The Conspiracy Club

by Jonathan Kellerman

  The article offered no further details and made no attempt to connect the killing to Tyrene Mazursky.

  Humpty-Dumpty on the beach?

  Jeremy fought the urge to call Doresh. He put the paper aside and tackled the nearly completed first draft of his chapter. Time to earn Angela’s praise. He’d thought of a few more research suppositions he wanted to add.

  In the end, the chapter had turned out nearly twice as long as he’d intended.

  He’d known more than he thought he did.

  Knew nothing about the woman on Saugatuck Finger.

  He said, “Screw all that,” and wrote all morning.

  The next day, Detective Inspector Michael Shreve phoned him from England, just as he was about to leave for lunch.

  What time was it there—9 P.M. Shreve sounded alert. Sounded younger than Nigel Langdon, and more levelheaded. Clear voice, educated enunciation. He returned Jeremy’s greeting heartily.

  “Good day, to you, too, Doctor.”

  “Thanks for calling back, Inspector.”

  “Not a chance I wouldn’t, sir. A doctor from America calls me, my curiosity gets the best of me. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

  Jeremy spun him the same tale he’d offered Langdon.

  Shreve said, “Professor Arthur Chess.”

  “You know him?”

  “No, but perhaps I should—is he something on the order of your local Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Not quite,” said Jeremy. “Just a venerated doctor with a curious mind.”

  “You work with him.”

  “At City Central Hospital.”

  “I see. And Professor Chess spoke to you about our girls.”

  “He sent me an old clipping of the case. We’d been talking about the origin of criminal violence. I suppose it struck him as an example.”

  “Sent you?” said Shreve.

  “He’s traveling.”

  “Where to, sir?”

  “Oslo.”

  “Ah,” said Shreve. “Not the worst time of year for the upper regions, but not happy, either. They’d be getting a bit of daylight, that’s all.”

  Like Langdon, Shreve spoke about Norway as if he’d been there.

  “You know Oslo, Inspector?”

  “As a tourist . . . this Professor Chess, would you say his curiosity is focused on any specific aspect of our case?”

  “As I said, he’s interested in the genesis of violence,” said Jeremy. He switched to a bald lie: “The question also came up about a surgical quality to the murders.”

  “Did it—Professor Chess had this question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I couldn’t say, Inspector. He brought it up. Notated it on the clipping—’Dear Jeremy, do you suppose this could be surgical.’ ”

  Ah, what a tangled web we weave.

  “Hmm,” said Shreve. “A pathologist—do you suppose he was relating our poor girls to a case of his?”

  “Not to my knowledge. He’s no longer a forensic pathologist.”

  “But he was, at one time.”

  “Years ago. Inspector, we barely spoke before he left. Then I got the clipping. Inspector Langdon’s name was in it, so I phoned him, out of curiosity. He referred me to you, and I did the same. I’ve probably overreacted—wasted your time. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “From Oslo,” said Shreve, as if he hadn’t heard. “That’s where the card came from.”

  “Yes. It bore a picture of the Vigeland Sculpture Gardens.”

  “Aha . . . well, sir, as you know these cases remain open, so I’m afraid I can’t divulge any details. However, feel free to pass along the following to your professor: We continue to seek a solution, we’ve eliminated no one.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “As you wish, Doctor. Good talking to you.”

  Both detectives had been to Norway, and now Arthur was there. Norway had piqued Shreve’s interest.

  A northern link to killings in England? To killings, here?

  Jeremy remembered the authorship of the first laser scalpel article. Eye doctors from Norway and Russia and England. Americans, in the second reprint.

  He’d tossed both.

  He logged onto the Ovid medical database, strained to recall the exact title of the Norwegian article, but couldn’t. Coming up with the date—seventeen years ago—helped somewhat, and he ended up winnowing through three dozen citations until he found the right one.

  Seven authors. Three ophthalmologists from the Royal Medical College of Oslo, an equal number of Moscow-based eye surgeons on sabbatical in the Norwegian capital, and a British physicist who worked for the manufacturer of the laser.

