Fertile Ground (37 page)

The nurse knocked and entered the room. Nestle nodded at her and began the examination.

“You’re very tense, Elysse,” he said softly as he probed. “Try to relax.”

She took a deep breath and wondered how he would insert the IUD with the nurse present.

“Your right ovary is fine; So is your left. I don’t feel any masses.” He closed his eyes. “Your uterus is sound, the size of a large walnut. Perfect. Everything seems excellent, Elysse.” He smiled warmly and lifted a speculum from the counter. “Now I’m going to take a cervical sample for a Pap smear. I’m inserting the speculum. It’ll feel cold. Try to relax,” he said again a moment later, gently pushing her knees apart.

“Okay.” Her lips were dry. She licked them.

He turned to the counter again, then faced the nurse. He was frowning. “Denise, we’re low on swabs.” He sounded disapproving. “Would you get some? And bring a box of mounting slides, too.”

“Yes, Doctor.” She left the room.

This was it. Lisa thought. Nestle had his back to her. She lifted her head and craned her neck and saw him tear off the sterile plastic cover of an intrauterine device attached to the insertion tube. Her heart beat faster.

“You’ll feel a little pinching, Elysse, and possibly a slight cramping sensation, but it shouldn’t last long.”

“I’ve never had cramping before with a Pap smear,” she said, injecting into her voice just a hint of anxiety. She grabbed the edges of the examining table to steady her shaking hands.

He turned around. “Well, it’s nothing to worry about. I like to take a sample higher up than some physicians do. You get a more accurate reading. You may experience a little spotting, too. That’s normal.”

She knew he was holding the IUD, but she couldn’t see it. She pressed her feet against the stirrups.

There was a knock on the door. She turned her head and saw a different nurse enter the room.

“Dr. Nestle, I’m sorry to interrupt, but Nancy Bartholomew is on the line. She says she has to talk with you immediately.”

Lisa felt faint, nauseated. Nancy Bartholomew was one of the patients she’d spoken to yesterday, who had been referred by Nestle.

Nestle frowned. “I’m in the middle of a procedure here, Patty. Tell her I’ll call her back later.”

“I told her you were with a patient. She said she left a message with your service yesterday. She says it’s urgent.”

Lisa’s hands were clammy. She took another deep breath. If a nurse took her blood pressure now, she’d be shocked.

“Have Dr. Jorgen talk to her,” Nestle said.

“She insists on talking only to you.”

“Tell her I’ll be with her in five minutes,” he said brusquely. After the nurse left the room, he smiled at Lisa. “Sorry about that. This won’t take long.”

She felt as if a fist were blocking her air pipes.

“You’re shaking, Elysse. Really, this won’t hurt.” He worked silently, then said, “There, that’s it. I should have the results of the Pap smear in a week.”

She started to move back on the table when a menstrual-like cramp seized her. She winced. “Lie still for a moment until the cramping stops. I have to take this call—I won’t be more than a few minutes. Then I’ll complete your exam.” He patted her knee, peeled off his gloves, which he discarded in a round trash can, and left.

She had a minute, maybe two, before he returned to confront her. She was still cramping. Removing her legs from the stirrups, she hurried off the bed and tore off the paper gown, which she threw on the floor. She yanked open the curtain to the cubicle and, her hands shaking, put on her navy straight skirt and pumps. She pulled her cream lace camisole over her head, slipped on her blazer, and stuffed her bra, panties, and pantyhose into her purse. She was about to leave when she spotted the folder with her file on top of a cabinet. Opening the folder, she found

the page with Nestle’s handwritten notes and put it in her purse.

She opened the door an inch and looked to the right and left. Nestle wasn’t in sight. With her heart hammering wildly in her chest, she exited the room and was heading quickly for the waiting room when she came face-to-face with Denise. The nurse was holding a box of slides and another box of swabs.

“Oh, you’re all done, Mrs. Landes. I know that Dr. Nestle will want to talk to you before you leave.”

“I have to put money in the parking meter,” she managed to say. Her chest was tight. Her legs were blocks of wood.

“You definitely don’t want to get a ticket.” The nurse smiled and walked on.

Lisa entered the waiting room and half ran through it, ignoring the stares of the women sitting on the upholstered chairs.

“Mrs. Landes, you forgot to make a payment!” called the brown-haired receptionist, who had been nice enough to get Lisa this last-minute appointment.

