine, Dr. Carrier.”

“Right,” said Jeremy.

Silence.

“What was your ordeal, Mr. Marquis? What lit the fire in your belly?”

The merest hesitation. “Chili peppers.”

Jeremy waited for more.

“The cuisine of Indonesia,” said Marquis, “can be quite piquant. I was educated there, in matters of taste and reason.”

“So,” said Jeremy. “That’s the way it’s going to be.”

The ancient man didn’t respond.

“Mr. Marquis, I don’t imagine you’d tell me when Arthur’s due back.”

“Arthur makes his own schedule.”

“I’m sure he does. Good-bye, sir.”

“Doctor? With regard to the origins of our little group, suffice it to say that your participation would be considered… harmonious in more ways than one.”

“Would it?”

“Oh, yes. Consider it a case of the obvious.”

“Obvious what?”

“Obvious,” Marquis repeated. “Etched in stone.”

No caller ID to trace. The bottom-line people said anything beyond basic phone service was a frivolity.

As Jeremy took the stairs down to the rear exit, he digested what Marquis had told him.

Spicy food in Indonesia. I was educated, there.

Marquis’s baptism of loss had taken place in that island nation. One day, if Jeremy was sufficiently curious, he’d try to find out. At the moment, he had watching to do.

When he got to the rear exit, he found it padlocked. Had someone gotten wise to him? Or was it just a quirk of competence on the part of the security guards?

He made his way back toward the hospital lobby, pausing by the candy machine where he’d spied Bob Doresh and buying himself a chocolate-covered coconut cluster.

He’d never really liked candy; even as a child he’d never been tempted. Now he craved sugar. Chewing happily, he neared the hospital’s main entrance. Passed the donor wall.

Etched in stone. And there it was.

Mr. and Mrs. Robert Balleron.Founders Donation, ten years ago. Below that, a more recent contribution, Founders level, four years ago:

Judge Tina F. Balleron, In Loving Memory of Robert Balleron.

The donor list wasn’t alphabetized, and that made it a bit more time-consuming, but Jeremy found them all. By the time the last speck of coconut had tumbled down his throat he was flushed with insight.

Professor Norbert Levy, In Loving Memory of His Family.

Four years ago.

Mr. Harrison Maynard, In Loving Memory of His Mother, Effie Mae Maynard, and Dr. Martin Luther King.

Same year.

Ditto: Mr. Edgar Molton Marquis, In Loving Memory of Kurau Village.

And:

Arthur Chess, M.D., In Memory of Sally Chess, Susan Chess, and Arthur Chess, Junior.

Arthur had lost his entire family.

Too horrible to contemplate, and Jeremy couldn’t afford that level of empathy, right now. Jamming the candy wrapper into his pocket, he retraced his steps through the lobby and headed for the Development Office.