  No names that meant anything to him. He wrote them all on a card and filed it away. No real reason, except he was tired of retrieving lost information.

  He spent the rest of the morning in Psychiatry Department meetings. Fatuous stuff, the usual suspects droning. He pretended to be awake, shrugged off the invitation by three other shrinks to have lunch, and returned to his office.

  Detective Bob Doresh was waiting outside his door.

  28

  “Hello, Doctor.”

  “Hello, Detective.”

  “Can I come in?”

  Jeremy shoved the door open and allowed Doresh’s beefy body to pass. Doresh wore a gray-blue raincoat and gave off a seawater odor. His size made the office seem even smaller than it was. He stood, dangling thick arms until Jeremy invited him to sit.

  “So, Doc, how’ve things been going?”

  “You’re here because of the woman at Saugatuck Finger,” said Jeremy. “Another Humpty-Dumpty situation?”

  Doresh eyed Jeremy’s coffeemaker. The scorched swill Jeremy still brewed daily but rarely drank.

  “It’s stale, but you’re welcome to some, Detective.”

  “Thanks.” Doresh stretched for a mug, managed to fill it without getting up. He drank, grimaced, put the mug down. “As advertised, Doc. Ever been out to the Finger?”

  “A few times,” said Jeremy. “I drive out there occasionally, during the summer.”

  “Pretty place.”

  “Not really. If you look closely, the filth in the water becomes obvious. I grew up miles from water, so I’m easy to please. Who was she?”

  “Another one,” said Doresh.

  “A streetwalker?”

  The detective didn’t answer. Jeremy said, “And you’re here because . . .”

  “Your last call to me—about the Mazursky woman—I could see you’re really interested in all of this. Seeing as my partner and I haven’t exactly racked up any big-time progress, I thought maybe I could tap into some of your insights.”

  “Bravo.” Jeremy loosened his tie. “What a sterling line of bullshit.”

  Doresh crossed his legs and dangled a thick ankle and looked injured.

  Jeremy said, “For some unfathomable reason, you consider me a suspect in all this. If you want me to account for my whereabouts last night, all I can tell you is I was home, watching TV and sleeping. Alone. This time I didn’t have the foresight to call out for food, so there’s no delivery boy to verify my presence.”

  “Doctor—”

  “I know you follow protocol. Doctors do, too. Most of our cancer patients are treated by protocol. But we leave room for creativity, and so should you. Granted, those close to the victim always fall under scrutiny. So even though being put through the wringer on Jocelyn made a hellish experience even worse, I understand it. But by now—the other two killings? Prostitutes? That would make no sense, switching from a girlfriend to strangers. It doesn’t happen that way, does it?”

  Doresh picked up the mug, stared into it, transferred it to his other hand. “Like you say, Doctor, there’s always room for creativity. Stick around long enough, and everything happens.” He cupped a knee with his free palm and sat forward. “The question you asked me, about surgical precision, where did that really come from?”

  �
�As I told you—”

  “My Humpty-Dumpty remark. Right.” Doresh smiled. Most of his teeth were white and even, but a single, corn yellow canine snaggled and caught on his upper lip. He curled the purplish tissue back, and the smile turned predatory. “Now, who’s laying on the bullshit?”

  “That’s all it was,” said Jeremy. “Humpty-Dumpty images. I wish you hadn’t told me.”

  “Bothered you, did it?”

  “I could’ve done with not knowing.”

  “Overactive imagination, Doc?”

  Jeremy didn’t answer.

  Doresh said, “Must be helpful for all that hypnotizing you do. My wife tried that—being hypnotized. Wanted to lose weight, so her doctor sent her to some guy downtown.”

  “Did it help?”

  “Not one damn bit,” said Doresh. “No matter, I love her huge.” He put the mug down and used both hands to shape a wide hourglass. “You know what that’s like? Loving a woman so bad you don’t care what she looks like or does?”

  Jeremy’s face went hot, then cold. He felt as if he were changing colors, chameleon-like—livid to pallid. Not blending in, just the opposite. Betraying his vulnerability.

