Fertile Ground (24 page)

“Money—or the pursuit of it—can make people irrational, Dr. Brockman. Greed is a potent incentive. So are jealousy and vengeance and lust and a number of other human emotions.”

She shook her head again. “I hear what you’re saying, but Dr. Davidson is not a killer, or a thief.”

Barone looked at her with interest, then nodded. “Let’s move on. In the message Dr. Gordon left you, he said he was stopping at his condominium, then leaving to check things out. What do you think he was going to check out?”

Was Sam still on Barone’s list of possible suspects? ‘ The other clinics in the area, to find out which one Chel sea visited.” Lisa stood and went over to her bookcase, where she’d put the printed listing of California fertility clinics. She returned to the sofa and handed the list to Barone. “I found this in Matthew’s kitchen on Wednesday night. I didn’t mention it to you because I didn’t think it was significant.” She sat down.

He examined the list, then placed it next to the “Notes” file on the coffee table. “Why didn’t Dr. Gordon go to the police?” Cocking his head. “Why didn’t he call me if he had information about Ms. Wright’s murder?”

She’d asked herself the same questions. “He’d just discovered that someone forged her signature. He was probably afraid the police would suspect him of her murder.” She’d already explained to Barone about Chelsea’s having been underage when she donated the eggs. She hadn’t mentioned the mix-up with Naomi Hoffman. There was no point involving her, subjecting her and her husband to a police interrogation.

“I suppose that makes sense.” Barone nodded. “All right. The guard saw Dr. Gordon at the clinic at six o’clock Wednesday morning. Dr. Gordon left a message

on your home machine at six forty-five. What time did his nurse first try to reach him?” “Around nine. That’s when we were bombarded with patients and the media about the clinic allegations. Grace tried him at home and paged him all morning.”

“But he never called back.” Barone frowned. “That would indicate that by nine he’d been kidnapped, or killed. I think he was assaulted in the parking structure. There’s no evidence of a struggle in his condo, and the assailant would have had difficulty moving him to the BMW. I’m sorry,” he said, seeing the pained expression on Lisa’s face. “Do you need a minute?”

“No, that’s okay.” She’d been so annoyed that Matthew hadn’t called, that he’d left her to deal with the media and patients. When all the while he’d already been dead. She stilled her lips with her hand and was grateful when Barone bent his head and busied himself with his notepad.

“Who knew that Dr. Gordon was at his condominium?” he finally asked.

She dropped her hand to her lap. “Anyone who asked Grace that morning about his whereabouts. It wasn’t confidential information.”

“What exactly did she tell you?”

Lisa tried to remember accurately. “He phoned her from the condo at seven. He told her he’d be there for half an hour or so, that he had something important to take care of after that.”

“So whoever assaulted him didn’t necessarily follow him from the clinic.” Barone pulled at his mustache again. “This person could have phoned the nurse from anywhere, learned that Dr. Gordon would be leaving his place at around seven-thirty, gained access to the parking lot, and waited there for Dr. Gordon.”

“It’s a security lot. I have an access key—it’s a plastic card, actually. But I guess a person could enter the lobby when a tenant is leaving and take the elevator to the parking structure. At seven-thirty in the morning, people are always going to work or walking their dogs.” She pictured a sinister figure stealing into the lot,

lurking behind a car, waiting to pounce. She shivered and hugged her arms. “If the assailant drove Matthew’s car out of the lot, what did he do with his own car?”

Barone thought for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration. “If I were the assailant, I’d park near the condo, drive the BMW out of the parking area, dispose of the body where no one would find it, then drive home. Then I’d take a bus or ride a bike to the condo and retrieve my car. Late at night, when it’s dark, I’d drive the BMW to Lot C at the airport and take a shuttle home.”

She’d flinched hearing Barone refer to Matthew as “the body”—it was so cold, so dehumanizing—but she forced herself to focus on what he was saying. “Actually, if the assailant was at the clinic when he talked to Grace, he could have walked to the condo—it’s only ten minutes by foot. Later, he could’ve taken a bus back from his apartment to the clinic.”

“You’re right.” Barone looked at her with interest. “Even if he called from outside the clinic, he could have driven there, parked his car, and walked to the condo. In the clinic’s lot he wouldn’t run the risk of being ticketed, and his car would be inconspicuous.”

