Fertile Ground (25 page)

She felt a flash of pity. “For a while, I did, too, Edmond.” “Thank you for that,” he said softly. He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you take a few days off? I’m sure the others won’t mind covering for you.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather be busy.” When she was with patients—examining them, performing procedures, listening to their concerns—she felt she was doing something worthwhile, and she could forget her own troubles, at least for a while.

“You’re probably right. If you change your mind, let me know. Jean Elliott phoned me yesterday, by the way. The graphologist she consulted will testify that the handwriting on Chelsea Wright’s documents isn’t hers. Ms. Elliott has filed a complaint for damages against the clinic, claiming medical malpractice and negligence because we failed to substantiate Chelsea Wright’s true age at the time she donated the eggs.”

Bad news, but hardly surprising. “So she’ll subpoena

our files?” Lisa slipped the shirt onto a hanger and laid it carefully on the sofa, next to other ironed shirts.

“She’s already issued a subpoena. She’s asked the court to shorten the stay—meaning the time we have to respond to the subpoena—from the normal twenty-day period because of the emergency of the situation. Judge Gilbert has agreed to hear her argument at eleven o’clock Monday morning at the Santa Monica Courthouse, in chambers. I’m going with counsel. I’d like you to be there, too, since you’re the most familiar with this matter.”

“I’ll have to see what my patient schedule is like.” She was reluctant to become involved, more reluctant to meet again with the Wrights and their attorney. She switched off the iron, set it on its heel, and, suddenly hungry, moved to the kitchen pantry.

“Of course. And if necessary, maybe Dr. Davidson or Dr. Cantrell can see your patients. This is very important, Lisa.”

“I agree. I’ll go in early tomorrow morning and see what I can do.” Behind a box of Raisin Bran, she found the granola bar she’d been looking for. It wasn’t where she’d expected to find it, but she recalled that Sam had been rummaging through the pantry yesterday. “Edmond, Sam Davidson is worried that if the Wrights get legal permission to find out who received their daughter’s eggs, other patients will want to do the same.”

Edmond’s sigh was audible. “He’s right. We may be looking at a class action suit, not to mention a police investigation. Allegations of egg stealing are nebulous and unproved at this point. But if Ms. Elliott proves that someone at the clinic forged patient documents, that’s a felony. I suspect we’ll have to turn over all our files sooner rather than later.” He sounded so dispirited.

“You were going to question all the nurses to find out who admitted Chelsea to the program. Did you find out anything?”

He snorted. “Stunned denials across the board. Grace Fenton burst into tears and offered to quit on the spot. I had to beg her to stay. Everyone else was equally indignant. I suppose I’ll have to issue another memo.”

/ suppose you think I’ll write it. Lisa had unwrapped the granola bar but decided she wasn’t hungry after all.

“Did you find out who received Chelsea’s eggs?” he asked.

“One of the patients is Cora Alien, but she never conceived. The other person who’s listed as a recipient is Naomi Hoffman, but that’s clearly a mistake.” Lisa explained about the shomer.

“Then why would the records indicate that she received Chelsea Wright’s eggs?” he asked impatiently.

“Whoever forged Chelsea’s signature had to make sure she donated eggs after she was eighteen. My guess is the forger chose Naomi Hoffman at random.”

“What does Mrs. Hoffman’s file indicate?”

“I couldn’t locate it.” Lisa tensed, anticipating criticism.

“Wonderful.” He sighed. “More work by our forger?”

“Probably. I’ve informed the Hoffmans about this situation. I advised them to get an affidavit from the shomer, but he’s out of the country at present.”

“I hope to hell they reach him soon. I imagine I’ll be hearing from the Hoffmans’ attorney, too.”

“Edmond, I’m convinced no embryos have been switched. Whoever killed Chelsea and Matthew probably leaked these false allegations to create a smoke screen and cover up the real motive for the killings.”

“What motive is that?” he asked sharply.

She told him about Matthew’s file, about the “data lies?!” notation, about Sam’s theory.

“I didn’t even know Matthew was involved in this research,” Edmond said after a moment’s silence. “Now you tell me he was killed because of it, by someone who works at the clinic. Does Barone agree with your theory?”

