Fertile Ground (8 page)

Lisa hoped so, too.

She saw two more patients, then checked with Grace, who still hadn’t heard from Matthew. And he’d left no new messages on Lisa’s home answering machine. Over the nurse’s halfhearted protest Lisa entered his office and thumbed through the pages of his black leather-bound desk calendar.

Nothing.

The drawers revealed nothing. Neither did the neatly stacked folders on his rosewood desk. The message pad was blank. There was a lone ball of crumpled white paper in the antique brass trash basket. She picked it up and

smoothed it open. He’d written “data lies?!” and “forget sig!”

She studied the cryptic writing. “Forget sig” was probably “forget signature.” Whose signature had he forgotten? And what data was he referring to? She stuffed the paper into her jacket pocket. She would puzzle it out later.

“Mrs. Martin is waiting in five,” Selena told her when she returned to Reception. ““The highway patrol has no report of an accident involving Dr. Gordon’s car, gracias a Dios. There’s no police report on him, and he hasn’t been admitted to any of the local hospitals. Why are you frowning? No news is good news, mi hija.”

“Sorry. That is good news. I was thinking about something else.” What was the paper doing in the trash basket? The custodians emptied the baskets every evening when they cleaned the building. Lisa’s basket had been empty this morning.

She made sure not to rush through the examination with Linda Martin and spent time answering her many questions. Then, telling Selena she’d be right back, she hurried downstairs to the lab.

Charlie McCallister told her he’d arrived at the clinic at seven in the morning as usual, but he hadn’t seen Matthew all day. Neither had Norman Weld, the soft-spoken lab assistant, or any of the other lab technicians.

“Wish I could help,” Charlie said, putting his arm around Lisa. “He’ll show up, you’ll see. And you can give him hell for pulling this Houdini act, right?”

“Right.” She forced herself to smile.

“It’s all bull, by the way—this stuff about embryo switching.” His voice, normally jovial, was hard with anger. “Not on my watch. Not in my lab. That’s what I told the Hoffmans.”

“The Hoffmans were here?” She squinted at him, puzzled.

“They came to check their frozen embryos. I took them next door, lifted the vials from the vats, showed them that their embryos were properly labeled. They seemed relieved.”

She felt sorry for the Hoffmans, who shouldn’t have to

worry about the safety of their frozen embryos, and was grateful that Charlie had been able to calm their fears.

Back on the ground floor, she headed for her office, then changed her mind and walked to the main entrance. The uniformed guard was outside, his back to the wide glass double doors; his arms were folded across his chest. When she opened the door, he turned quickly to see who had exited the building.

“Hey, Doc.” A gun protruded from the pocket of his black uniform trousers.

“Hey, Victor.”

At six feet five inches and two hundred and twenty pounds, the dark blond former boxer was an imposing figure. He was mean-looking when he scowled, but he was always nice to Lisa. Too many poundings to the head had taken their toll, but he was excellent at obeying orders, and his eyesight and hearing were keen.

He clacked the gum he was chewing. “Look at ‘em.”

He inclined his chin toward his trunklike, muscular neck and nodded in the direction of the two men standing in front of a white van in the clinic’s large, crowded parking lot. Lisa had already noticed them. They’d been leaning against the van. At her appearance they’d jumped, as if electrified, and bent their heads together in conference. Now they were staring at her.

“They don’t know, is something going down or not?” Victor said. “Are you important or not? Drives ‘em crazy.” Another satisfied smack of the gum.

“Victor, have you seen Dr. Gordon?”

“Today, you mean?”

“Yes.” She tried not to sound impatient.

“Most of the media have gone, you know. These are the scouts. Mr. Fisk said, “Keep ‘em out, Victor.” “

She thought she would scream. “Victor, about Dr. Gordon?”

“You haven’t talked to him?” He narrowed his eyes in bewilderment.

“No. Not since last night. I’m worried about him, Victor. If you know something about where he is—”

“I don’t know where he is. How would I know that,

Doc?” He sounded aggrieved. He chewed for a moment, then said, “He made me promise not to tell, but of course he didn’t mean you, ‘cause you’re his fiancee.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “You saw him?”

He nodded. “Early this morning. Around six.”

Why hadn’t she thought to ask Victor earlier? “Did he say why he was here so early?”