“Especially on Wednesday morning, when the media and all those patients were there.” She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe he phoned the media with these allegations to create a smoke screen and confusion.” She had difficulty accepting the coincidence that the charges had aired on the same day Matthew disappeared.

“You’d make a good detective. Doctor.” He smiled lightly. “All right, let’s assume that the kidnapping or murder took place between seven-thirty and nine o’clock. Where was the lab director during that time?”

She felt instantly uncomfortable again. “Charlie said he arrived at seven, as usual. I didn’t see him then, but I had no reason to. I went down to the lab about eight forty five to watch a procedure he was doing.”

“But he could have been out until then?”

“Yes.”

“Do clinic staff sign in or out?”

“Not unless we’re there outside of regular hours,

which are seven in the morning until five in the afternoon.”

“So Mr. McCallister could have arrived at the clinic at seven, left, and returned?”

“Yes.” She spoke grudgingly; she hated doing this.

“Okay. What about the lab techs?”

“Again, I didn’t see anyone until eight forty-five. Margaret was there when I arrived to watch the procedure. So was John. Norman arrived at the end, around nine o’clock.”

Barone flipped back a few pages in his pad. “What about Dr. Cantrell? When did you see him?”

“Selena told me Ted was in early in the morning and left to do surgery at another hospital. He came back around ten-thirty, I think. That’s the first time I saw him that day.”

“And Dr. Davidson?”

She was about to argue again, but realized there was no point. Barone was simply doing his job. “He had a flat tire, so he arrived around ten. He missed his nine o’clock appointment.”

“Which doctor is “Sam’?” he asked, his tone too casual.

She tensed. She knew he was thinking about Matthew’s comment in the “Notes” printout. “That would be Dr. Davidson.”

“What’s your relationship with him?”

“Please don’t jump to the wrong conclusion. Detective. Sam and I have been close for years, long before I came here. Matthew may have thought Sam was jealous of our relationship, but he wasn’t. Sam’s indebted to Matthew for hiring him. They’re good friends. Sam even threw us an engagement party at the clinic.” I’m belaboring the point, she thought, watching Barone’s face.

“Very thoughtful,” he said in a bland voice that told her she was right. “You said you and Dr. Davidson have been close for years. Has your relationship ever been intimate? I apologize if I’ve offended you. Dr. Brockman, but I think you can understand why this is important.”

“Never.” She was blushing—because of the question,

because of the image of Sam kissing her that flashed through her mind.

“Do you think he’s romantically interested in you?” “I can’t speak for Dr. Davidson,” she said, forcing herself to look Barone in the eye. “Detective, if you read the “Notes’ file carefully, I’m sure you noticed that Ted-that’s Dr. Cantrell—was defensive when Matthew asked him whether his nurse could have admitted Chelsea to the donor program.”

“I did notice that. But thank you for reminding me.” She could see from the smile that pulled briefly at his lips that he knew what she was doing—offering Ted in lieu of Sam. “Dr. Davidson told me Ted has been disappearing lately. He’s kept patients waiting or missed appointments altogether. Maybe he’s been meeting with someone at another clinic.”

“I’ll certainly investigate his alibi, along with everyone else’s. What time did you arrive at the clinic?”

“Me?” She stared at him, incredulous. She felt a flutter of anxiety, then reminded herself that his job was to suspect everyone. “I arrived at the clinic at seven, as always.” Somehow, she managed to sound cool. “I did an egg retrieval. Then I went to the lab to observe a procedure, as I told you. Then Selena informed me that the media and a slew of patients had arrived and things were in chaos.”

“Thank you. That’s very concise.” He smiled briefly. “I should have told you this earlier, but I’m pretty sure someone followed me from Matthew’s condo Wednesday night.” She expected to see a knowing look—she was telling him this so that he’d eliminate her as a suspect-but he was frowning.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Dr. Brockman?” “I convinced myself it was just my imagination. But after someone followed me to Paula Rhodes’s, I realized it wasn’t. Dr. Davidson thinks I’m in danger,” she added.

“I don’t want to alarm you, but whoever killed Dr. Gordon must be worried about what he’s told you about the research, about Ms. Wright. I think you should move

in with family or a friend for a while, until we find the killer.”

