Fertile Ground (32 page)

The numbers were staggering.

It was possible that if she collated the data of all the clinic files (something she couldn’t do, now that they’d been confiscated), the numbers would be less impressive.

Or not.

Matthew had known the statistics. He’d used them for the new brochure. She found her purse at the side of the bed and took one out. The third page featured a table

showing the clinic’s rate of success by age group:

Twenty percent for women over forty.

Thirty-six percent for women between thirty-five and forty.

Forty-four percent for women under thirty-five.

She wondered again whether what she’d suggested to Gina Franco was possible: that a rival clinic had leaked false rumors to ruin the reputation of Matthew’s clinic and attract its patients and their dollars. But a rival clinic hadn’t substituted donor eggs for a patient’s eggs. Unless it had hired someone at the clinic to do it.

Had someone substituted Chelsea’s eggs for Naomi’s? Two days ago Lisa would have said it was impossible. Now she had a sinking feeling that it had probably happened.

The “why” still eluded her.

She didn’t have Naomi’s file, but she did have her copy of Chelsea’s—thank goodness she hadn’t left it at the clinic yesterday, or at her apartment. She found it among the stack of files on the floor and read it again.

It contained nothing she hadn’t already known. She was about to close it when she noted the name of Chelsea’s gynecologist—Howard Melman. She wondered whether Chelsea had said something revealing to him, whether she’d confided in him about her problems, her need for money.

She dialed Melman’s number, identified herself to the female receptionist, and asked to speak to the doctor.

“He’s with a patient. Dr. Brockman. May I have a number so he can return your call?”

“Actually, would it be possible for me to see Dr. Melman today? It’s rather important.” Lisa looked at her watch—it was a quarter to twelve. She felt as if she’d been staring at numbers for hours.

“Let me see.” A short pause. “He’s really booked, because he’s just returned from vacation, but I’ll squeeze you in at one, before he sees his first afternoon patient.”

Melman shared an office with another OB-GYN on the fifth floor of a medical building on Century Park East.

The waiting room, small and cozy, was furnished with two benches and three armchairs, all upholstered in a soft rose-and-blue tiny floral print, all occupied by women in various stages of pregnancy. On the dark wood coffee table, next to a potted plant, lay a fanned assortment of pregnancy and parenting magazines. Currier and Ives prints hung on the texture-papered ecru walls.

Melman’s office, paneled in cherry wood, was cozy, too.

“How can I help you?” the doctor asked Lisa when they were both seated. He was in his fifties; he had graying hair and a matching beard, a paunch, and a cherubic face. Santa Claus without the costume.

“I wanted to ask you a few questions about Chelsea Wright.”

“I delivered Chelsea, and she was my patient.” He sighed heavily. “My wife and I came back Sunday from a two-week trip to Europe I’d been promising her for ten years. I was looking through the Times and saw that poor girl’s face. A beautiful young girl, killed like that.” His eyes misted.

“It’s a terrible tragedy,” Lisa said quietly.

Melman nodded. “I called her parents. They’re heartbroken, devastated. And now they found out she donated eggs to this clinic that’s been in the news, and the clinic won’t tell them who received the eggs.” He shook his head. “Sorry. Why are you here? My secretary didn’t say.”

He would probably throw Lisa out as soon as she explained. She braced herself and said, “Actually, I’m with the clinic.”

His body stiffened.

She flinched under the malevolence of his icy stare. “You may have heard that Dr. Gordon, the clinic director, is missing. The police think he’s been killed, and that his murder may be connected to Chelsea’s. Dr. Gordon is my fiance.” No sign of sympathy from the doctor. “I was hoping Chelsea may have said something to you that would provide a clue to what happened.”

“She wasn’t even eighteen when she donated those

eggs,” he said with quiet anger. “How could you people let her do it?”

Her face colored. “Dr. Melman, I understand why you’re upset, but the fact is, she said she was eighteen. I’ve never met Chelsea, but from her picture, she looks older than eighteen.”

“And you didn’t bother to check it out, did you?” He leaned forward and pointed an accusing finger at Lisa. “You didn’t care if she knew what she was doing because you needed her eggs, because you have patients willing to pay big money to get them.”

