Fertile Ground (40 page)

Lisa felt a wave of pity for Chelsea. “She didn’t tell him?”

“She was afraid to. She was afraid to tell her parents, too. She was walking around with the weight of the world on her shoulders, poor thing.” He flashed an angry look at Lisa. “I tried to reassure her. Just because she wasn’t ovulating now didn’t mean she’d never ovulate again. But I could tell she didn’t believe me.”

Lisa thought for a moment. “Do you think she went to the clinic for fertility drugs that would make her ovulate?”

“No. We’d talked about that. I told her the best thing would be to let her body rest and resume its natural cycle. The worst would be to fiddle around with more drugs. She was only eighteen. If we had to, we could have tried some hormone therapy later.”

“Then why did she go to the clinic?”

“I have absolutely no idea.” He was staring at her. “But I can tell you for sure that it wasn’t to donate eggs.”

Checking in with Barone had become a twice-a-day habit. Lisa phoned him again from her apartment and learned that she’d been right about the iUDs—Nestle’s

inventory showed a discrepancy between the number of iUDs stocked over a period of a year and the number billed to patients. Thirty-three intrauterine devices were unaccounted for.

“We still need someone to file a complaint before we can arrest him,” Barone said.

She was so frustrated she could scream. She was frightened, too. She wanted Nestle behind bars. “What about Ted Cantrell? Do the West L.A. police think he killed himself?”

“Let’s just say they’re skeptical. They spoke to his ex-wife—according to her, he was excited yesterday afternoon. He told her he was expecting big money and planned to pay her all the back alimony he owed her. That’s why she went to his place.”

“Maybe he was cashing in some stocks.”

“That’s what his ex-wife thought, but he said no. So why would he kill himself? I spoke with Cantrell on Monday—he didn’t strike me as the remorseful type.”

“So you do think Nestle killed Ted?”

“Norman Weld has practically confessed to all three murders. West L.A. likes Weld. So does the D.A. He’s having a court-appointed psychiatrist evaluate Weld to determine whether he’s fit to stand trial. Weld has refused to retain counsel or allow us to appoint a public defender. He said God will be at his side.”

She couldn’t believe this was happening. “Can you explain to the D.A. and the other detectives about the donor-egg switching?”

“I did. I showed them the files, the donor sheets, the statistics you worked up. It’s all very interesting. Dr. Brockman, and it looks like unethical medicine, but it’s not conclusive. And it doesn’t necessarily add up to murder. Weld admits he’s responsible for the deaths, and his motive is clear: he had to punish everyone involved with the process of donating eggs. You’re the one who figured that out.”

“But now I’m not sure. I spoke with Chelsea’s gynecologist today.” She repeated what she’d learned. “I don’t understand why she went to the clinic, why she lied

to Matthew. Doesn’t it make you wonder?”

“Again, it’s interesting, but it doesn’t change the fact that Weld had motive and opportunity and has admitted guilt.”

“Just because he says he’s responsible for their deaths doesn’t mean he killed them. I think he means he’s afraid of the power of his prayers. He doesn’t strike me as someone who would commit a murder.”

“Even if God told him to? Murderers don’t look like murderers. They’re not walking around these days with the mark of Cain on their foreheads. My job would be simpler if they were.”

“What about Ted Cantrell’s money? Will you try to find out what that was all about?”

“To be very honest, we can’t run off in a hundred directions. Right now we’re focusing on Weld. If there are any developments, I’ll let you know.”

She said good-bye and hung up, so frustrated that she had to restrain herself from slamming down the phone.

What kind of deal had Ted been referring to? Sam wouldn’t have known—he and Ted had never been close. And Ted wouldn’t have confided in his nurse—he’d never kept one long enough.

Grace, she remembered, had been talking to him on Monday. The conversation had seemed intense.

She wondered what they’d been discussing.

Selena had found out about Ted Cantrell. “It’s a terrible thing,” she said softly when Lisa called her at home. “Terrible.”

“Yes, it is,” Lisa agreed. She heard in the office manager’s voice the same awkward guilt she was feeling. Both of them had disliked Cantrell. Both of them had wished him gone. And now he was dead. I’m responsible, Norman Weld had said. / prayed it would stop. “You know about Norman, Selena?”

“No.” Her tone was guarded.

