He took a deep breath. “Mind if I have some of that coffee?”
“At your own risk,” said Jeremy.
“In that case, forget it. Basically, what I came to tell you is that there’s a good chance our Mr. Vilardi’s going to end up facing a bone marrow transplant. We typed the whole family, the mother was a little antsy but I just figured that for generalized anxiety. Turns out she and one of the brothers are excellent donors.”
He frowned.
Jeremy said, “Another good-news, bad-news situation?”
“You are a mind reader.” Ramirez took a breath. “The bad news is, Doug’s not his father’s biological son.”
“Okay,” said Jeremy.
“You’re not surprised.”
“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.
46
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.
Jeremy noticed that he didn’t sign in. A regular? Dirgrove got his key, made his way to a room on the east side of the motor court.
Natty in a black coat and gray slacks. Whistling.
Room 16.
Jeremy returned to his car and continued to watch The Hideaway from across the street. He’d dropped from sight just in time. Five minutes later, Gwynn Hauser’s Lexus swung into a space three over from the Buick.
She got out, didn’t bother to look around, walked jauntily toward the motor court, swinging her purse.
She’d capped her blond bob with a long black wig, wore that full, white fur coat Jeremy had seen during her last tryst with Dirgrove. The motel entrance was better lit than the industrial stretch, and, even at this distance, Jeremy could see that the coat was a cheap fake, spiky as magnetized iron filings.
Cheap wig, too, not even close to human hair.
Slumming.
He waited until she’d been gone for ten minutes, made his way over to the office, and purchased a room at the half-day rate of forty-four dollars. The clerk was a reserved young man with oily black hair who barely looked up as he took Jeremy’s cash. Nor did he react when Jeremy stated his room preference.
Number 15. Directly across from 16.
He made his way there, sticking close to the building and staying out of the light that washed across the court. Closing the door, he breathed in old sweat and shampoo and raspberry-scented disinfectant. He kept the lights off in the room but switched them on in the pathetic little bathroom—just a fiberglass prefab, really, with a toilet screwed shakily into the floor and a molded shower barely large enough for a child.
The indirect illumination amplified his surroundings: double bed with a mushy mattress and two pillows, a coin-fed vibrator gizmo on the nightstand, a twelve-inch TV bolted to the wall and topped by a Pay-Per-View box. The room’s single window was covered by an oilcloth shade. By rolling it up an inch and pulling a chair to the front, Jeremy had a fine view of Number 16.
Lights on, there. For two full hours. Then, off they went.
No one exited the room. Time passed. Nine-thirty, ten, eleven. At midnight Jeremy was nearly out of his mind with boredom and wondering if Dirgrove and Hauser were in for the long haul.
He had his TV switched on. Most of the channels were fuzzy, and he had no desire to call the front office and order a dirty movie. Settling for a televangelist broadcasting from a massive blond cathedral in Nebraska, he sat listening to tales of sin and redemption and knew he was wasting his time. Dirgrove would do no mischief tonight; his girlfriend was keeping him busy.
Unless their relationship had changed and . . . no, no way, too careless. Not with Gwynn’s car and his parked right out on the boulevard.
Ted was a man of varied tastes.
They’d fallen asleep, he was sure of it. It was 3:15 A.M. and Jeremy’d had his fill of faith healing and exhortations to qualify as Lambs of God by sending in cookie-jar stashes, spare change, social security checks, whatever led one to a state of grace.
“You will know,” promised the graveyard-shift preacher, a skinny, handsome type who looked like a frat boy. “You will feel it.”
At 3:37, Gwynn Hauser, still bewigged and looking shaky, left the room, drawing her fake fur around her.
Five minutes later, Dirgrove exited, stared at the moon, yawned, trudged slowly to his car.
Jeremy followed him. Back home to Patty and the brood.
What would he tell her? An emergency? Saving lives? Or had he gotten past the point where he had to tell her anything?
Would she hear him, smell him as he got between the sheets—would the scent of another woman waft her way in the temperature-controlled atmosphere of their sure-to-be-stylish master suite?
Poor woman.
Jeremy made it to his own house just before four. His block was dead and when he entered his empty bedroom, it felt like the cell of a stranger.
47
Doug’s spleen was out, he looked as if he’d been hit by a train, a catheter drained his urine, his voice was thick, slurred, halting.