“I’ll be right back,” Lisa said without turning around. “I’m going to feed the meter.”

She raced down the long, wide hall and turned left to the bank of elevators. She pressed the down button and tapped her foot and darted anxious glances to the left every few seconds, expecting to see Nestle’s handsome face glaring at her.

The elevator pinged its arrival. The doors glided open. It was vacant. She stepped inside, pressed herself against the wall of the elevator, and, clutching her abdomen, breathed again.

“Please don’t worry about a thing. Nancy. You were absolutely right to call me.” Jerome Nestle placed the receiver in its cradle.

He left his office, stopping to observe himself in a mirror halfway down the hall. He was proud of the fact that his face didn’t reveal the rage and fear threatening to consume him. He walked back to the examining room and forced a smile as he opened the door.

She was gone.

She’d obviously recognized the name the nurse had announced. Stupid cow.

Although what would he have done if the woman were here?

He clenched his hands and returned to his office, ignoring the call of one of the other nurses. He shut the door and went over to his desk and picked up the phone. He was upset to see that his hand was shaking.

He dialed a number and waited.

Finally someone answered. “Hello?”

“I believe that Dr. Lisa Brockman was just here,” Nestle said. “She knows.”

Lisa was sitting at Barone’s desk in the large, partitioned detectives’ room at Hollywood Division. It was ten-fifteen, forty-five minutes earlier than they’d agreed to meet. She’d used her cell phone to make certain he was at the station. She barely recalled driving here and didn’t remember that she wasn’t wearing underwear until she arrived. In one of the rest-room stalls, she put on her bra and panties and hose and told herself that one day she’d be laughing about this. Right now she didn’t feel like laughing.

First she told him about the car. “It wasn’t an accident, Detective. The driver was definitely trying to kill me. He had his headlights off.” She’d relived the incident in her dreams and woken up several times, bathed in sweat, trembling. She wasn’t sure, but she might have screamed aloud. “I didn’t call the police because I didn’t have a license plate or anything to tell them.” “Could you tell what kind of car it was?”

“Something low and sporty. I’m sorry.” She smiled lightly. “I’m not good about cars, and it happened so fast.” Ted Cantrell drove a Porsche, she remembered suddenly.

“What about the color?”

“Not light. It could’ve been red or black or dark green

or blue. Sorry,” she said again. “I brought the donor problem files and the protected lists. They’re in my trunk.”

“I’ll get someone to help me bring them in.”

“Before you do, there’s something else you should know.”

He listened impassively, as he always did, while she explained her suspicions about Nestle. With every word she uttered, she realized her story sounded impossibly melodramatic. “I know it sounds crazy, but that’s what he did.” She wished Barone would react. Even skepticism would be preferable to his blank, controlled expression.

Barone was tapping his pencil on his desk, staring into space. “Explain again why he’s doing this.”

“As a partner in the clinic, he wants it to turn a large profit. There are more and more clinics. Detective. What draws patients to a specific one isn’t the doctor’s bedside manner. It’s the success rate.”

Barone nodded. “You said you spoke to two of his patients. How many files did you examine?”

“A little over a hundred. There are two more Nestle patients in that random sample—one just started an IVF cycle. The other is pregnant, but I couldn’t reach her.”

“Would three pregnancies alter the statistics enough to justify the risk of what he’s doing?”

“He probably doesn’t think there is a risk. One of our rival clinics claims forty percent success rates for women under thirty-five. Our new brochure says we have a forty four percent success rate. In my random sample, seventeen of thirty-seven patients under thirty-five are pregnant. That’s forty-six percent. If you remove Nestle’s three pregnant referrals, that’s fourteen pregnancies. Thirty eight percent.”

“An enormous difference. I see what you mean.”

“I’m positive that if we examined all one thousand files, we’d find more of Nestle’s patients who didn’t need assisted reproduction. I’m sure he’s involved with this refund-donor egg scam, too.”

Barone pulled on his mustache. “But you have no proof.”

“Not about the donor eggs. But I can prove what he’s doing with the iUDs. I just came from his office. I told him I wanted to get pregnant. He inserted an IUD.” She delivered this last information with a triumphant toss of her head, then shivered again at the memory.

“You went to Nestle’s office?” The detective’s stare was incredulous. “If you’re right about him, do you have any idea how reckless that was?” His voice was uncharacteristically loud.