“They arrested him for Chelsea Wright’s murder.”

“Madre de Diosi” Selena gasped. “You think he did it?”

“I’m not sure.” Lisa summarized her conversation with the lab technician.

“He’s always been a little strange, a little intense, but I never for a moment thought he was dangerous. So he’s the one who called the newspapers?”

“That’s what he said.” A clever way of putting an end to the egg donations he reviled. “How are you managing, Selena?”

“Mr. Fisk called—he asked me to wait a few weeks until the clinic reopens. He said he’ll pay me in the meantime. I said I would, but first that girl is murdered, and then Dr. Gordon’s gone, and now Dr. Cantrell.” She sighed. “The place is cursed, mi hija. I’m glad I’m out of there. You should be, too.”

“By the way, Selena, I want to get in touch with Grace. Do you have her phone number and address?”

Selena gave her the information, and they talked for a while longer about the rest of the clinic staff, what they were doing. Lisa had been phoning her every day, ostensibly to find out if any of her patients had called; really, she knew she was trying to hang on to a life that had disintegrated in a matter of days. She said good-bye, let’s stay in touch, and wondered sadly whether they would.

The phone number Selena had given her for Grace had been disconnected. Lisa checked with the office manager—there was no mistake. Maybe she’d dialed wrong. She tried the number again. Again a recording informed her that the number had been disconnected. From Directory Assistance she learned that there was no new listing.

Grace lived in a small pink stucco house on Whitsett in Van Nuys, in the San Femando Valley. The driveway was empty and the shades were all drawn. Lisa rang the bell anyway—maybe Grace was home with Suzie.

A moment later she rang it again, reluctant to admit she’d made the trip for nothing. Still no answer.

“They’ve gone,” a young voice said behind her.

Lisa turned around and saw a towheaded boy straddling a red bike. She guessed he was eight or nine. “You know the Fentons?” she asked, taking a few steps toward him.

“I live two houses away.” He pointed beyond Lisa.

“Do you know when Mrs. Fenton will be back?”

“Nope.” He shifted his weight to the other leg. “They left early this morning. I saw them putting suitcases in the trunk of their car when I was waiting for the bus to pick me up for school. Then they put the baby into the car seat.” He leaned forward and in an important voice said, “She was crying.”

“The baby was crying?” “Nope. Mrs. Fenton. She kept saying, “Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up.” It made Mr. Fenton nervous.”

Lisa frowned. “Do you know where they went?” Had Grace and her husband taken a vacation since she was out of a job?

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head with exaggerated slowness.

“Does your mother know?”

He swung his tongue back and forth like a metronome gone wild. “Maybe.”

“Do you think I could talk to her?”

He turned his bike around and walked it up the block. Lisa followed and waited on the sidewalk while he disappeared behind the black wrought-iron gate to the driveway.

A few minutes later a heavyset woman in too-tight jeans and a black sweatshirt opened the gate and approached Lisa. “Can I help you?”

No friendliness there. “I’m Lisa Brockman. Grace Fen ton and I work together. I need to talk to her, but her phone’s been disconnected.”

“Is that right?” Her face was a blank slate, but her eyes were studying Lisa. “Your son says the Pentons left early this morning. He told me you may know where I can reach Grace.”

“He’s wrong,” the woman said, turning to scowl at the boy, who had walked past the gate and was standing on the lawn. “I don’t mind other people’s business.” She made as if to leave.

“Please,” Lisa said.

The woman stopped. “I don’t know where they are.

They left, is all I know. I don’t think they’re coming back.”

Had Grace been crying because of Ted’s death? Had it frightened her? “I have to talk to Grace. I know you have no reason to trust me.” She fumbled in her purse and found a business card. “Look, here’s my card. I’m a doctor at the clinic where Grace was a nurse. She worked for my fiance. Dr. Matthew Gordon. He’s the one who disappeared. I’m sure she told you about him.”

The woman studied the card.

“You can call Detective Barone at the Hollywood station. He’ll vouch for me.” No response from the woman. “I need to talk to Grace. Please help me.”

The woman turned to her son. “Get in the house, Kevin.”

“Mommy—”

“I said now.” Her tone was sharp. She waited until he had obeyed, then faced Lisa. “Anybody can have a business card,” she said.

Lisa took her wallet out of her purse and showed the woman her driver’s license. The woman glanced at the photo, then at Lisa, then at the photo again.

