Fertile Ground (27 page)

“So it could have been a tall woman or a medium height man?”

“I guess. Or taller.”

The officers looked at Sam. He shrugged and lifted his hands palms up.

Reynaldo turned back to Lisa. “You said you sounded the alarm by breaking a window. Who set the alarm?”

“I did, just before I went downstairs to the lab.”

“You’re sure? You said you made several trips to the car. Maybe you forgot the last time?”

She shook her head. “I was nervous, being here alone. I definitely set the alarm.”

“So whoever attacked you had a key to the building and to the alarm? He must have set it after he entered the building.”

She hadn’t had time to think about it. “Yes, I suppose so,” she said softly.

“So it’s someone both of you probably see every day. And neither one of you can identify him or her?” The policeman was frowning at Sam and Lisa. “Why do you think he attacked you. Dr. Brockman?”

She explained about Matthew’s disappearance, about the blood in the trunk of his car, about the problems at the clinic, about Chelsea Wright’s murder. “It’s possible that whoever killed Ms. Wright and my fiance thinks I’m dangerous.” She saw Reynaldo and Morgan exchange glances. “You can talk to Detective John Barone from Hollywood Division. He’s investigating Chelsea’s murder.”

Reynaldo wrote down the name. “But why attack you here? Why not where you live?”

“I don’t know.” She’d been wondering the same thing herself.

Reynaldo asked more questions, then handed a card to Lisa, another to Sam. “If you remember anything else, call me.”

It was almost deja vu, she thought, watching the officers leave. Last Tuesday, less than a week ago, Barone had handed cards to her and to Matthew and said almost the same words. And now Matthew was dead.

She turned to Sam. “I know what you’re thinking—I should never have come here by myself. Barone warned me. You warned me.”

“I don’t always do the smart thing. I’m just grateful that you’re okay.” He gazed at her for a moment, then stepped back, as if he were suddenly uncomfortable, and slouched against the cabinets, his hands in his pockets. “Why did you come?”

“Edmond said the authorities will probably take our files soon. I didn’t want to wait for that to happen—I’m hoping to find evidence to disprove the charges of embryo switching.”

“A one-woman FBI.” He shook his head. “Did you?”

She told him about the files she’d photocopied. “They’re all in the trunk of my car. The problem is, if the police take clinic files, they’ll come to my place and take whatever files I have, too.”

Sam nodded. “We can all expect visits from the police. So where will you take all these papers?”

“To the Presslers? I’D call first to ask if it’s okay to leave the papers in their garage. I can’t take them to Matthew’s—the police are sure to go there. You’re out. So is everyone else from the clinic.” She saw Sam’s frown. “You think it’s a bad idea? Or is it too late to call them?” It was almost eleven o’clock, she saw when she checked her watch.

“No, they’re always up late. The Presslers are a good choice and I’m sure they won’t mind.” He hesitated. “To be honest, though, I think checking the files is a waste of your time.”

“You mean I almost got killed for nothing?” she asked, trying to make light of the situation.

“Basically, yeah.” He smiled at her. “I don’t believe there was embryo switching at the clinic, but I doubt you’ll find proof in the files.” “Maybe you’re right. Actually, I was really hoping to

find Naomi Hoffman’s file. I mentioned her—Orthodox, expecting twins?”

He looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded. “Right. The woman who had the shomer. Her file’s missing?”

“I can’t find it anywhere. The problem is, when I checked the donor code number in the computer for Chel sea’s eggs on Friday, Naomi’s name came up as the recipient.”

“But how’s that possible? And why didn’t you mention this yesterday?”

“I wasn’t thinking about Naomi. I was upset about Matthew, and the blood.” She fought a wave of queasiness. “Anyway, I think whoever forged Chelsea’s papers randomly chose Naomi as the recipient and gave her a code number. I want to see her file—maybe this person forgot to put a D and a code number on her lab form or embryo transfer form.”

“Good idea. When did you last see her file?”

“Wednesday, when she was here. I checked every green file, Sam. It isn’t in the central system, or in Billing, or on Selena’s desk, or in my office. Someone must’ve taken it.”

“It looks like it,” he agreed. “So what were you doing down here in the lab?”

