The Conspiracy Club (31 page)

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.

D
oug’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?”

“What 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.”

And neither does Dirgrove, shacked up in the room across the motor court.

Wrong, wrong, wrong!

“Start accounting,” said Doresh.

“I left the hospital shortly after eight and checked into a motel near the airport around half an hour later. The Hideaway, on Airport Boulevard. I paid cash, but the clerk may remember me because the place wasn’t busy. He’s a young guy with dark hair. Greasy, dark hair. Last night he was wearing a green-and-white-striped shirt. I didn’t notice his pants. I paid for half a day. Forty-four dollars.”

“A motel.”

“That’s right.”

“Who were you with?”

“No one.”

Doresh’s shrublike eyebrows rose. He shifted his weight, and the pew creaked. “You checked into a motel by yourself.”

“Room 15. I stayed there till around three-forty and, as you know, got home shortly before four.”

If Doresh or some other cop hadn’t seen him, who had? Had to be a neighbor, and the only one who came to mind was Mrs. Bekanescu. A snoop by nature, she’d never liked him, and he’d seen lights on in her house well before sunrise. Sometimes she put food out for stray cats, drew their mewling to the block while the sky was still dark. Whatever the reason, she’d been up, had noticed his headlights, and when Doresh had come asking questions, she’d been more than happy to tell him.

How many neighbors had Doresh spoken to? Did all of them believe him a dangerous man? Was that — not the fact that they were transient renters — why no one spoke to him?

Doresh was staring at him, not saying a word.

“Where and when did it happen?” said Jeremy.

“You’re serious.”

“About wanting to know? Yes.”

“About checking into a hot-bed joint by yourself.”

“I did it for the solitude.”

“You found solitude at a hot-bed joint?”

“Yes.”

“Guy like you, living by yourself, what’s wrong with your own house for solitude?” He smiled. “You’ve got
plenty
of solitude, now.”

Doresh’s tone challenged Jeremy.
Go ahead, smart-boy, blow your stack.

Jeremy shrugged. “Sometimes a change of scenery helps.”

“Helps what?”

“Achieve peace of mind.”

Doresh’s face turned the color of raw beef. “You’d do well not to jerk me around.”

“Ask the motel clerk. Ask the maid who cleaned Room 15 if the bed was ever slept in.”

“You didn’t sleep there? What the hell did you do?”

“Sat on a chair. Thought. Watched TV — religious shows, mostly. The one that sticks in my memory is a preacher from Nebraska. Thadd Bromley. Gabby fellow. He wore a blue v-neck sweater — looked like a college boy and talked like a cowboy. From the pledges that came in, he’s doing great. I enjoyed hearing him tell me how to live my life.” Jeremy’s eyes circled the chapel.

“You’re a religious guy,” said Doresh.

“I wish.”

“Wish what?”

“Religion would be a comfort. I’d like to believe.”

“What stops you?”

“Too many distractions. Who was she? Where did it happen?”

Doresh ignored him. He turned away, and light through a stained-plastic window rainbowed his face.

“Another Humpty-Dumpty situation,” said Jeremy.

Still no response.

“Is there anything else, Detective?”

Doresh crossed his legs. “What you’re telling me, is that from eight-thirty to three-forty you were at a cocky-locky dump, all by your lonesome, listening to the gospel. That’s some story.”