“She talked about you,” the woman said, handing the wallet back to Lisa. “She said you’re real nice. She felt terrible about Dr. Gordon. Cried every time she talked about him.”

“Where is she, Mrs…. ?”

“Eggars. Peggy Eggars. She’s gone, left this morning with Tony and the baby. She’s afraid they’re going to kill her.”

The sun was hot and bright and Lisa was shivering. “Who does she think is going to kill her?”

“She wouldn’t say. She said they killed Dr. Gordon and that girl. And this morning she read in the paper about that other clinic doctor. That’s when she decided she had to leave.”

Who was “they”—Nestle, and who else? And why did Grace fear that she was in danger? “Do you know where she is?”

“Nope.” Peggy Eggars folded her arms across her full chest and avoided looking at Lisa.

She’s lying. Lisa thought. The boy had said his mother might know. “She must be terrified that these people will find her. But if she’s in danger, Mrs. Eggars, I’m in danger, too. So are all the other people she worked with.”

“I told you, I don’t know.” An edge of anger in her voice.

But she was still standing there. She could have turned around and gone into her house. “I admire your loyalty, Peggy,” Lisa said softly. “Grace was right to trust you.” She waited a moment. “I know she wouldn’t want any of us to get hurt. Grace would feel terrible if that happened.”

Indecision played across the woman’s face.

A mild breeze ruffled Lisa’s hair. “If Grace knows something that will help the police put these killers away, she’ll be safer. So will Suzie.”

Peggy unfolded her arms and stuffed her hands into her jeans pockets. “They’re staying with her mother in Whit tier,” she mumbled. “Her name is Mary Rick.”

Lisa sighed with relief. “Can you give me the address?”

“Wait here.” She walked with heavy strides up the concrete path to her front door. A few minutes later she was back and handed Lisa a small piece of paper with an address on it. “Tell her I hope she’s okay.”

The only thing Lisa knew about Whittier was that it had been the epicenter of a major earthquake-hardly a comforting thought. In her car, she studied a Los Angeles County map. Sam would be proud, she thought wistfully, missing him; he was always telling her to learn to read maps. The freeway system was a tangle of red arteries. She found her location, traced the route with her finger, then refolded the map and headed for the Ventura Freeway.

Twenty minutes later she was on the 101 heading south, approaching a maze of intersecting freeways near downtown. Her pager went off. Had Barone arrested Nestle? she wondered with a beat of excitement.

It was her answering service. Using her cellular phone, she contacted the service and learned that Baruch had called. She almost missed the transition to the Santa Ana Freeway as she punched the Hoffmans’ number. She wasn’t surprised when he answered on the first ring.

“This is Dr. Brockman. Is Naomi in labor?”

“I don’t know.” He sounded terse. “She’s been having contractions all night and all morning, ever since you were here. She insists they’re Braxton-Hicks. I’m not so sure.”

It was hard to miss the accusation in his voice. “How far apart are they, Baruch?” “Sometimes one or two an hour. Sometimes none.”

“Did her water break?”

“No.”

“Baruch, Naomi’s probably right, but just to be sure, and so that you’ll be less anxious, meet me at Cedars in twenty minutes.” Speaking with Grace would have to wait.

“I’ll talk to her. Please hold on.”

She checked her rearview mirror and looked quickly behind her before she moved into the right lane so that she could exit the freeway and reverse direction.

“Dr. Brockman, she won’t go,” Baruch said wearily when he was back on the line. “She says she’s not in labor.”

“Let me talk to her.” Half a minute passed before she heard Naomi’s muted greeting. “Naomi, how are you feeling?”

“I’m okay. I don’t know why Baruch called you.” Her voice sounded dead, leaden.

“He’s concerned about you, Naomi. So am I. Do you think you could be in labor?” Patients generally rushed to the hospital prematurely, but this case was different.

“No. I haven’t had any contractions in the past hour.”

“Yes, you have, Naomi.” Baruch had picked up the extension.

“That wasn’t a contraction.”

“Naomi—”

“Leave me alone, Baruch!”

The van in front of Lisa abruptly crossed two lanes, eliciting a chorus of angry honking. “You’ll let me know immediately if you have any consistent contractions, Naomi? Or if you have any other signs of labor?”