Fertile Ground (20 page)

Maybe it was the familiar smells from the Hoffman kitchen that teased her on her way out and made her feel homesick and lonely. Maybe it was that and the fact that Matthew was gone, and Sam’s gentle chiding: Don’t think, just do it. She decided she would try keeping the Sabbath. She drove to the restaurant near La Brea, stopping on the way at the corner of Oakwood and La Brea to buy irises and lilies from a woman with a scarf wrapped around her hair who was selling flowers for the Sabbath.

The restaurant owner, a short, portly man with a beard and a large velvet skullcap, told her he was closing but took pity on her and let her inside. A thin, short, Hispanic looking man in his twenties was mopping the white ceramic-tiled floor; another, taller man was putting away the different meats and salads displayed in the L-shaped glass case at the front of the restaurant. Lisa bought too

much of everything and wished the owner “Good Shabbos.” At home, she put the bags in the kitchen and arranged the flowers in a crystal vase, then listened to her messages. Her parents had phoned to wish her a good Shabbos; she was sorry she’d missed their call. Selena had left two messages: Gina had called again. Paula Rhodes had phoned and left her home number.

She had no intention of contacting the reporter until Monday, but she was curious about Paula. The housekeeper answered the phone. Lisa identified herself and began unloading her purchases while she waited for Paula.

“Thanks for calling back,” Paula said when she came on the line several minutes later. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting—I was checking on Andy.” She sounded tense under the soft drawl.

“Is he all right?”

“He gave me a scare. I checked on him when he was napping—I guess because of what we talked about. He was on his stomach, and I put my finger under his nose and couldn’t feel any vapor. I thought I’d die.” She said this simply, without histrionics. “But a second later he was breathing. I just panicked—because of Chelsea, and everything.”

“You may not know this, but it’s better if Andy sleeps on his back.” Lisa emptied the plastic tub of pea soup into a pot and wondered if Paula had called because she’d heard that the director of the clinic funded in part by her late husband had fled the country.

“My mother told me it was better to let him sleep on his stomach, in case he spits up, but the pediatrician said the back. I phoned him right away and described what happened. He said he’s not concerned, but he wants me to bring Andy in on Monday, just to be sure. So now, of course, I’m more worried, and I’ve been checking him every half hour.” Paula laughed self-consciously.

“You’re wise to be cautious, but if the pediatrician was worried, he would have had you bring Andy in sooner.” Lisa set the pot on the stove and turned on a low flame.

“I guess you’re right.” She paused. “Anyway, that’s not why I called you. About an hour after you left, a man who said he was Detective Barone phoned. He said he was in charge of Chelsea’s murder investigation, that he understood you’d been to see me and he’d appreciate my telling him about our conversation so he could include it in Chelsea’s file. You’d mentioned Barone’s name, so I felt comfortable telling him what we discussed. In fact, at first I thought that you’d called him and told him to contact me.”

“No, I didn’t.” Barone had probably obtained Paula’s number from the Wrights. But why was he interested in her conversation with Lisa? And how had he known she’d been at Paula’s?

“I know that now. After Barone hung up, I realized I’d forgotten to ask him to arrange things so I could pay for Chelsea’s funeral. So I called Hollywood Division and asked to speak to him. When he came on the line, I realized immediately from his accent that he wasn’t the person I’d talked to before. And he had no idea who I was. I thought you should know.”

Lisa had already stopped stirring the soup, which was thick and bubbly and looked like lava, and was holding the wooden spoon in the air, wondering furiously who had impersonated Barone and why. When she heard Paula say, “Dr. Brockman? Are you there?” she replied, “I’m sorry. I’m just stunned by what you’ve told me. What did Barone say?”

“He has no idea who this other person could be. He asked me to repeat everything the man said, everything I told him. He sounded concerned. Frankly, I’m scared. I contacted my security company to make sure my system is operating properly, and I instructed Berta not to let anyone into the house, not even someone in a police uniform. I also told the gardener to keep an eye out. I think you should be careful, too.”

