Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

“Diabetic admitted for wound management, she shouldn’t be too long.”

Angela came out ten minutes later, looking flustered. “Hi. I’m kind of tired.”

“Take a break. Let’s get some coffee.”

“I’ve already had my caffeine quotient. It didn’t help.”

“Then have more.” He took her arm. “Come on, let’s get you on a serious caf jag.”

“Then what?”

“Then I study you, write it up, publish a paper.”

She tried not to smile. Failed. “Okay, but just for a few minutes.”

Instead of heading for the cafeteria, he steered her to some vending machines on the next floor up, the far end of the Rehab Ward, inserted a dollar bill, got both of them coffee.

“That stuff?” she said. “It’s putrid.”

“Don’t think of it as a beverage. It’s dope.”

He guided her to a couple of hard, orange chairs. Rehab was mostly a daytime thing, and the ward was quiet.

“I really am bushed,” she said. “And I’m nowhere near finished with my patients.”

Jeremy took her hand. Her skin was cool; she looked away, kept her fingers limp.

“You’re important to me,” he said. “I miss you, and I know I screwed up. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I’m willing to talk about anything.”

Angela chewed her lip and stared down at her lap. “None of that’s necessary.”

“Jocelyn’s murder was worse than anything I’d ever imagined. She was a big part of my life, and losing her- thinking about what she went through- ripped chunks out of my heart. I should’ve dealt with it sooner. Instead I let it fester. Cobblers’ kids going barefoot and all that.”

Angela raised her head. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “I should’ve understood. I shouldn’t have made demands.”

“No, it’s good someone’s finally making demands on me. I’ve been disconnected for a long time.”

She drank coffee, made a face. “It really is putrid.” Her fingers tightened around Jeremy’s. “I knew her. Not well, but I knew her. From when I rotated through Neuro. She was a sweet, sweet girl. One time, I was charting, and she was talking to another nurse about her boyfriend. How great he was, considerate, caring. How he always made her feel special. The other nurse tried to make a joke out of it. Something like, you know those shrinks, they learn to be sensitive in school. Jocelyn wouldn’t hear it, cut her off, said, ‘Don’t joke it away, I’m serious. I’m serious about him.’ I remember thinking, what kind of guy could inspire that? I didn’t know it was you. Even after we started going out, I had no idea. I just liked you because when you lectured to us, you were so intense. About what you did- about bringing out the humanity in everyone. That’s the message I wanted to hear when I started my internship but seldom did. It wasn’t until after we’d gone out a couple of times that someone- one of the other R-IIs- told me you were Jocelyn’s boyfriend. I remember thinking, ‘Uh-oh, this is going to be complicated.’ But I liked you, so… oh, Jeremy, I’m not good at this.”

She put her head on his shoulder.

He said, “Complicated, how?”

“This.”

“It won’t be a problem. No taboos, nothing off-limits. If you want me to talk about Jocelyn, I will-”

“That’s just it,” she said. “I’m not sure I want to- you obviously loved her very deeply, she’s still a part of you, and that’s good. If you could just dismiss her, I’d be repulsed. But the selfish part of me just doesn’t know if I can deal with… her memory. Hanging over us. It’s like having a chaperone- I know that sounds terrible, but-”

“It’s hanging over me, not us,” said Jeremy. “She’s gone. She’ll be more gone in a month, even more so in a year, and one day I won’t think about her much at all.” The backs of his eyes ached. Now his own tears had welled. “Intellectually I know all that, but my damn soul hasn’t adjusted.”

She dabbed at his eyes with her fingers. “I didn’t know psychology believed in the soul.”

It doesn’t.

Jeremy said, “It’ll take time, there’s no shortcut.” He looked at her.

Angela kissed his forehead.

Jeremy wrapped his arms around her. She felt small. He was about to lift her face for another kiss when a gangly teenage boy, probably someone’s grandson, came out of a patient room, loped down toward the coffee machine, saw them, and grinned lewdly.

“Go, dude,” the kid muttered, plunking coins down the slot.

Angela laughed in Jeremy’s ear.

They moved to his office, spent another quarter hour there, sitting quietly, Angela in Jeremy’s lap, her head resting on his chest. The portable radio Jeremy rarely played was tuned to insipid stuff that billed itself as smooth jazz. Angela’s breathing slowed, and he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. When he lowered his head to look, her eyes fluttered open, and she said, “I really need to get back.”

When they returned to Endocrinology, a prune-faced nurse said, “There’s a catheter waiting for you, Dr. Rios,” and walked away.

Jeremy said, “Nothing like the old Welcome Wagon.”

Angela smiled, grew serious. “Time to do some plumbing- Jeremy, thank you. For taking the initiative. I know it wasn’t easy.”

“Like I said, you’re important to me.”

She played with her stethoscope, kicked one shoe against the other- a little-kid gesture that pinched Jeremy’s chest. “You’re important to me , I wish we could spend some real time together, but I’ll be on for the next two nights.”

Me too.

He said, “Let’s aim for lunch.”

“Let’s do that. Dude.”

Hand-holder by day, self-deluded voyeur by night?

For two evenings running, Theodore Gerd Dirgrove left the hospital, drove straight home, and stayed there. Both nights, Jeremy watched the cream-colored high-rise until 3 A.M., alternating between sitting in his car and walking around the glossy neighborhood. He no longer felt the cold; some sort of internal oven was raging.

A good place to be spying- the glut of cafés and high-end cocktail lounges ensured a constant sprinkle of pedestrians that made his appearance less conspicuous. The second night, he patronized one of the lounges, a place on Hale called the Pearl Onion, where martinis were the thing. He hazarded one, straight up, mixed with Boodles gin, the eponymous vegetable- a pair- floating in the silky liquid. Arthur’s mix.

One drink, only, chased by coffee. He sat at a window booth that afforded him a view, through lace curtains, of Dirgrove’s building.

Fitting in. Enjoying the soft music- real jazz- the clink of glasses, the eager conversation of good-looking, affluent singles at the bar.

He’d made sure to dress well- had taken to dressing better, in general, to meet the needs of the… job. Donning his best sport coat and slacks, and a lush, black merino-cashmere overcoat that he’d bought in a deep-discount sale years ago at Llewellyn’s department store and had never worn since- saving it for what?

He’d even brought a crisp shirt to his office so he could change before he set out on his-

Mission?

Find me a windmill, and I’ll tilt away.

That night, Dirgrove’s Buick never reappeared. The back of the building was an enclosed courtyard with only one way out of the subterranean parking lot, so even if the surgeon had chosen to retrieve the car himself, he’d have to drive around in front.

Ted was in for the night. Saving his energies?

Jeremy voided the quarts of liquid he’d ingested in the lounge’s minty-fresh men’s room and drove home. Tomorrow night, Angela would be off-call, and he’d have to find an excuse not to see her. Was feigning illness the tactful choice? No, that would boomerang, she’d want to be with him, dote on him. He’d think of something.