  Doresh was studying him. Serene.

  Jeremy breathed slowly, deeply—keeping his rage in his belly, no way would he let this bastard in.

  “You’re a romantic, Mr. Doresh. Do you buy your wife flowers? Are you good about remembering anniversaries? Do the two of you trade pet names?”

  Now it was the detective’s turn to color.

  “Anything else?” said Jeremy.

  “As a matter of fact,” said Doresh, “I was wondering about Dr. Chess. He’s your pal, right? He have theories about the cases?”

  So that was it. Detective Inspector Michael Shreve, ever the inquisitive detective—ever the suspicious sonofabitch—had gotten off the phone with him and worked feverishly at finding a colleague in this city on the trail of a psychopathic killer. Something Jeremy had said—or had failed to say—had revved the Englishman’s suspicions, and he’d decided to check things out.

  The surgical question, had to be the surgical question. Meaning he’d been right about the English murders. Or, rather, Arthur had.

  He said, “Dr. Chess has a general interest in crime. He’s a pathologist, used to work at the Coroner’s Office.”

  “Did he? So, what does he think? Insight-wise.”

  “That I couldn’t tell you,” said Jeremy. “He’s traveling, right now.”

  “Where?”

  “Norway.”

  “Pretty place,” said Doresh.

  Him, too?

  “Ever been there?” said Jeremy.

  The detective snorted. “Except for the Army, I’ve been out of the country exactly once. Four days in Rome, and that was years ago. My wife likes to eat. She came back all excited about learning to cook Italian, but it’s still pot roast and macaroni casserole.”

  Doresh’s domesticity set Jeremy’s teeth on edge. Lucky man . . .

  “Where’d you serve in the Army, Detective?”

  “Philippines. How ’bout you? Any service?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Why would I?”

  “I figured you’ve checked me out thoroughly.”

  Doresh’s smile said Jeremy had delusions of grandeur. “No service, huh?”

  Jeremy shook his head.

  “Too bad,” said Doresh. “You missed out.”

  “No doubt.”

  The detective got to his feet. “I mean that in all seriousness, Doc. Service to your country—anything you do for others—is good for the soul. Then again, you probably get that by working. Your hypnosis work, whatever.”

  Mentioning hypnosis more than once to let Jeremy know he had checked him out.

  Games, always games. Meanwhile, women died. This guy was useless.

  Jeremy got up.

  Doresh said, “Relax, don’t bother seeing me out. And anytime you have an idea, Doc, feel free to call.”

  29

  Doresh’s drop-in left Jeremy rattled.

  He barges in, and I feel like a suspect. What’s the matter with me?

  Maybe it was the woman on Saugatuck Finger, no name. Tyrene Mazursky had been named. What did that mean? Old hat? Throwaway victims? Now, they didn’t even merit a name?

  His breath quickened, and his eyes hurt. The walls of his office closed in on him. He paged Angela, but she didn’t answer. Tried it again—thinking a second time meant dependence and was he ready for that?

  Still, no answer.

  So tired of going it alone.

  The air shaft outside his window was black, and all at once the window was wet and oily. Rain, a hard, dirty downpour, spitting at the glass.

  He threw on his coat, left the hospital, walked to the surly mute’s bookstore.

  By the time he got there, his coat was soaked through, his shoes sloshed, and his hair was plastered to his skull.

  No one else was out on the street. No one stupid enough. A late-model station wagon was parked in front of the store. White, that made it easy to see. The blackened windows rendered the shop nearly invisible in the gloom. The door was open, and he walked in.

  No fat man at the desk.

  No desk.

  No bookshelves, books. Nothing. The lights were on, but the space was empty, save for a coat folded over a chair, an unplugged cash register on the gray linoleum floor, and a strawberry blond woman sweeping up.

  She said, “You poor thing—are you a customer?”

  “I was.”

  “You don’t know. I’m sorry. I wish I had a towel or something.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “The shop’s gone. My father died.”

  Jeremy groped for the fat man’s name—Arthur had mentioned it . . . Renfrew. Finally, some neurons were firing correctly.

