Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

“I am, but not wildly. People are people.”

“Gee,” said Ramirez. “I wish you were my dad. Adolescence would’ve been a helluva lot easier. Okay, so that’s the big secret. The question is, what do we do about it?”

“Nothing,” said Jeremy.

“Plain and simple.”

“Plain and simple.”

“You’re right,” said Ramirez. “I just wanted to hear it from you. Get some backup.” He got to his feet. “Okay, good, thanks. Onward.”

“Anything else, Bill?”

“That’s not enough for one day?”

Jeremy smiled.

Ramirez said, “I’m glad you confirmed my initial instincts. Doug’s an adult, has a right to his medical records; but I’m going to destroy that part of the report. Just in case someone peeks.”

He looked at Jeremy.

Jeremy said, “I back you up on that, too.”

“It’s the best thing,” said Ramirez. “I already did enough damage to the kid.”

In the afternoon, after Jeremy had seen all his other patients, he sat by Doug’s bedside. No family members were around. Their usual arrival time was two hours later, and Jeremy had timed his visit carefully. He didn’t want to look into Mrs. Vilardi’s eyes.

Doug was sleeping with the TV on. A sitcom blared- small-town life, corny jokes, Hollywood’s take on jovial half-wits playing to the laugh track. Jeremy kept the show on but lowered the volume, concentrated on Doug’s swollen, jaundiced face, his big, callused, workingman’s hands lying inert. The laugh track began to grate on him, and he switched off the set, listened to the ticking, gurgling, chirping that confirmed the young man’s viability.

Doug didn’t stir.

Push past this, my friend.

Give me something to be inspired by.

Do it .

Jeremy cleared his next three evenings by lying. Feeding Angela tales of looming deadlines for the book, grinding pressure from the Head of Oncology, topped by a severe case of writer’s block.

He’d need to pull two or three all-nighters, maybe even four.

She said, “Been there, done it- it’ll work out, honey.”

On the first day, he spirited her away for an early dinner at Sarno’s, concentrated on being attentive, kept the conversation easy and light and flowing. The ever-present horror track in his head washed by: filthy, violent images, a mental cesspool that drained miles from the lover’s face he showed Angela.

By dinner’s end, he figured he’d pulled it off. Angela had loosened up, was smiling, laughing, talking about patients and hospital bureaucracy. By the time he dropped her back at Endocrinology, it was five-thirty and she was energized.

The next day, she paged him to let him know that the chief resident had frowned on her cutting out early.

“How about I write you a note,” he said. “ ‘Angela’s tummy was empty, and she needed to eat.’ ”

“If only,” she said. “How’d it go on the book, last night?”

“Painfully.”

“Stick with it, I know you’ll do great.”

“Thanks.”

“I don’t have time, anyway, Jer. The Endo attendings are mostly high-powered, private practice brutes. They work us like galley slaves so they can be home in time for din-din with the family. So if I get to see you at all, it’ll have to be lunch. And tomorrow, lunch is a lecture on growth hormone abuse.”

“The schedule.”

“I’ll let you know if things ease up. Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for, Ang. This too shall pass.”

And I’ve got my own schedule, now.

“I know,” she said. “But right now it seems interminable. Okay, gotta go. Miss you.”

“Miss you, too.”

Two more nights of Dirgrove playing at family man. Or whatever he did, once he was esconced in his limestone aerie.

One floor down from the penthouse. Jeremy knew because he’d strolled by when the doorman had gone inside to take a package to a resident. Made his way into the marble-walled lobby and checked out the directory, all those nice, healthy potted palms.

When Dirgrove walked through the door how far did he take the charade? Was din-din with the family part of the routine? Or did he lock himself, straight off, in his study?

Did he pay token attention to Brandon and Sonja? Jeremy’s glimpse of the family at dinner said the bastard couldn’t care less.

Were he and Patty still sleeping together?

Poor woman, that determined face, the athletic carriage. All the trappings of a fine life, and it would be crashing down sooner or later.

Jeremy was going to do his best to make it sooner.

On the third day, Doug Vilardi was sent to the O.R. for a splenectomy. Jeremy comforted the family but knew the young man wouldn’t need him for at least twenty-four hours. None of his other patients were in crisis. Several had been discharged, and he was only called to one acute procedure, a fifteen-year-old burn patient, a girl who’d lost the skin on one thigh and was undergoing painful whirlpool baths to slosh loose dead dermis.

Jeremy found out she liked playing tennis and had her imagine herself playing the French Open.

The girl got through it. Her father, a tough-guy type, some sort of executive, said, “That was amazing.”

“Jennifer’s amazing.”

The guy shook his head. “Man- you’re good.”

Now, it was 6 P.M., and he was free. He desperately wanted to keep his head clear. To save mental space for Dirgrove, his psychopathology, his tools. The woman who was certain to be his next target.

Dirgrove worked later than usual, not showing up at his car until shortly after 8 P.M. When he left the doctors’ lot, he turned south.

Away from his home base on Hale. A first.

Here we go.

A great night for watching. The mercury had dropped even farther, but the air had dried. Gotten thinner, too, as if some deity were sucking out all the unnecessary gases. Jeremy breathed heavily, headily, felt lighthearted. Sound seemed to be traveling faster, and his car windows couldn’t shut out the city din. Lights were brighter, people walked faster, every nocturnal detail stood out in relief.

No shortage of cars, tonight. Urban motorists were out in force, enjoying skid-free roads and clarity. Driving too fast, euphorically.

Everyone functioning at peak levels.

Dirgrove headed toward the Asa Brander Bridge- the same route that had led Jeremy to Arthur’s rooming house in Ash View. But instead of exiting on the industrial road and connecting to the turnpike, the Buick kept going.

Toward the airport.

Six more blocks, then he turned right on a busy, commercial street. Another two blocks and they were on Airport Boulevard, and Dirgrove had pulled in front of a motel.

Red neon spaghetti spelled out THE HIDEAWAY over a neon cutout of two overlapping hearts. The motel advertised massage beds, total privacy (right out there on the busy boulevard) and adult films on cable. On one side of the building was a filling station, the other hosted an unclaimed-luggage resale store called TravelAid. Farther down the block was an adult book and video store, two liquor emporia, a drive-through hamburger joint.

Mattress dance hall.

The rooms faced a motor court. The entrance was double-wide. Jeremy parked across Airport and crossed the boulevard on foot. He stood at the front of the motel, on the sidewalk, at an angle where he could peer into the court and see the window marked OFFICE. At his back, traffic sped by. Overhead, planes took off and landed. No one walked the sidewalks. The air stank of jet fuel.

The motel office windows weren’t draped, and the room was brightly lit. Jeremy’s position afforded him a clear view of Ted Dirgrove checking in. The surgeon appeared as relaxed as someone on a wholesome vacation.