“Yes, of course.” Her front door had a dead bolt, but her building had no security system, and it wouldn’t be too difficult for someone to climb onto the small balcony and break the sliding glass door to the bedroom of her

second-floor apartment. The balcony faced the alley; no one would see, no one would hear.

“What I don’t understand,” Paula said, “is how this person knew you were here, unless he was following you. And why would he be following you unless he’s involved with Chelsea’s murder?”

Barone wasn’t in the station, a female detective informed Lisa. She’d let him know Lisa had called.

She’d already checked the dead bolt, which had been slid shut, and the safety bar that prevented someone from opening the sliding door was securely in place. She contemplated blockading the door with her dresser, but knew that even if she took out the drawers, it would be too heavy for her to move.

The acrid smell of something burning made her run into the kitchen, where she barely salvaged the soup. The spoonful she tasted had a smoky flavor and seared the tip of her tongue. Tears stung her eyes because her tongue was smarting, and because she was determined to make this first Shabbos meal in her own apartment special, serene, and didn’t want it ruined by the fear that had settled, lead like in her stomach.

She placed the rotisserie-grilled chicken and a square, disposable aluminum pan with grated potato kugel into the oven. She covered the table with a pale peach cloth and lay a place setting of the Dansk stoneware and cutlery she used for meat dishes. She centered the flowers on the table. The acts of preparation gave her a measure of calm. She’d forgotten to buy the short, thick white Shabbos candles her mother used; she set two long, cream-colored

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tapers in the crystal candlesticks she’d bought for the first dinner she cooked for Matthew.

Before she took her shower, she checked the sliding door again. She usually enjoyed showering, letting the water cascade down her back, on her face. Now she felt vulnerable. She was rinsing the lather from her hair when she thought she heard the phone ring. She hurriedly finished and ran to the phone, but the ringing had stopped. She played back the message; instead of Barone’s musical voice, she heard Sam wishing her a good Shabbos. She phoned him back, but now he didn’t answer.

When she finished blow-drying her hair, it was six fifteen, and she had an hour left before the Sabbath. Matthew’s laptop was where she’d left it last night, in the dining nook. She took it into her bedroom and, sitting at her small hutch-topped desk, switched it on. Before, she’d hoped the “Notes” file would reveal what had happened to him. Now she was sorting through myriad emotions-anger, hurt, anxiety, lingering disbelief—and she wanted to find out if the file would explain what had made her fiance betray her and the others and run away. Focusing on Matthew, she hoped, would also prevent her from thinking about the man who’d impersonated Barone.

She was free-associating, typing anything she could think of related to Matthew and the clinic. Ten minutes later she typed still another name, fully expecting to see the prompt’s indifferent, blinking rejection, but this time there was no rejection. The password, upon reflection, was so ridiculously obvious that she was annoyed for not having figured it out sooner.

LOUISE BROWN.

The world’s first test-tube baby, born in Britain. Matthew had often said her conception had inspired his career; several days ago he’d joked about naming their first daughter Louise. And he’d talked about getting a personalized license plate: Louise B. She was flushed with her success. Tensing her stomach muscles, she waited for the file to come up. When it did, she resisted the temptation to skip to the end

of the document and scrolled through page after page of what was basically an electronic journal.

The headings were the dates of each entry. Matthew had made the first entry four months ago. The entries contained comments on procedures he’d performed on various patients; plans he had to improve the operation of the clinic; statistics of success rates at other fertility clinics; comments on articles regarding the latest infertility treatments.

Several entries discussed his ongoing experimentation with freezing unfertilized eggs. “Could this be big breakthrough?! Must make sure data is secure,” Matthew had written.

There was scientific discussion of the particulars of the experiments, but Lisa was too impatient to read them now. She scrolled forward more quickly and was almost at the end of the long document when she spotted a reference to Chelsea Wright.

Her breath quickened when she saw the dead girl’s initials in an entry dated two and a half weeks ago, and she stared at the writing on the white screen:

“C.. was here today. Agitated, needs money. Wouldn’t say why. Checked her file, told her hyper stimulation during previous drug cycle contraindicates repeat donation. Told me she tried another clinic, but they wouldn’t take her because she’s only eighteen. She let slip she wasn’t eighteen when she donated!! Cried, then admitted she wrote false birth date on papers!