He said, “The funny thing is, Doc, I actually feel . . . better. Without that . . . fucking . . . spleen in me.”
He had little to say after that. Jeremy had slept three hours and wasn’t feeling creative. He sat with the young man for a while, offered smiles, encouraging looks, a couple of uncontroversial jokes.
Doug said, “Gotta get . . . out of . . . here in . . . time for ice fishing.”
“You do that a lot?”
“Every year. With . . . my dad.”
Mrs. Vilardi came into the room and said, “Oh, my baby!”
“. . . fine, Mom.”
“Yes, yes, I know you are.” Suppressing tears, she smiled at Jeremy. She had on a shapeless brown coat over a polyester sweater and heavy-duty sweatpants. On her feet were shiny brown leather-look boots. The sweater was green and red; reindeer pranced along her ample bustline. Her hair was short, permed, mouse brown with gray peeking through. Her eyes sagged.
Just another middle-aged woman, worn down by the years. When she was young she’d taken a lover and his seed had sprouted Doug. Jeremy had never really looked at her before.
He said, “I’ll leave you guys, now.”
“Bye, Doc.”
“Have a nice day, Dr. Carrier.”
Detective Bob Doresh stepped out of nowhere and waylaid him as he headed for the stairwell.
“No elevator for you, Doc?”
“Keeping fit.”
“Busy last night, Doc?”
“What do you mean?”
Doresh’s heavy face was grim. His jaw muscles swelled. “We need to talk, Doc. At my place.”
“I’ve got patients.”
“They can wait.”
“No, they can’t,” said Jeremy. “If you want to talk, we’ll do it at my place.”
Doresh moved closer. Jeremy’s back was to the wall, and for a moment he thought the detective would pin him. The cleft in Doresh’s meaty chin quivered. Lord, you could hide something in there.
“This is a big deal to you, Doc? Where we talk?”
“It’s not a pissing contest, Detective. I’m totally willing to cooperate with you—though I can’t imagine what the big issue is. Let’s just do it here, so I don’t lose time.”
“The big issue,” said Doresh. He inched even closer. Jeremy smelled his breakfast bacon. “I’ve got a real big issue.” He placed a hand on his hip.
The blood left Jeremy’s face in a rush. “Another one? That’s impossible.”
“Impossible, Doc?” Doresh’s eyes were on high-beam, now.
Impossible, because the monster played with his girlfriend all night.
How could I be so wrong?
“What I meant to say—my first thought was, not again, so soon. So much death. It’s impossible to comprehend.”
“Ah.” Doresh’s smile was sickening. “And you don’t like that.”
“Of course not.”
“Of course not.”
“What the hell are you getting at, Detective?”
Movement up the hall caught Jeremy’s eyes. Mrs. Vilardi left Doug’s room, looked around, spotted Jeremy, and waved. She pantomimed drinking. Letting Jeremy know she was getting herself coffee. As if she needed his permission.
Jeremy waved back.
Doresh said, “A fan of yours?”
“Wh
at do you want with me? Let’s get it over with.”
“Fine,” said Doresh. “How about we compromise—not your place or my place—God’s place.”
The hospital chapel—the Meditation Room—was situated off the main lobby, just beyond the development office. Officially nondenominational, not much more than an afterthought, the room was three rows of blond ash pews over thin red carpeting, plastic windows designed to look like stained glass, a low, sloping sparkle-plaster ceiling. The pews faced an aluminum crucifix bolted to the wall. A Bible sat on a lectern at the back, next to a rack full of inspirational pamphlets donated by evangelical societies.
Jeremy supposed the place was utilized, from time to time, but he’d never seen anyone go in or out.
Doresh entered as if he’d been there before.
What, this is supposed to encourage confession?
The detective strode to the front row, removed his raincoat, draped it over a pew, sat down, and tapped a space to his right. Beckoning Jeremy to sit next to him.
Now we pray together?
Jeremy ignored the invitation and circled in front of Doresh. He faced the detective, remained on his feet.
“What can I do for you, Detective?”
“You can start by accounting for your whereabouts last night, Doctor.”
“What times?”
“The whole night.”
“I was out.”
“I know that, Doc. You got home around four in the morning. Late, for you.”
“You’ve been watching me?”
“Did I say that?”
“No,” said Jeremy. “Of course you didn’t. Stupid question. If you’d been watching me, you’d know I have nothing to do with it.”
The Conspiracy Club Page 24