She didn’t respond. She wasn’t about to defend herself and tell him that she wasn’t the one who had let Chelsea slip through; that, like Sam, she’d had reservations for some time about having young, childless women donate eggs. But had she done anything about it?

“So why are you here. Doctor?” He accented the last word with sarcasm. “I know the Wrights are planning to sue your clinic. Did you come here hoping I’d tell you that Chelsea was a liar, that she was a manipulative girl who’d do anything to get her way? If that’s why you’re here, you can leave right now.”

“I’m not here to discredit Chelsea, Dr. Melman. I’m trying to find out what happened to my fiance. I hope you believe me.” No answer from Melman. “When was the last time you saw her?” It was a safe, nonthreatening question.

He leaned against his armchair. “She had an appointment three weeks ago, the week before I left on my vacation. She brought me a trip journal. “Make sure you write everything down so you can tell me all about it,” she said.” His eyes misted.

“She came to the clinic two weeks before she was killed. She told Dr. Gordon she wanted to donate eggs again because she needed the money. Did she mention that to you?”

“She didn’t say anything about donating eggs—I didn’t even know until recently that she’d done it the first time. I would have talked her out of it, you can be sure of that.” He scowled at Lisa. “I’m not surprised she

needed money. She was saving to go to a private college, and her parents are short on funds. Always have been. But they always pay their bills—on time, too.” He narrowed his eyes. “I am surprised Chelsea wanted to donate eggs again. You’re sure about that?”

Lisa nodded. “Why are you surprised?” She felt a prickling sensation at the back of her neck.

He shook his head. “I can’t tell you that. Dr. Brock man. That’s between me and Chelsea.”

And Chelsea was dead. Lisa tried to restrain her frustration. “It’s possible that what she told you might have a bearing on her murder, and on Dr. Gordon’s.”

He shook his head again. “Sorry. There are ethics in our profession. Doctor. Some of us follow them.”

She ignored his insinuation. “Dr. Gordon said Chelsea was agitated and depressed when she came to the clinic. Was she like that when you saw her?”

He hesitated. “Yes, she was.” His tone was grudging.

“Can you tell me why?”

“I can, but I won’t. It’s none of your damn business.” His tight smile was smug.

She clenched her hands. “You’re angry at the clinic, you want to punish me—fine. But aren’t you angry at Chelsea’s killer? Don’t you want to make sure he’s caught and punished?”

Melman’s smile disappeared. He stood up. “I have patients to see. I imagine you have a lot of free time, now that the clinic’s under investigation.”

The doctor would probably be thrilled when he heard that the police had confiscated the files and the clinic was about to be shut down. “Thanks for your time.” She took a business card from her purse and wrote down her home number before putting the card on his desk. “If you change your mind. Dr. Melman, please call me.”

He grunted. “Don’t hold your breath.”

She left Melman’s office depressed and frustrated and had exited the parking lot when she realized she was only blocks away from the Brentano’s where Chelsea’s boyfriend worked.

She drove to the Century City mall, parked her car, and took the escalator to the mall level. She’d been here countless times with Matthew—looking at china and crystal and flatware patterns at Bloomingdale’s and Macy’s, eating ice cream at Haagen-Dazs, going to the movies. She and Matthew had often browsed in the bookstore, which was close to the theaters.

She didn’t remember the boyfriend’s last name, but she remembered his first name: Dennis. She was prepared to hear that she’d come at the wrong time and was pleasantly surprised when the manager told her Dennis was in the back of the store, restocking the shelves. She found him in the “Psychology” section and watched him work for a moment. He was tall and thin and lanky, with shoulder length, dark-blond hair and a boyish face.

She walked up to him. “Dennis?”

He looked at Lisa, holding a book in his slender hands. “Yeah?”

“I’m Dr. Lisa Brockman from the Westwood clinic. I wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes.”

He had frozen at the mention of the clinic. Now he took a deep breath. “About what?” Wary now.

“I want to tell you how sorry I am about your loss.” She felt inept again, as she had with the Wrights. How did Barone handle the grief of the bereaved? “I’ve heard wonderful things about Chelsea from everyone, including Dr. Gordon, my fiance. I’m sure you’ve heard that the police think he’s been killed, too.”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Dennis said in a soft, pain filled voice, “but I’ve told the police everything I know, which isn’t much. You can ask them to fill you in.” He turned his back toward her and slipped the book into the racks.

