Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

Tivoli Arms. Five stories taller than Dirgrove’s high-rise.

But only one doorman. And when he finished helping a white-haired couple into their limousine, Jeremy approached him.

He’d changed into the spare shirt he’d brought that morning, had knotted his tie snugly, slicked his hair, washed his face. He put authority into his walk and posture. His black merino-cashmere topcoat was open, and he made sure the doorman caught a glimpse of the hospital badge clipped to his jacket lapel.

He must have looked right because the doorman smiled at him as if he belonged. “May I help you, sir?”

“I’m Dr. Carrier, an associate of Dr. Graves’s from City Central Hospital. Is he in?”

“Sure is, got in an hour ago. I’ll have someone ring you up. C’mon in out of the cold.”

“Thanks.”

The two of them entered the lobby, and the doorman handed him off to the man behind the reception desk. Young fellow, pleasant, in a navy blazer with gold buttons, button-down shirt, rep tie. His wheat-colored hair was razor cut. His gold name tag said K. BURNSIDE.

He said, “One moment, Doctor,” and picked up the house phone. Held it to his ear, finally put it down. “That’s odd. I know he’s in.”

“How so?”

“I took his car, and he hasn’t called for it.”

“Maybe he decided to get it himself.”

“Hmm. Doubtful. Dr. Graves always has us bring his car around. Hold on, I’ll check with the parking steward.”

Another phone call. “No, Doctor, the car’s still here.”

“Nice wheels,” said Jeremy, guessing.

“The Porsche or the Navigator?”

“Both.” A Navigator. A big SUV had followed him. Perfect for transport…

The young man grinned. “Dr. Graves likes his cars- I’m sorry, is there some message I can leave for him?”

“No, it’s personal.” Jeremy leaned across the counter. “Actually, it’s a surprise, Mr. Burnside.”

“Kelvin. What kind of surprise?”

“Can you be discreet, Kelvin?”

“All part of the job, Doctor.”

“Okay, but please keep this under wraps. At least until it hits the papers. Our department was just informed that Dr. Graves has won a prestigious award. The Dergraav. For biomechanical research. We’re talking big-time- couple notches below the Nobel.”

“Wow, that’s amazing.” Kelvin Burnside had been transformed into an awestruck teenager.

“I was sent to get him and bring him back to the hospital. The cover story I’m going to give him is some sort of emergency back at his lab. Then, when I get him there, there’s a whole surprise party planned.” Jeremy looked at his watch. “We timed it perfectly, everyone’s waiting… could you try his apartment, again?”

“No problem.” Kelvin dialed, waited, shook his head.

“Strange,” said Jeremy. “He comes home, doesn’t answer- maybe we should go up and make sure he’s okay.”

“Maybe- you know, there’s somewhere else he might be. Down in the sub-subbasement. There are storage units there, for the tenants- some of our people hoard tons of stuff. The units are big, more like rooms. Some tenants lease them out, but Dr. Graves uses his a lot.”

“For what?”

“I’m not sure, but he’s always going in and out of there. I joked with him about it once- said ‘what’s going on down there, Doc, scientific experiments?’ He thought that was funny. Rolled his eyes, and said something like, ‘You never know.’ I was just kidding, I knew he was a doctor, but I had no idea he was a big-time researcher. Now you’re telling me about this award, and I’m feeling a little stupid for that crack.”

“Don’t worry about it. Augie- Dr. Graves has a great sense of humor. I think I will check out that storage room.”

“I’ll go look for you.”

“No reason for you to leave your post,” said Jeremy. “I really want to surprise him. My boss ordered me to surprise him.”

The young man smiled uneasily.

“I’ll be in and out, Kelvin. Dr. Graves will appreciate it- like I said, he’s got a great sense of humor.”

Jeremy fingered his badge, hoping to draw attention to that symbol of authority.

“Sure,” said the young man. “No prob.”

A rear service elevator- an unadorned, clanky steel box with an accordion door took him down to Subbasement C.

Two floors beneath the parking garage. He’d expected a dungeon but stepped out into bright space. Two wings of storage units lined rough stone floors. The walls were stone, as well, and bore the marks of hand-hewing. Each unit was numbered. Black iron numerals screwed into stout oak doors fashioned during a previous century. Overhead bulbs in bronze cages provided the light. Electrical conduits and plumbing pipes striped the arched ceiling.

The arches and the stone reminded Jeremy of something- a card Arthur had sent him. The bazaar in old Damascus. Could Arthur have been that prescient?

That scene implied bustle. Down here, all was silent.

No windows, no outside light.

Cool and damp. Jeremy half expected a bat to whoosh out.

No sign of life, not a rat, not an insect. Not a single cobweb, and when his fingers grazed the stone walls they came back free of dust. Even the floor was clean- swept spotless.

Four-star cave, pride of the demimonde.

Augusto Graves’s unit was at the end of the left-hand wing. Last door to the right.

Jeremy stopped, put his head to the door. Heard nothing.

The heavy iron key for which he’d bribed Kelvin Burnside twenty dollars (“Oh, you don’t have to do that, sir.”) rested in his hand.

He inserted it in the bolt, turned slowly, pushed the door open an inch, waited for a creak.

Silence. He touched the bolt, felt grease. The Tivoli Arms was all about perfection. Or, Dr. Graves had taken special precautions.

He pushed some more. Had to put a little muscle into it- the oak was dense, thick, seasoned hard as rock. Six inches open. A foot. Enough space to slip through.

At first, he’d thought he’d made yet another mistake.

No light inside the unit. No one there.

Then he heard the sounds. Humming. The snick-snick of metal on metal. A low buzz, like that of a very large bumblebee.

There was light. A trapezoidal patch of light, to the left, hitting the wall at an acute angle.

He stepped closer and saw why. Deflected. An L-shaped drywall partition had been installed facing the door- creating a tiny vestibule.

He inched past the wall.

Was bathed in light. More light than he’d expected, hot and white and piercing. Three halogen bulbs grafted into an overhead power line. Surgical light.

A cell, ten by ten, walls, floor, and ceiling of that same hewn rock. Down in the core of the city.

Augusto Graves stood at the far end of a table, dressed in surgical greens. His head was capped, but he wore no face mask. Earphones from a Walkman transmitted something into his head.

Music, from the looks of it. Graves swayed in time. A syncopated beat.

A jolly beat. Graves was smiling faintly, mustache tilting upward like the wings of a butterfly.

Memories of Brazil?

A pleasant-looking man. Innocuous. Scholarly- reading glasses pushed low on his nose. He didn’t see Jeremy. Too busy concentrating on the woman stretched out before him on a table.

Not a surgical table, just a wide, slab door resting on three sawhorses. The platform had been draped in white plastic. At Graves’s right hand was a steel tray on a wheeled stand, gleaming with instruments. Next to the tray, a steel box on a similar stand, its contents out of view. An electrical cord trailed over the box’s lid and fed into a ceiling socket. In the corner stood several bottles of distilled water. A family-sized container of bleach. A spray can of room deodorizer. “Fresh Evergreen” scent.