  “Mr. Renfrew died?” he said.

  The woman leaned her broom against the wall and came forward. She had a roundish, pleasant face, hips you could rest your hands on, maternal breasts, and curly, shoulder-length hair of the prettiest shade Jeremy had ever seen. Buttermilk complexion, light freckles, green eyes, forty or so. Little makeup because she knew she was aging well.

  Her clothes were ill suited for janitorial work—a well-cut, mint green suit and matching shoes, discreet gold necklace, a diamond-studded wedding band. The raincoat on the chair was camel-colored, dry, folded neatly.

  “I’m Shirley Renfrew DePaul, Mr. Renfrew’s daughter.” She gazed around the empty shop. “It’s the end of an era, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, it is.” Jeremy introduced himself.

  “From the hospital,” she said. “Lots of doctors and nurses came here. Dad created an institution. Back when the neighborhood was better, you had all kinds of intellectuals dropping in—writers, poets, people of artistic stature. They weren’t loyal. It was you hospital people who helped sustain Dad during the last few years. Did you know that he studied medicine when he was young?”

  “Really.”

  “For two years, then he decided against it. Poetry was more to his liking. He was a soft man, raised me all by himself.”

  Shirley Renfrew DePaul shoved a weak smile past her grief, and Jeremy pushed aside memories of the old grump who’d never acknowledged him. “This was a great place, Mrs. DePaul, and your father made a big impact. When did he pass on?”

  “Just over a month ago. He’d had throat cancer years before—he used to puff on a pipe, nonstop. They took out most of his palate and damaged his vocal cords, but he beat the disease. Then his heart started to go bad, and we knew it was only a matter of time. My husband and I wanted him to come live with us, but he refused, insisted he wanted to be close to the shop.”

  Palate surgery. Jeremy had attributed the fat man’s mutism to general surliness.

  With my track record, I’ve got to stop assuming.

  Renfrew dying a month ago meant shortly after Jeremy’s last visit.

  The man ha
d been terminal, gave no indication.

  Shirley DePaul’s smile failed, and tears misted her eyes. Green irises, deepened by the suit. Stunning, really. Not a beautiful woman—not by far—she was barely handsome. But Jeremy was certain she’d never lacked for male attention.

  She said, “I hoped it would happen the way it did. Dad came into the shop on a Monday, sat down, brewed his Postum and drank it, put his head down on the desk and never woke up. He couldn’t have scripted it better, dying among the books he loved.”

  The last time Jeremy had been here he’d encountered Arthur reading something on war strategy. A couple of weeks later, Arthur had shown up at his office and turned on the charm. As an old customer—someone who’d known Renfrew’s name—he must’ve been aware of the bookseller’s passing. Yet he’d never said anything.

  He said, “He didn’t suffer.”

  “A blessing. So was his life.” Shirley DePaul’s new smile flickered and faded. “For the most part.”

  She took a deep breath and eyed her broom. “Dad adored everything to do with bookselling. I’m an only child, but not really. This place was my sibling. There were times when I considered it a rather daunting rival.”

  A high heel tapped the linoleum. “The building’s been sold. A development firm. They called a week after Dad passed. Vultures, I said, they probably check death notices. But my husband said, Why not deal with them, what use do we have for it? He’s a dentist, very practical. We have six children, and I barely have time to breathe. We live far, out past the county line, it just wouldn’t be practical. So we sold. They gave us a good price, even after taxes. No doubt, they’ll tear it down and put up something monstrous, but it’s not about bricks and mortar, is it? Dad put his soul into this place, and now he’s resting somewhere else.”

  “Absolutely,” said Jeremy. “What happened to the books?”

  “All sold.”

  “Was there an auction? I would’ve tried to buy some.”

  “There was no public sale, Doctor. Everything went to one buyer.”

  “Who?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t say—one of those tax things. It’s all for the best; I believe they’ll be appreciated. At least I hope so.” She wiped the corner of one eye. “Anyway, I’d best be finishing up. Though to tell you the truth, I don’t know why I’m cleaning up, they’re going to tear it down anyway.”