Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

“Why not?”

“Too refined. I like ’em a little ragged.” She cast a knowing glance at Jeremy.

Trying to take what belonged to his brother. That explained the argument.

He said, “What about the mean streak?”

Gwynn Hauser said, “Ted never got specific. He just said Augie had been known to be cruel- to do cruel things. That Augie made him nervous, he didn’t want him near his family. Or me. I didn’t press him for details.” Another flutter of eyelash. “To be honest, hearing Ted go on about him bores me to tears. Playing nursie to his insecurities wasn’t what I’d bargained for.”

“Neurotic, not ragged.”

“Exactly. Give me raw, misguided energy any day.”

Again, her legs crossed. “To be honest, I’m growing a wee bit tired of Ted. When push came to shove, he turned out like all the others.”

“Boring.”

“Boring and a weenie. He always needs propping up. Thinks he’s a player, but down deep he’s just a family man who sneaks around.”

Jeremy said, “What else can you tell me about Augie Graves?”

“Nothing,” she said. Her left hand grazed her right breast. “Boy, you really took over, didn’t you? Just burst in here like some Visigoth and got me to do things I never thought I’d do.”

Color had returned to her face. Peach tones tinctured by flush.

She smiled, exposed a row of pearly, glistening teeth. “And to look at you, you’d never know it… you could show me things, couldn’t you?”

“All part of the training,” said Jeremy, turning to leave.

“Maybe,” she said, “one day you can tell me more about it.”

Eight-fifteen.

Jeremy located Augusto Graves’s office number by phoning the hospital operator. She had no listing of any home address; nor did Dr. Graves carry a beeper.

No patients to see, pure research.

Graves’s hospital base was the east wing of an auxiliary building across the street from the hospital. A newer building, set apart from the clinical world. Hushed space reserved for the laboratories of promising scientists. A refuge where a brilliant, cruel mind could run wild.

The hospital structure nearest to the nurses’ parking lot.

Graves watching, waiting. Seeing Jocelyn walk to her car every day.

Jocelyn happy after a day’s work, happier, yet, to be going home to Jeremy. Meeting- greeted by a good-looking man in a white coat.

Young nurse, older doctor. Hospital hierarchy dictated respect.

His badge would have firmed it up. M.D., Ph.D., full professor. When he spoke, smooth, urbane. Why would she have been suspicious?

Graves’s lab was on the ground floor, and the door was open.

Jeremy stood by the doorway and peered in. Large windows on the north wall afforded a clear view of the lot.

He entered. The layout was nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual mix of black-topped tables and glistening glassware and high-tech accoutrements. Jeremy recognized several lasers- stationery and handheld devices, arranged in a compulsive bank, each one labeled and all tagged with DO NOT TOUCH stickers. Computers, scanners, printers, a host of other equipment that meant nothing to him.

One wall had been given over to books. Basic science and surgery. Medical journals collected in open-faced boxes. Everything perfectly organized. No chemical smells; this was clean research.

Graves wasn’t there. The only person in view was a woman in a navy blue housekeeping uniform, sweeping the floor, positioning chairs. Probably another Eastern European immigrant, going about her job with a resigned look on her dumpling face.

Graves had created an office space in one corner of the lab. His desk was wide, substantial, covered by a spotless sheet of glass.

Bare, except for a rosewood in-out box. Both compartments contained neatly stacked documents.

Jeremy hurried behind the desk, tried the drawers, all locked.

“Hey,” said the sweeper, “you kanna do dat.”

Jeremy began rifling through the contents of the in-box. Nothing he could use. He moved on to the out-box.

“Hey,” said the woman.

Before she could protest further, he was out of there. Hot little hand clamped over his find.

Subscription card for a magazine- The Nation.

Graves had opted for another year. The card was preprinted with his new home address.

Hale Boulevard.

Four blocks south of the high-rise where his brother played at family man.

Jeremy knew what he’d find when he located the building. An even better address than Dirgrove’s cream-colored high-rise.

Graves, the ultimate taker.

Now, Jeremy was certain Dirgrove had been interested in Jocelyn. Perhaps it had ended at flirtation. Or Jocelyn had enjoyed a fling with the surgeon before meeting Jeremy.

Nearly everything else he’d imputed to Dirgrove was wrong. The man was an adulterer and an insecure skirt-chaser, but no more than that.

Nothing nefarious about the consult on Merilee Saunders. Either Dirgrove had been genuinely concerned about his patient’s reaction to surgery, or he’d been trying to impress Angela with his sensitivity.

Either way, nothing untoward about Merilee’s death. Before leaving the hospital, Jeremy had rushed back to the main building, entered the medical library, and located the M and M sheet on the young woman. Cerebral aneurysm. A hidden little blood vessel in her brain had burst.

As Dirgrove had said, one of those things that happens.

But he had taunted Jeremy… sins of the father on a subtler level?

But that was of no concern, now. Augusto Graves was an heir of a different sort. Bought into the complete paternal endowment.

Made things happen.

Growing up in Brazil, Graves had been well aware of his father’s crimes, the circumstances surrounding his death.

Jailhouse visit. Watching his father treated like a celebrity.

After Degraav’s suicide, Graves’s mother had taken the boy to the States.

Where Graves thrived. And twisted further.

A man who lusted and schemed and exulted in the capture of what belonged to others.

Jocelyn had been chosen because Dirgrove wanted her, and Graves had found out.

Graves came on to Gwynn Hauser as well. She’d blown him off. Not her type. Thinking she was in control. How little she understood.

Angela. Dirgrove had concocted a smooth scheme to seduce her.

Did Graves know about that?

If so…

Jeremy needed to let Angela know. His warnings about Dirgrove had irritated her.

Sorry, he’s not the threat. But…

How to do it so she didn’t think him mad? It sounded nothing but mad.

Jeremy came up with no answer. He paged Angela, anyway. The words would come, they always did.

She didn’t answer.

He tried again.

Nothing.

Maybe she was caught up in a procedure. He’d go up to Endocrinology, the ostensible reason letting her know he’d be busy tonight. Then, somehow, he’d work in the terrible truth.

When he got there, an ill-tempered nurse told him, “You tell me where she is.”

“What do you mean?”

“She flaked on us. Disappeared. Poof. A whole ward of patients, and she just walks off without informing anyone. Talk about unprofessional. I’ve informed the chief.”

She was still griping when Jeremy turned his back and ran back to the elevators.

Abeautiful building.

White marble facing, copper trim, art deco angles, a circular driveway more commodious than the one fronting Dirgrove’s condo. A copper fountain- angels trumpeting- spouted from the center of the drive. Tall spruces hugged the corners of the structure.