The surgeon sat there, bored. All the smiling conversation, between Brandon and Sonja and Mom.

Patty was attentive to the kids, helped the little girl twirl spaghetti on her fork. During his final pass, Jeremy saw her glance at her husband. Ted didn’t notice; he was staring off at the espresso machine.

Family time.

When would he leave the comforts of hearth and home and do what really turned him on?

It happened on the fourth night.

A day full of surprises; that morning, Jeremy received a postcard from Rio.

Beautiful bodies on a white sand Brazilian beach.

He felt smart.

Dr. C:

Traveling and learning. A.C.

So am I, my friend.

As if that wasn’t enough, he received a call from Edgar Marquis at 6 P.M., just before he was ready to embark on the night’s surveillance.

“Dr. Carrier,” said the ancient diplomat. “I’m delivering a message from Arthur.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, he’d like me to inform you that he’s enjoying his vacation- finding it quite educational. He hopes you’ve been well.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jeremy. “Well, and busy.”

“Ah,” said Marquis. “That’s good.”

“I imagine you’d think so, sir.”

Marquis cleared his throat. “Well, then, that’s all. Good evening.”

“Where’d he call from, Mr. Marquis?”

“He didn’t say.”

Jeremy laughed. “You’re not going to tell me a damn thing, are you? Not even now.”

“Now?”

“I’m on the job, Mr. Marquis.”

No answer.

Jeremy said, “Just indulge me on one small detail. ‘CCC.’ What does it stand for. How’d it get started- what drew you together?”

“Good food and wine, Dr. Carrier.”

“Right,” said Jeremy.

Silence.

“What was your ordeal, Mr. Marquis? What lit the fire in your belly?”

The merest hesitation. “Chili peppers.”

Jeremy waited for more.

“The cuisine of Indonesia,” said Marquis, “can be quite piquant. I was educated there, in matters of taste and reason.”

“So,” said Jeremy. “That’s the way it’s going to be.”

The ancient man didn’t respond.

“Mr. Marquis, I don’t imagine you’d tell me when Arthur’s due back.”

“Arthur makes his own schedule.”

“I’m sure he does. Good-bye, sir.”

“Doctor? With regard to the origins of our little group, suffice it to say that your participation would be considered… harmonious in more ways than one.”

“Would it?”

“Oh, yes. Consider it a case of the obvious.”

“Obvious what?”

“Obvious,” Marquis repeated. “Etched in stone.”

No caller ID to trace. The bottom-line people said anything beyond basic phone service was a frivolity.

As Jeremy took the stairs down to the rear exit, he digested what Marquis had told him.

Spicy food in Indonesia. I was educated, there.

Marquis’s baptism of loss had taken place in that island nation. One day, if Jeremy was sufficiently curious, he’d try to find out. At the moment, he had watching to do.

When he got to the rear exit, he found it padlocked. Had someone gotten wise to him? Or was it just a quirk of competence on the part of the security guards?

He made his way back toward the hospital lobby, pausing by the candy machine where he’d spied Bob Doresh and buying himself a chocolate-covered coconut cluster.

He’d never really liked candy; even as a child he’d never been tempted. Now he craved sugar. Chewing happily, he neared the hospital’s main entrance. Passed the donor wall.

Etched in stone. And there it was.

Mr. and Mrs. Robert Balleron. Founders Donation, ten years ago. Below that, a more recent contribution, Founders level, four years ago:

Judge Tina F. Balleron, In Loving Memory of Robert Balleron.

The donor list wasn’t alphabetized, and that made it a bit more time-consuming, but Jeremy found them all. By the time the last speck of coconut had tumbled down his throat he was flushed with insight.

Professor Norbert Levy, In Loving Memory of His Family.

Four years ago.

Mr. Harrison Maynard, In Loving Memory of His Mother, Effie Mae Maynard, and Dr. Martin Luther King.

Same year.

Ditto: Mr. Edgar Molton Marquis, In Loving Memory of Kurau Village.

And:

Arthur Chess, M.D., In Memory of Sally Chess, Susan Chess, and Arthur Chess, Junior.

Arthur had lost his entire family.

Too horrible to contemplate, and Jeremy couldn’t afford that level of empathy, right now. Jamming the candy wrapper into his pocket, he retraced his steps through the lobby and headed for the Development Office.

“Development” was institutional jargon for fund-raising, and Jeremy recalled the place as staffed by slim, chatty young women in designer suits and headed by a blowhard named Albert Trope. It was 6:20 P.M.- a window of time remained, Dirgrove rarely got home before six-thirty, seven. Nonmedical personnel tended to leave well before five, so it was probably too late to catch the office open, but he was here already.

The chatty young women had left. But the door was open and a janitor- a morose-looking Slav, probably one of the recent immigrants the hospital had taken to hiring because they knew nothing about labor laws- was vacuuming the plush, blue wall-to-wall.

Jeremy, his professional staff badge in full view, walked right past the man and over to a faux-Regency bookshelf in a corner of the generous reception room.

Good perfume- remnants of the young women- hung in the air. The entire room was done up in high-style pretense; the place looked like a movie set of a French salon. Make the deep-pocket crowd feel right at home…

The janitor ignored Jeremy as he pawed through the case. On the shelves were plastic-covered testimonials from satisfied patients, photo albums of cute little kids cured at City Central, gushing accounts of celebrity visits along with the requisite photo ops, and years and years of fund-raising ephemera.

Including journals of the hospital’s biggest event, the yearly Gala Ball.

Jeremy had been to one gala, two years ago. Asked to deliver a speech on humanism, then leave before dinner.

He found the four-year-old edition. In front was an explanation of several tiers of contribution. Within each tier, names were listed alphabetically.

Donor, Sponsor, Patron, Founder, Gold Ribbon Circle.

Founder meant a twenty-thousand-dollar pledge. The CCC people had ponied up generously.

He found a picture of all of them, together. Arthur at the center, surrounded by Balleron, Marquis, Maynard, and Levy.

CCC… the City Central Club?

So this was where it had started. Five altruists convening for the common good, finding common ground.

No doubt Arthur- charismatic, gregarious, curious Arthur- had played a pivotal role in drawing them together.

He’d lost his family, the man could be excused a bit of enthusiasm for camaraderie. For justice.

“You gutta go,” said the janitor. He’d switched off his vacuum cleaner, and the waiting room was quiet.

“Sure, thanks,” said Jeremy. “Good night.”

The man grumbled and picked at his ear.

Jeremy made it to Hale Boulevard by six-forty, found a terrific observation spot, and sat until nine, when Dirgrove finally showed up.

For three nights running, Dirgrove had stayed at home, and Jeremy kept his expectation low. But when Dirgrove left his Buick in the circular drive and the doorman didn’t park it, he knew tonight would be different.

There you go, Ted. Make my life a little bit easier.

At eleven-fifteen, the surgeon emerged, got his keys, tipped the night doorman, and drove off.

South.

Toward Iron Mount.

Straight into Iron Mount. The rain had lifted, and the streetwalkers were out in force, bundled in fake furs and padded ski jackets- short garb that allowed a clear view of shapely legs made longer by maliciously heeled shoes.