Finally she’d elicited a reaction. “I was terrified, but how else could I get proof?” She leaned forward.” “Nestle has to be working with someone at the clinic on the refund scam. I think he’ll probably invest in another clinic that has a refund policy and work the same scam—he assured me that if the Westwood clinic closes, he’s well connected with other clinics. Don’t you agree that this gives him a motive for murdering Matthew?”

“He could have been working with Dr. Gordon,” Bar one said, looking at her intently.

“He could have. Maybe Matthew worried too much about the clinic losing patients.” The admission was painful, but she didn’t flinch. “When Chelsea was murdered, Nestle must have panicked—he knew the clinic would be investigated. I think he killed Matthew to keep him from telling the police about his involvement and set Matthew up to deflect suspicion from himself.” She sighed. “Or maybe Matthew didn’t know.”

Barone didn’t respond right away. Finally he said, “You’re sure Nestle inserted an IUD?” He was avoiding looking at her now, clearly uncomfortable discussing this with her.

“I saw him tear off the packaging on the IUD insertion tube. I saw him hold it. And I had cramping afterward, which I expected. Can you get a warrant for his arrest?”

Another silence. Barone was tweaking his mustache again. “Nestle will say you had the IUD when you came to see him.” “I went to my own gynecologist early this morning—I convinced her I had an emergency. She did an exam and

can testify that I didn’t have an IUD as of eight-thirty this morning.”

Barone chuckled. “You amaze me. Dr. Brockman. Are you sure you haven’t chosen the wrong profession?” She smiled. “I have the placebos Nestle gave one of his patients. If we contact all his referrals, I’m sure we’ll find corroboration about the pills, about everything. Maybe he’s the one who attacked me Sunday night.” She frowned. “Although I don’t know how he got into the building. I’m sure I set the alarm.”

“If Nestle killed Dr. Gordon, he’d have his keys.” Bar one rose. “Let me talk to my lieutenant.”

She felt infinitely better sitting in Nestle’s handsomely furnished office with Barone next to her than she had this morning, alone. She was impressed with the doctor’s outward calm. If he was worried, he wasn’t showing it.

“I don’t understand. Detective,” Nestle said with an air of sincere bewilderment after Barone had introduced himself. “If anyone should be pressing charges, / should. Mrs. Landes rushed out of here without paying for her examination and for the procedure I performed. She wrote a false phone number on the medical form she filled out-my secretary tried to contact her about her bill. She probably gave a false name, too.” He stared icily at Lisa.

“My name is Dr. Lisa Brockman. I think Nancy Bartholomew told you that when she phoned this morning.” Lisa looked at him coolly. It felt wonderfully satisfying, after so many days of hazy confusion, to be confronting the enemy.

He furrowed his forehead. “Should I know your name?”

“I’m on the staff at the clinic of which you’re a silent partner, the same clinic to which you refer patients for fertility treatments after you prevent them from becoming pregnant by inserting iUDs.”

“You’re Dr. Gordon’s fiancee.” His voice was suddenly soft with compassion. Sighing, he turned to Barone. “I had no idea until this minute who this woman was. Mrs. Bartholomew phoned because she heard the clinic

was shut down, and she was concerned about being drawn into an investigation of embryo switching.” He faced Lisa again. “Dr. Brockman, naturally you’re distraught over your fiance’s disappearance. That explains why you’re not thinking or acting rationally. Under the circumstances, I’ll waive my fee and forgive the confusion and embarrassment you’ve caused me.”

He was good. Lisa thought. She wanted to retort but knew she’d be playing his game.

“You mentioned that you performed a procedure,” Barone said.

“Yes.” Nestle tented his hands. “I inserted an IUD, as per Mrs. Landes’s request. Sorry, I mean Dr. Brock man’s.”

She stared at him, openmouthed. He was so clever, she wanted to strangle him. “She didn’t tell you she wanted to have a baby?” Bar one asked in the same polite voice. That she came here for an exam to make sure she was in good health?”

Nestle nodded his head vigorously. “Yes, she did. She said the same thing to my receptionist yesterday when she begged her for an immediate appointment. This morning she sat in this same chair”—he pointed to Lisa-“and told me she and her husband were anxious to have a baby right away. Of course I believed her. Why wouldn’t I?” He regarded Lisa with sad accusation.