“Nope. He didn’t sign in, neither. I said, “Hey, Dr. Gordon, you got to sign in, ‘cause it’s before seven o’clock. It’s the rule.” And he said, “C’mon, Victor. I’m the one that made the rule.” ” Victor shot a quick glance at Lisa to make sure she understood, then faced forward again. “See, they’re huddling again, wondering what you and I are talkin’ about.” “How long was Dr. Gordon here?” And why had he gone in so early? Whom had he hoped to avoid?

“About half an hour. When he was leaving, he said, “Victor, don’t tell anyone I was here.” So I didn’t. Not even Mr. Fisk.”

“Do you know where he was—where in the building, I mean?”

Victor shook his head. “He has keys to everything, so he could have been anywhere.” He frowned. “You won’t tell Mr. Fisk that I lied to him, will you? “Cause he might fire me.”

“I won’t tell.”

“You think I did right, not telling?”

“You did right, Victor.”

The guard turned toward the lot. “You don’t think Doc Gordon’s in real trouble, do you? “Cause I like him a lot.”

“I like him a lot, too, Victor,” Lisa said softly.

Matthew’s BMW wasn’t in his assigned space in the condominium’s underground lot. Lisa parked her white Altima in his slot and took the mahogany paneled elevator to the twelfth floor. She unlocked the door to his apartment, using the set of keys he’d given her only last week. “Just in case you want to surprise me one night,” he’d joked.

Standing in front of his door, she felt dizzy with fear. Matthew had said he was stopping at his condo. What if someone had followed him here, robbed him, stolen his car? What if Matthew was inside, unconscious, or … She didn’t allow herself to finish the thought. She opened the door and stepped onto the beige marble tile of the rectangular entryway.

“Matthew?”

She edged into the large living room, hugging her arms in protest against the frigid temperature. The central air conditioning must have been running all day. Fear had led her to expect a room in shambles—upturned furniture, tilted artwork, shredded pillows. But everything seemed in order. Nothing, as far as she could tell, was missing. Still, her heart was pounding. Holding her breath, her eyes darting right and left, she walked quickly past the brass and-glass sofa table into the dining area, then past the

compact, state-of-the-art kitchen and down a short hall. Finally, she pushed open the door to the master bedroom.

He wasn’t there. Not on the king-size bed, neatly made up with a geometric-patterned tan-and hunter-green comforter and matching shams. Not on the cream-colored Berber carpet.

She checked the master bath. A plush hunter-green bath sheet hung over the brass-framed door to the large beige marbled stall shower. The room was empty. So were the other bedroom and the powder room and the office where Matthew often worked late into the night. His laptop was shut. The notepad on his mahogany desk was blank.

She returned to the bedroom and, approaching the large walk-in closet with trepidation that she told herself was the product of too many suspense films, yanked open the door. She saw immediately that some of his suits were missing. So were his Louis Vuitton garment bag and satchel, part of a set he’d recently bought for their honeymoon.

There were shirts missing, too. And shoes. And ties. And underwear from his dresser drawers. And his electric shaver.

They’re saying Matthew knew that the charges against the clinic were about to be exposed, Edmond had said.

“He didn’t run away!” Lisa said defiantly to the walls.

She sank onto the bed where they’d made love many times and, hugging her knees, rocked back and forth, willing herself not to panic. But there was no escaping the fact that if Matthew hadn’t fled, something sinister had happened to him. She got off the bed and stared again into the closet, into his dresser drawers, into his medicine cabinet. Then she walked into the kitchen and phoned the police.

“I want to report someone missing,” she said quickly when a male dispatcher answered the call. “Dr. Matthew Gordon.” She gave the condominium’s Brentwood address. “I’m Dr. Lisa Brockman. I’m his fiancee.”

“How long has Dr. Gordon been missing?”

A lone coffee mug lay upside down on the white drain board on the black granite counter, next to Wednesday’s

Los Angeles Times and a printed listing of California fertility clinics. Those in the L.A. area had been highlighted in yellow. “He left a message on my answering machine this morning, but—”

“Ma’am, we can’t declare someone missing until twenty-four hours have elapsed.”

“But I know he’s missing! Something is terribly wrong!”