“Checking the log. I’m glad you reminded me.” It was still on the ledge, where she’d left it. “I thought if I found entries for Naomi and Chelsea, I might be able to prove that Naomi couldn’t have received Chelsea’s eggs.” Walking over to the counter, she opened the black book and nipped through the pages. She frowned, then nipped through them again.

A moment later she shut the log and looked up at Sam. “Not good news, huh? The log shows that Chelsea and Naomi had procedures done around the same time?”

“It doesn’t show anything,” she said quietly. “The pages from days two hundred forty-two through two hundred sixty-six have been removed.”

“Forget the garage,” Elana said when Lisa and Sam arrived. “Our guest room is empty this week. It has a

desk, too, which you may find helpful.” She hadn’t asked what files Lisa planned to leave there, or why she needed to. Maybe she didn’t want to know. She hadn’t asked how Sam had gotten his face scratched either, but she’d looked at him curiously.

“This is so nice of you, but I don’t want to intrude on your privacy,” Lisa said, suddenly feeling awkward. Bringing the files here had seemed a better idea on the phone than it did now, when she was standing in the Presslers’ entry.

Sam said, “Actually, Elana, do you think Lisa can stay here for a few days?”

Lisa glanced at him quickly and pursed her lips. “Sam—”

“She’s just been assaulted at the clinic, and she’s in danger. I don’t want her staying alone in her apartment.”

“Please ignore him.” Lisa was blushing and felt like kicking him. “I’d never dream of imposing on you like that. I’d never risk putting you and your family in danger by coming here.”

Elana looked troubled. “I doubt that you’d be putting us at risk. And it’s no imposition—we have company all the time. You can stay here as long as you need to.”

“You’re kind to offer. But I’ll be all right,” Lisa said, although she wasn’t sure at all.

“I hope you change your mind.” She put her hand on Lisa’s arm. “Sam’s right—you shouldn’t be by yourself.”

She led Lisa and Sam down the center hall to a small room at the back of the house furnished with a sofa bed, a desk, and a chair. “You can put papers on the bed, if you need to, or on the floor. The kids know this room is off limits.” She smiled, then turned to Sam. “You have a nasty bruise on your face. I’ll get you something for it.”

She was back a few minutes later with hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, and a tube of antibiotic ointment. She put everything on the desk. “Call if you need anything else,” she said and left the room.

“I don’t really need this stuff,” Sam said.

“Coward. You’re just afraid it’ll sting.” Lisa smiled. “You can dish it out. Doctor, but you can’t take it, huh? Here, I’ll do it.”

She doused a cotton ball with peroxide and began to cleanse the bruised areas on his cheek and neck, frowning as he winced. Gently she dabbed on the ointment, telling herself that touching him served a purely medicinal purpose, that the butterflies fluttering in her stomach were the aftermath of her attack.

“Not bad for someone who isn’t even a real nurse,” he said softly when she was done.

She flushed under the intensity of his gaze and capped the tube of ointment. “We’d better get the files.”

“Change your mind and stay here. Lisa,” he said, serious again. “That way I’ll know you’re safe.”

She shook her head. “I’ll be all right.”

He helped her bring the papers inside. Somehow they seemed to take up more space in the guest room than they had in the clinic’s reception area. She thanked Elana again and said good night and turned down her invitation to have a late snack—she wanted to go home, take a hot shower, and crawl under her covers.

When Sam insisted on following her home and coming upstairs to make sure everything was all right, she didn’t refuse. She waited in the living room while he checked the rest of the rooms, suddenly frightened of being in her apartment alone.

So when he offered to spend the night on the living room sofa, she didn’t refuse that, either.

Grace chewed on her bottom lip as she read the article in the Times’ “Metro” section. She knew that the police had found blood in Matthew’s car—the story had been on the TV news yesterday—but her stomach twisted as she read and reread the few details and the request that anyone with information call the police.

“Hey, hon, aren’t you going to be late?” her husband, Tony, called, fixing his tie as he entered the breakfast nook. “It’s six-forty.” He kissed the top of her head and went into the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of juice.

“I’m leaving soon. Is Suzie up?”

Tony worked at a bank and didn’t have to leave until eight-thirty. He dropped the baby off at the sitter’s. Grace picked her up on her way home from the clinic.

