The Conspiracy Club

Jeremy said, “Research in laser surgery.”

Her pretty blue eyes widened. “You didn’t know his name, but you know that? What the hell’s going on?”

“Where’s Graves’s home base?”

“The West Coast, Seattle, I think. One of the big academic hospitals, there. And England- Cambridge. He travels all over the world lecturing. He’s a genius. Full professor by thirty-five. Ted’s still an associate. He hates him.”

“Jealousy?”

“That’s part of it. But I believed Ted when he says Augie’s intent on outdoing him at every turn.”

“Ted talks about him a lot.”

Gwy

“Thorn in the side.”

“Big thorn. What did he do, and why do you care?”

“You’re assuming he did something bad.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

Jeremy remained silent. Therapist’s silence, one of the few “tricks” in his puny arsenal. Aimed straight at her resistance.

She said, “Ted says he’s got a mean streak. They didn’t meet until Ted was in college and Augie was in high school. Ted’s father abandoned him and his mother. Married Augie’s mother and lived in some Arab country, then South America. Later, Augie and his mother came to America and Augie went to school, there. One day, out of the clear blue, he appeared at Ted’s fraternity house, introduced himself, tried to insinuate himself into Ted’s life.”

“Ted didn’t welcome the reunion.”

“He’d never known about Augie. No one had ever mentioned another family. He didn’t know much about his father, period. All his mom said was that he was a doctor and had died doing research in the jungle somewhere.”

“Research into what?”

“I have no idea,” said Hauser. “No doubt something brilliant. Ted’s brilliant, and so is Augie. That’s part of the problem. I assume they got it somewhere.”

“Like father, like son.”

She nodded.

Jeremy prompted her: “Part of what problem?”

“Two oversize brains, two massive egos. Ted’s convinced Augie went to med school only because he did. And Augie did outdo him. Got into the number one school, while Ted’s was ranked third. Plus, Augie received a full scholarship and enrolled under a double degree program. M.D.-Ph.D., all in five years.”

“What’s his Ph.D. in?”

“Bioengineering. He’s a laser honcho. Plus, he’s board certified in general surgery and Ob-Gyn, even did some work in Ophthalmology. We’re talking major brainiac.” She managed a wry smile. “Poor Ted, he’s merely brilliant.”

Bioengineering. Jeremy flashed back to the Curiosity file. The second article. Laser surgery on women. An American team, from the West Coast. Physicians and engineers.

Arthur had led him straight. He’d missed the cue.

“Have you ever met him?”

“I’ve seen him around but only talked to him once. Last week as a matter of fact. Ted and I were lunching in the DDR, and he waltzed over, sat down with us.” She smiled. “The moment his butt touched the chair he was coming on to me. Nothing you could call him on. Subtly. Looks, smiles. He’s a smooth one. Ted was not amused. I told him not to worry, the guy’s not my type.”

“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?”

Gwy

“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.”

50

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, sca

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 ka

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.