“Is there any sign of foul play, ma’am? Anything to suggest he’s been kidnapped?”

Hearing someone verbalize her fear chilled her. “No.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry. You can call back in the morning if you still haven’t heard from Dr. Gordon.”

Lisa listened to the dial tone blaring in her ear, then replaced the receiver and sat down on a black leather bar stool. She could call Edmond, but Matthew’s missing clothing and luggage would confirm the director’s unwilling suspicion that Matthew had fled. She could call Sam, but what could he do, other than provide comfort? He was a doctor, not a detective.

She thought of Barone. Her purse was in front of her, on the counter. She rummaged through its sections and found the detective’s card. She punched the numbers. When a voice answered, she asked for Barone and heard he’d left for the day.

“Is this urgent?” the woman on the line asked Lisa.

“Yes, it is.”

The buzzing of the intercom startled her. She jumped up from Matthew’s bed, where she’d been lying, and hurried to the entry. When she heard Barone’s accented voice through the intercom, she pressed the button to admit him into the lobby.

Minutes later the doorbell rang. She was jittery from worrying and wailing and pacing around the apartment, and though she’d just heard his voice, she made sure to look through the security window before she opened the door.

“My wife and I were at a movie when the dispatcher reached me,” he said, following Lisa into the living room

and sitting down next to her on one of the plush beige chenille sofas. “She said it was urgent. You’ve remembered something about Chelsea Wright?”

His brown eyes were intense with excitement; his whole body exuded energy. She felt guilty, knowing she was about to disappoint him, and nervous, because he would be angry. “This isn’t about Chelsea. Dr. Gordon is missing. Something’s happened to him. This is his place, by the way. He’s my fiance,” she added before Barone could ask why she was here.

“I see.”

She met his eyes defiantly, marveling at the control he exercised over his face, which revealed nothing, wishing she could do the same.

“You didn’t mention this to the dispatcher,” he said, his voice more questioning than accusing.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come. I didn’t know where else to turn.” She saw a hint of a nod; encouraged, she continued. “I phoned the West L.A. police and told them I hadn’t heard from Matthew—Dr. Gordon—since this morning. They told me he won’t be considered missing until tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid that’s department policy. You’d be amazed at how many ‘missing’ people show up within that time period.” He paused. “Dr. Gordon may have been involved in a car accident.” “Not according to the highway patrol and the area hospitals. And there’s no police report involving him.” She’d checked again before leaving the clinic. “Matthew is missing. He’s being held against his will, or…” Don’t put words in the mouth of Satan. She started crying and took the tissue Barone handed her.

“When did he contact you?” he asked after she’d composed herself.

“He left a message on my home machine at six forty five this morning. I haven’t heard from him since. Neither has anyone else at the clinic. That’s totally out of character.” “Especially today, with everything else going on. I can imagine the tension you must be feeling, Dr. Brockman.

And you can imagine my surprise when I heard your clinic mentioned in the news today. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?” His voice and eyes were still noncommittal. His mustache camouflaged his mouth.

“Yes, it is.” Of course Barone had heard the allegations. Was that why he was here? Was he inferring a connection between Chelsea’s murder and the uproar at the clinic? And how would he view Matthew’s disappearance? She picked up a fringed beige damask pillow and hugged it to her chest.

“What did Dr. Gordon say in his message?”

“Last night he told me he suspected something was wrong at the clinic. He refused to be specific, but he was determined to find out who was responsible. In his message he said he might be onto something.”

“He didn’t say what?”

Lisa shook her head. “He was at the clinic at six this morning.” She repeated what Victor had told her. “And I found this in his trash basket at the clinic.” Laying the pillow aside, she picked up the piece of paper on the marble-based glass coffee table in front of the sofa and handed it to Barone. ” “Sig’ is probably ‘signature.” I don’t know whose. And I don’t know which data he’s referring to—unless it’s for the research he’s been doing.”

Barone looked at the paper. “What kind of research?”

“Freezing patients’ eggs. There’s been limited success at turning frozen eggs into healthy infants. The process is still too costly and inefficient. But I don’t know what he meant by ‘lies.” ” She’d barely had time to think about it. “His laptop is here. It might explain the’ data reference, but I didn’t turn it on. I didn’t want to ruin any fingerprints.”