He returned to the breakfast nook. “I just diapered her. She’s waiting to say bye-bye to her mommy. She’s planning on wearing your favorite denim overalls today.” He smiled and waited for a response. When he got none, he glanced at the newspaper. “You have to face the fact that he’s dead,” he said gently.

“I know.” Her lips trembled. “I just wish I’d done something.”

“What could you possibly have done? Grace, what

could you have done?” he repeated when she didn’t answer.

She folded the newspaper, stood up, and headed for her daughter’s bedroom. The fourteen-month-old little girl was sitting in her white crib, playing with a tri colored plastic toy as she sucked contentedly on a pacifier.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Grace smoothed her daughter’s pale blond hair. “You look so pretty. Are you going to have a good time today with Betty?”

“Tee,” the little girl cooed. “Tee.”

“That’s right. Betty.” Grace leaned over and picked her up. She hugged her tightly and twirled her around, then placed her back in the crib.

“More!” Suzie squealed.

“Later, when Mommy comes home.”

Grace kissed her again, then went to her own bedroom, where she checked her makeup in the oblong mirror over the dresser. Tony wasn’t in the breakfast nook when she returned. She unfolded the newspaper, took it with her to the wall phone extension, and punched the numbers printed at the end of the article.

“Detectives, Hollywood. Jensen speaking.”

Her chest began thumping. She cleared her throat.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tony and hung up.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“No one. Just a wrong number.”

Judge William Gilbert was in his mid-fifties with thick salt-and-pepper hair, piercing blue eyes, and a sharp, hawklike nose. Lisa found him intimidating, especially in his voluminous robe, as she did the austerity of the dark-wood-paneled room.

She was sitting next to Edmond and the clinic’s attorney, Brian Thompson, a thin, brown-haired, serious looking man in his forties. They’d met in the parking lot adjacent to the Santa Monica Courthouse and walked to the judge’s chambers together. To Lisa’s left were the Wrights and Jean Elliott, who looked all business in a navy suit and a white blouse.

Outside, it was a warm, beautiful day, and the Pacific Ocean was only blocks away. Lisa had an urge to excuse herself, to walk down to the beach and stroll along the shore and stare at the water and forget about lawsuits and potential custody trials and the fact that Matthew was dead, that his killer had tried to kill her, too, last night. She’d phoned the Hollywood police station early this morning and left a detailed message for Barone. She hadn’t had a chance to tell Edmond. This morning she’d told Selena and asked her to have someone replace the window she’d shattered. Seeing it in daylight had seemed grotesque, surreal.

“Ms. Elliott,” the judge said, “I’ve read your petition, so you don’t need to repeat any background information. Please explain briefly why I should shorten the stay for this subpoena.”

“Thank you. Your Honor. My clients need to know the identity of the woman who received their dead daughter’s eggs so that we can proceed promptly with our complaint for damages. Given’the strong probability that the district attorney’s office will confiscate clinic records, we’re concerned that we will lose access to those records for an indefinite period of time, thereby indefinitely delaying our suit for medical malpractice and negligence, which we are basing on the fact that the clinic removed eggs from Ms. Wright when she was a legal minor.”

“Which you will, of course, have to prove.”

“I’ve submitted the graphologist’s report. Your Honor. It’s conclusive.”

“I’ve read it.” His tone was noncommittal. “You’re arguing exigency because you’re worried the police will confiscate the clinic’s files. I’m sure the clinic can make copies of the file or files in questions.”

Lisa said, “Your Honor, we have a copy of Ms. Wright’s file.”

“But we have no guarantee that copy won’t be confiscated as well,” Jean said, dismissing Lisa with a quick “You’re-a-novice-at-this” glance.

“Maybe so.” The judge leaned back in his swivel chair. “Still, I don’t see why you need the files altogether. If the clinic admits that one of its patients received your clients’ daughter’s eggs, you don’t need to know the identity of this patient. You’re suing the clinic, not the patient.”

“My clients plan to sue for shared custody as well.”

The judge shook his head. “It’s not going to happen, Counselor. California statute reads that a child born to a couple during their marriage is irrefutably believed to be the child of that couple.” “Yes, but the Court can order the recipient to undergo DNA testing for the limited purpose of determining whether the eggs were stolen. And since Ms. Wright was