Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

“Development” was institutional jargon for fund-raising, and Jeremy recalled the place as staffed by slim, chatty young women in designer suits and headed by a blowhard named Albert Trope. It was 6:20 P.M.- a window of time remained, Dirgrove rarely got home before six-thirty, seven. Nonmedical personnel tended to leave well before five, so it was probably too late to catch the office open, but he was here already.

The chatty young women had left. But the door was open and a janitor- a morose-looking Slav, probably one of the recent immigrants the hospital had taken to hiring because they knew nothing about labor laws- was vacuuming the plush, blue wall-to-wall.

Jeremy, his professional staff badge in full view, walked right past the man and over to a faux-Regency bookshelf in a corner of the generous reception room.

Good perfume- remnants of the young women- hung in the air. The entire room was done up in high-style pretense; the place looked like a movie set of a French salon. Make the deep-pocket crowd feel right at home…

The janitor ignored Jeremy as he pawed through the case. On the shelves were plastic-covered testimonials from satisfied patients, photo albums of cute little kids cured at City Central, gushing accounts of celebrity visits along with the requisite photo ops, and years and years of fund-raising ephemera.

Including journals of the hospital’s biggest event, the yearly Gala Ball.

Jeremy had been to one gala, two years ago. Asked to deliver a speech on humanism, then leave before dinner.

He found the four-year-old edition. In front was an explanation of several tiers of contribution. Within each tier, names were listed alphabetically.

Donor, Sponsor, Patron, Founder, Gold Ribbon Circle.

Founder meant a twenty-thousand-dollar pledge. The CCC people had ponied up generously.

He found a picture of all of them, together. Arthur at the center, surrounded by Balleron, Marquis, Maynard, and Levy.

CCC… the City Central Club?

So this was where it had started. Five altruists convening for the common good, finding common ground.

No doubt Arthur- charismatic, gregarious, curious Arthur- had played a pivotal role in drawing them together.

He’d lost his family, the man could be excused a bit of enthusiasm for camaraderie. For justice.

“You gutta go,” said the janitor. He’d switched off his vacuum cleaner, and the waiting room was quiet.

“Sure, thanks,” said Jeremy. “Good night.”

The man grumbled and picked at his ear.

Jeremy made it to Hale Boulevard by six-forty, found a terrific observation spot, and sat until nine, when Dirgrove finally showed up.

For three nights running, Dirgrove had stayed at home, and Jeremy kept his expectation low. But when Dirgrove left his Buick in the circular drive and the doorman didn’t park it, he knew tonight would be different.

There you go, Ted. Make my life a little bit easier.

At eleven-fifteen, the surgeon emerged, got his keys, tipped the night doorman, and drove off.

South.

Toward Iron Mount.

Straight into Iron Mount. The rain had lifted, and the streetwalkers were out in force, bundled in fake furs and padded ski jackets- short garb that allowed a clear view of shapely legs made longer by maliciously heeled shoes.

Young legs, old faces. A high-stepping, prancing parade. Very little auto traffic. No one but working girls willing to brave the cold.

Dirgrove drove past them, unmindful of Jeremy trailing a block back, the Nova’s headlights switched off.

A stupid, dangerous way to drive, a couple of times Jeremy narrowly missed hitting dope-blurred women who stepped off the curb.

His reward: curses, uplifted fingers, but what was his choice? Worst-case scenario, some cop would pull him over for a traffic violation. Not likely. No patrol cars in sight. Too cold for the cops.

That made him realize something: There was no police presence at all on these meanest of streets.

For all Doresh’s talk about working the killings, these were throwaway women, no one cared. Tyrene Mazursky’s name had made the paper, but the following victim, the woman left on the spit, hadn’t even merited that. At this rate, the next one wouldn’t get a line of ink.

Expediency trumps virtue.

Dirgrove kept going, at a moderate speed, past coveys of hookers. Jeremy waited for him to choose his prey, but the Buick never slowed, cut right through Iron Mount, crossed under a land bridge, passed a grid of shuttered commercial buildings, and entered the neighboring district.

Also low-rent; Jeremy wasn’t sure if this area had a name. Not really a neighborhood, just a dark, uninhabited stretch of businesses closed for the night.

Wholesalers and small factories. No streetwalkers, here. No reason for there to be. The nearest bar or strip joint or dope peddler was a good mile away.

Deserted.

Except for the woman who stepped out of the shadows and stood at the curb, in front of a long stretch of chain-link fence. She waited, bobbed up and down on needle heels.

When the anonymous gray-blue Buick came to a halt, she tossed her hair.

The prostitute got into Dirgrove’s car, and Jeremy sat watching, a hundred feet up, his lights off. Same for his engine; no exhaust or noise gave him away.

Between him and the Buick were two parked cars. He opened his window, stuck his head out a bit to get a better view. Cold air seared his lungs. He suffered gladly.

His key remained in the ignition. Ready at any moment to follow the Buick. Knowing he had to be there if- when things got ugly.

He’ll have to take her somewhere. Keep his car clean.

He needs space to work. Dissection- some makeshift operatory in the bowels of the slums…

The Buick’s lights went off. White smoke curled from its exhaust pipes, then dissipated. The car just sat there, five minutes, ten, fifteen. At twenty, Jeremy began to panic, wondered if he’d been horribly wrong. What if Dirgrove did use the car- maybe that’s why he drove an old one. No, too careless. You could never get rid of the blood- perhaps he anesthetized them in the car, strangled them- should he chance a closer look?

The clap of a car door closing broke into his thoughts.

The prostitute had gotten out, was tugging at her clothing. She waved at the Buick, and Dirgrove drove away.

Decision time: follow the car, or talk to the woman? Warn her. Yes, he’s a charming guy, this time you got off easily-

The prostitute walked up the block, heels clacking, butt swaying, long legs stiltlike.

She got into one of the parked cars.

A streetwalker with her own wheels. That was a switch.

Nice wheels, a Lexus, one of the smaller models, a light color, shiny hubcaps.

Maybe this one had no pimp, kept all her earnings.

But working out here, away from the motorcade of potential customers that cruised Iron Mount, how lucrative could it be? And why work a freezing street if you could afford a car like that?

Unless this one went for quality, not quantity. Men like Dirgrove paying a premium for whatever it was she offered.

The Lexus pulled away from the curb. Jeremy waited until she’d made a right at the next corner before turning the ignition key.

She drove toward downtown. Checking her image in the rearview mirror, talking on a cell phone once, but otherwise driving carefully, conventionally, with no eye toward snagging any more business.

One good customer a night? What did she do for him?

The Lexus held its course, neared the hospital district. Neared City Central.

The prostitute drove to a quiet street around the corner from City Central. Just yards from the nurses’ lot, where Jocelyn had been taken. Parking, she switched off her headlights.