“Must find out who’s responsible. Do I tell Edmond, or not?

“Question: do we stop accepting young, childless donors? Hard to convince others, especially E, to screw the bottom line.

“Screw them all, then.”

Lisa was chewing on her bottom lip, mulling over what she’d read. At least he’d been honest about Chelsea’s visit to the clinic. She wondered why he hadn’t told Barone that Chelsea had attempted to donate at another clinic, then quickly answered her own question: he hadn’t wanted to discuss Chelsea’s age.

But why hadn’t he told her about Chelsea’s lie and the predicament he faced because of it? Why hadn’t he confided in her, asked for her advice, her moral support? She remembered suddenly that he’d been about to tell her something about Chelsea, then had changed the subject. Would everything be different now if she had prodded him?

“E” was clearly Edmond. Who were the others? The board of directors? Or did he mean Ted? He couldn’t mean Sam—Sam had expressed similar concerns about young donors.

She read the next entry, dated the following day:

“Grace swears she didn’t take C’s application. Cried, said another nurse did initial interview. Who? If it was one of Ted’s nurses, she’s long gone. I asked Ted—he was angry, defensive. Lisa’s right—he’s a pain in the ass. Wish I didn’t need him. “Asked all the secretaries, nurses—no one admits anything.

“Someone is lying. But who?

“Question: what are the odds anyone will find out Chelsea was underage when she donated? Should I drop the whole thing? Wish I could ask Lisa, but I don’t want to worry her, and she’s preoccupied lately. Why?

“Question: does Lisa know Sam is wild about her? Sometimes I feel he’s jealous of me. Can’t blame him.”

She felt like a voyeur, reading Matthew’s personal comments. Though she told herself she didn’t care, she was gratified to learn that his love for her was sincere. She was surprised he’d been aware over two weeks ago that something was troubling her; even more surprised, and discomfited, to discover that he suspected Sam had feelings for her.

She moved through the next two pages, which discussed the latest experiment results. Skimming the paragraphs, she read of Matthew’s disappointment—what had seemed promising weeks ago proved to be a dead end. She felt a renewed flash of sympathy, then steeled herself. Matthew wasn’t entitled to sympathy at all.

She read his latest entry, the one he’d written on Tuesday night, after leaving her apartment:

“C was murdered! Shocking, senseless.

“Barone saw I was nervous—why wouldn’t I be? Still don’t know what to do about Chelsea’s papers. Lisa saw I was nervous, too. I’m not sorry I didn’t tell her—I love her too much to get her involved with this ugly mess.

“Barone said it could be a mugging, but I know he doesn’t believe it.

“Question: why was she killed?

“Did someone see C at clinic two weeks ago, talking to me? Even if answer is yes, so what? “To fire or not to fire—still no clear evidence. Even if I find proof, it’s too late to avoid disaster: C’s parents will want to know who has her eggs, will learn she was underage when she signed waiver. Will sue me, clinic.

“Question: when do I tell Edmond?

“Note: ask Grace to find out about C’s funeral and send flowers. Attend, if schedule permits.

“Question: does the captain always go down with his ship?”

Lisa scrolled backward and reread the last entry. She found it hard to analyze emotions from words on a screen, but Matthew had obviously been stunned by Chelsea’s murder, then anxious about what would happen to him and the clinic. Still, she was left with more questions than before.

He hadn’t admitted he’d forged the papers. Then again, why would he? There was nothing to suggest that he’d planned to run away, either, although the last line had a desperate, morbid tone. Again she felt a twinge of pity for him, then reminded herself that he’d let her think he’d been kidnapped or killed.

But if he’d planned to run away, why had he contemplated attending Chelsea’s funeral? Or had he reached the decision to run away after having spent a restless night?

And why had he gone to the clinic so early in the morning? To get proof about who was responsible for altering Chelsea’s documents? Or to alter the documents himself?

She inserted a blank diskette into the laptop’s drive and copied the file. Then she inserted the diskette into her own computer and printed out a copy for herself. After shutting off the computer, she phoned the station one more time. Barone hadn’t called in.