She didn’t blame him for being skeptical. “He didn’t say so, but he didn’t say it was crazy, either. He questioned me about the lab and medical staff.”

“I suppose I should be insulted that he didn’t ask any

questions about me. Then again, it’s highly unlikely that I’d steal research data and sell it to another clinic.”

This was the first time she’d heard Edmond attempt humor. “I don’t know where Matthew left the data. As far as I can tell, it’s not in his home laptop.” She’d searched through all the files early this morning, before Barone had come. “So his paperwork has to be in the clinic. Tomorrow morning I’m going to look for it and for Mrs. Hoffman’s file. I’m also going to start checking other patient files.” “To what purpose?” Again his voice was sharp.

“To find out who received Chelsea’s eggs. Also, I’d like to be able to prove that those allegations are false.”

“That’s a monumental task. Lisa. The clinic’s been open for almost three years. We see approximately five hundred patients a year. You’re talking about close to fifteen hundred files. This isn’t your responsibility.”

“I know that.” She didn’t understand why he sounded disapproving—it wasn’t as if she were asking him to help. She wanted to do this for herself, because she was upset by the allegations. She wanted to do this for Matthew, because the clinic had been his dream. And because she was atoning for having doubted him? “I’ll start within a smaller parameter. Selena will help, I’m sure. Sam Davidson will, too.”

“The police will check the files. Lisa. If you’re right, they’ll issue a report exonerating the clinic. Although by that time, all our patients will have transferred elsewhere, and the clinic will be closed. If I were you, I’d look for another job.”

As if another clinic would hire her now. “I’m more concerned about our patients. These women don’t know whether their eggs have been stolen, whether they’re carrying someone else’s embryos. It’s cruel to leave them with this horrible uncertainty for one second longer than necessary.”

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “Sometimes I forget why I helped build this clinic. Thank you for reminding me.” He sounded sincere. “I’ll see you in the morning at the courthouse?”

The clinic parking lot was empty when Lisa arrived at eight o’clock. Barone had cautioned her against going out at night, especially by herself, but it wasn’t really dark, and throughout the rest of the afternoon as she continued straightening up around the apartment, she’d worried about the authorities confiscating the records. What if they arrived early in the morning, when she was with a patient? Or when she was at the courthouse?

She’d wanted to bring Sam along—for security, and for assistance—but she hadn’t reached him. She’d left a message on his machine, telling him where she was going. She wished there were a guard, but Victor wasn’t on duty Saturdays or Sundays, since there were no patients and no cash or checks in the clinic safe.

Lisa had a key for the lobby door, another for the alarm. After shutting off the alarm, she unlocked the door and stepped inside the ink-dark lobby, then locked the door and reset the alarm. Her heart was thumping as she groped along the wall to her right and flipped two switches, flooding the large room and hallway with welcome light.

Her footsteps were muffled by the carpet as she walked down the empty hall, switching on lights along the way. She passed Matthew’s office, but she didn’t have a key.

She’d have to wait until morning to check his desk and cabinets for his research data. She wondered what she’d find in Ted’s office, then decided that if he had something incriminating, he wouldn’t keep it in the clinic. Ted was many things, but he wasn’t stupid.

She passed into Reception. Inside the large, square room was Selena’s L-shaped, brown Formica desk. Against the right wall was a photocopy machine; against the left, a bank of six open-faced cabinets, each with seven rows of folders. The different colors denoted the first letter of the patient’s first name: A-B was red; C, yellow; D-E-F, pink; G-H-I, blue; J, gray; K-L, brown;

M-N-0, green; P-Q-R, orange; S-T, purple; and U-V-W-X-Y-Z, mustard.

On Friday, when Lisa had looked for Naomi’s file, she’d been rushed and anxious. It was possible she’d missed it. She flipped again through the green files in the section tabbed “N,” but the file wasn’t where it should have been. She checked the green files in the sections marked “M” and “O.” It wasn’t there, either.

Edmond was partially right: the clinic did have close to fifteen hundred files, but not all of them were active. Files belonging to patients who hadn’t been seen in over a year and a half were stored downstairs. Still, a quick scan told her there were probably a thousand files in this room.