“I don’t have close friends here, and my family’s in New York.” She’d spoken to her parents early this morning, told them she was all right, holding up fine, told them about the blood in Matthew’s trunk, and held back tears.

“We can’t give you police protection. Be careful. Dr. Brockman. Be aware. Don’t go anywhere by yourself if you can avoid it, especially at night. And if you think someone’s following you, call the police immediately.” He rose from the sofa.

At the front door he checked the lock and dead bolt. “These seem fine. I noticed this isn’t a security building. Do you use the dead bolt when you leave your apartment?”

“Not always.”

“Make sure you do.” He opened the door and peered at the outer lock. He frowned. “It looks like someone’s tried to jimmy this lock. See these scratches?”

Tensing, she bent closer and saw faint marks around the keyhole. “Yes.”

“You haven’t noticed any evidence that someone broke in? Nothing disturbed? Missing?”

“No.” Her chest was so tight she could hardly breathe.

“Maybe these are old marks, then.” He shut the door. “What other entrances do you have?”

She told him about the sliding door and balcony in her bedroom and was grateful when he offered to check them, too.

“Sliding doors don’t provide the best security, but this bar is good.” He bent down and moved the bar to make certain it fit tightly, then stood up. “Leave the balcony light on all night—someone’s less likely to climb onto your balcony if he knows he’s going to be illuminated.”

She thanked him and accompanied him back to the front door.

“By the way, how did you learn about Mrs. Rhodes?” he asked.

Lisa told him about her talk with the waitress. “Yvonne said my being a doctor triggered her memory,

because the woman who hired Chelsea was involved with an organization that raises funds for juvenile diabetes.”

“Maybe I should take you along with me next time I’m investigating a case.” He smiled but turned serious as he opened the door. “Don’t do any more detecting, especially with your colleagues. You may be asking questions of the wrong person—or should I say, the right person—and make him more desperate than he already is.”

She felt a thrill of alarm. “It’s going to be so hard, working with people, wondering who could have killed Matthew.”

“I know. Casually mention to as many people as you can that you wish you had some clue to what happened to Dr. Gordon, that you wish he’d confided in you. Words to that effect.”

It was smart advice. “I don’t exactly have a poker face.”

“It might be helpful. Dr. Brockman, if you remind yourself that your life may depend on how convincing you are.”

Lisa had brought home a list of her active patients and their phone numbers. After Barone left, she called them, hoping to reassure them and convince them not to switch to another clinic. The conversations were depressing, her attempts unsuccessful. Some of the women vented their anger. Some were apologetic. Most of them were firm in their decision to go elsewhere.

“It’s not you. Dr. Brockman,” said one woman who was scheduled to have her eggs harvested next week. “I think you’re wonderful—that’s why Rick and I came to you in the first place. But with what they’re saying about the clinic, we can’t take any chances. I mean, if you were in my situation, what would you do?”

Lisa wished her good luck.

She spent most of the afternoon cleaning her apartment and vacuuming and doing the laundry. There was something comforting about involving herself in manual tasks and seeing the satisfaction in a job completed. She was standing in the middle of the living room, listening to a Beatles CD while ironing a denim shirt, when Edmond phoned a little after three o’clock.

“I hope you’re all right,” he began. “This must be a difficult time for you.”

She knew immediately from the sadness and contrition

IQC

in his voice that he’d heard about the blood. “You spoke to the police?” she asked, anchoring the receiver between her ear and shoulder.

“Yesterday. We loved him like a son. Lisa,” he said simply. “I don’t think there’s much hope that he’s alive, do you?”

“No, not really.” She sprayed starch on the sleeve of the shirt and watched the fine mist settle on the fabric.

“I want to apologize for the things I said the other day. I hope you can forgive me for doubting Matthew.”

“You don’t have to explain.” She felt a flicker of anger, but saw no point in holding on to grievances, and reminded herself that she’d doubted Matthew, too. She ran the iron back and forth across the sleeve and made no move to fill the silence.

“I need to explain. Lisa. Everything pointed to Matthew. He was preoccupied. He didn’t tell me about the cash thefts, which stopped with his disappearance. His car was found at the airport. And Ms. Wright’s signature was forged. Obviously, someone engineered all this to make him look guilty. And I bought it.”