“I’ve already spoken with Detective Barone. Please, Dennis, just a few questions?”

He faced her again and sighed. “What do you want to know?” He sounded tired, resigned, a little angry, too.

Lisa hated intruding on his grief, poking at fresh wounds. “The bartender Chelsea worked with said she was depressed for a while. I just spoke with her gynecologist He said the same thing. Do you know why?”

He shook his head. “I asked and asked her. She said, “It’s something I have to work out myself.” Then one day she’s all smiles, like the weight of the world was lifted off her shoulders. And a week later, she’s dead.” His voice broke. He looked down and studied his shoes.

Lisa waited until he was composed. “Chelsea said she wanted to donate eggs because she needed money. Do you know why?”

He glanced up at her. “It doesn’t make sense. She wanted to pay her parents back for the tuition, I know that. But they weren’t asking for it. She could’ve taken her time.”

“I know she was happy about the job with Mrs. Rhodes.”

“She was thrilled.” A ghost of a smile flitted across his young face. “Not just because of the money. Chelsea loved kids. She wanted to have half a dozen of her own.” He averted his head and wiped his tear-filled eyes.

She wanted badly to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. She waited a moment, then said, “Dennis, Detective Barone said you had no idea Chelsea came to the clinic three weeks ago to donate eggs again. Why do you think she didn’t tell you?”

“That’s been bothering me.” He frowned. “Chelsea and I, we told each other everything. The only thing I can figure is that she knew I would’ve tried to talk her out of it.”

That was what Melman had said, too. And Chelsea’s parents.

“The first time, when she donated her eggs? That was before we met. She told me about it after we started dating seriously, said how rough it was.”

“Because of the hyper stimulation of her ovaries?”

Dennis nodded. “That was no picnic. Plus she had this awful dream when they removed the eggs. The nurse told her it was from the anesthesia.”

Lisa felt her chest tighten. “What was the dream about?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“She’s lying on this bed with her eyes closed. She

hears this male voice from behind her. He starts quoting from the Bible, telling her she’s a terrible person because she gave up her eggs.”

Lisa’s heart was beating faster. “Do you remember what part of the Bible?”

His eyes took on a distant look. “I don’t remember exactly. It had to do with a woman who took her kid to the desert and left him to die. But then God told her to go back to him.”

“Hagar,” Lisa said quietly.

Dennis gazed at her in surprise. “Yeah, that’s it. Hagar. Anyway, the voice tells Chelsea she’s going to be punished because she gave up her babies.” He picked up a book from the trolley and ran his hand along the spine. “She knew it was just a dream, but it freaked her out. So I don’t get why she’d want to do it again. Unless she figured they’d use a different kind of anesthesia. What do you think?”

“Sam left a number of messages for you on the machine,” Elana reported when Lisa returned to the Pressler house a little after two. “He told me what happened at the clinic. It must have been a terrible experience.”

“Not my best day.” Lisa smiled lightly.

“What will you do now?” She peeled a cucumber and placed it on a wood cutting board on the kitchen counter.

“I don’t know. I can’t look for a position at another clinic until this is all cleared up—no one in his right mind would hire me.” She hadn’t talked with the medical board representatives, all of whom had avoided making eye contact with her and Sam and the others, but Edmond had told her the board was considering suspending the licenses of all the staff doctors until the allegations were cleared. He’d also asked her about the money found in her pantry. She’d told him she had no idea who had hidden the money there; she thought he believed her.

“How will you manage. Lisa?” Elana’s eyes were dark with concern.

“I have enough in the bank to tide me over for four or five months.” She’d had twenty thousand dollars in her pantry, she thought wryly. And she could always sell

2C2

the diamond Matthew had given her—Sam’s suggestion, she remembered with a pang.

“Sam didn’t say, but I can tell he’s worried.” She sliced the cucumber. “You probably don’t know this, but he basically supports his sister and her husband and children.”

“Sam never mentioned it.” Why not? she wondered uneasily.