She was disheartened but refused to be overwhelmed by numbers. She had to find Naomi’s file. There were ten file colors, she told herself, so there were approximately only one hundred green folders. Tedious, but doable.

The air-conditioning was set on low when the building was vacant. The room was warm and musty and unnaturally silent. She wished again that Sam were here with her, but soon she was preoccupied with searching through the files and forgot her nervousness. She was halfway through with the As when she decided to check for evidence to refute the charges of embryo switching. A hundred or so random files should be representative. Returning to the beginning of the Us, she took a stack of green folders to the desk. She opened the top file: Nora

Ashman, age forty-two. Her H and P—history and physical profile—were there. So were her signed consent forms, lab forms, an IVF flow sheet detailing her hormonal treatment and ultrasound evaluations, and an embryo transfer form. A D, followed by a number on top of the lab and embryo transfer forms, corresponded with the consent Nora had signed to receive donated ova.

Lisa examined the second file: Nadine Amherst, thirty six. H and P; consent form; lab form; IVF flow sheet, embryo transfer form. Again there was a D, followed by a number and a signed form consenting to the acceptance of donated eggs.

There were so many files to look through, and the stillness in the reception area was beginning to unnerve her. She decided to photocopy them and study them at home. She turned on the machine. While waiting for it to warm up, she took two stacks to the desk and looked through them again. Naomi’s file wasn’t among them.

The machine was finally ready, humming with expectation. Feed me. She photocopied the entire first file, pleased by the machine-gun swiftness of the copier, which had spit out all twelve pages in less than two minutes. She copied another file, and another, removing additional stacks, returning the files she’d already copied, looking all the while for Naomi’s green folder.

When she checked her watch, she was surprised to see that two hours had passed, though she realized she shouldn’t be: she’d photocopied over eighty files and amassed a dozen towers of papers on both sections of the L-shaped desk. She’d staggered the files neatly to separate them from each other.

The shrill ringing of the phone startled her—she was crouching in front of the file cabinets, pulling out a stack from the “T” section, when she heard it. She jumped up, her heart racing, then reminded herself that it was probably Sam, calling to see if she was still here. She hurried to the desk. After the third ring, she picked up the receiver, said, “Sam?” over the recorded clinic message, and heard the sound of a disconnect.

It could have been a wrong number. It could have been

Sam. He might have hung up after hearing the recorded message. She was anxious to leave but had fewer than twenty folders left to copy.

She pulled out the remaining green folders and fed their contents to the machine, which suddenly seemed to be taking forever to churn out each page and was whining at the effort. Her hands were damp. She thought about the phone call and the man who’d followed her from Matthew’s condo and later to Paula’s, wondering why she hadn’t listened to Barone, why she’d come here at night by herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid, the copier groaned, echoing her thoughts with each page.

Ten minutes later she’d photocopied every green file in the room but still hadn’t located Naomi’s. She printed out a copy of the Jane Doe document that listed egg recipients and the donor code number. She also printed a four-page listing of all the donors and their phone numbers. Chel sea’s name was there, at the bottom of the last page.

With her keys in her hand. Lisa grabbed a tall stack of papers and, staggering under the weight, returned to the lobby. She turned off the alarm, unlocked the door, and stepped outside.

Except for her car, the lot was still vacant. She looked around as she walked to her car and deposited the papers in her trunk. She was wary on her way back to the lobby, wary with each successive trip she made to her car, and when she had finished and was back in Reception, her arms and shoulders were aching and she was panting from exertion and anxiety.

She slipped her purse strap on her shoulder, shut the light, and had reached the lobby when she remembered the log she’d shown Gina Franco. The log, which followed the Julian calendar, listed the day of the year, not of the month; entries listed patients in the order in which their procedures had been performed. If Lisa could find the entries for Chelsea and Naomi, she might be able to prove Naomi hadn’t received Chelsea’s eggs.

She set the alarm and returned to the hallway. Opening the door to the staircase, she switched on the light and descended the stairs. Dead air rose to greet her, and she

felt as though she were entering a crypt. The hallway door clicked shut behind her. She started, then clutched the banister and told herself she was being silly.