Fertile Ground (34 page)

Lisa had one more of Nestle’s patients to call. She dialed the woman’s phone number but heard a recorded message. She didn’t really need to talk to her. She knew she’d hear the same sequence of events, and she thought she knew what Nestle, who was a silent partner in the clinic, was doing:

Nestle chose patients who told him they’d just decided to start a family. Women in their late twenties or early thirties. Women who should have no difficulty becoming

pregnant. He did a thorough exam, probably ordered a blood panel and other chemical screens to make certain these women were good candidates for pregnancy.

And then he inserted ILJDs. He blamed the accompanying cramping on the Pap smear. He lied about the change in their cycles, the staining. If the blood tests revealed potential problems, he removed the iUDs, If not, he removed them a year later, when the patients were anxious about not being pregnant. He referred them to the clinic, where they had IVF and quickly became pregnant. No surprise, since they’d never had infertility problems.

And with just two or three more pregnancies, the clinic’s success statistics went up dramatically.

And the numbers were advertised in glossy brochures.

And more patients came and paid large sums because the odds were better there than elsewhere that they would walk out the door with a baby.

And the clinic profited.

And so did Nestle.

She realized that she was making this up out of whole cloth, that she had no proof. That she could be wrong. She checked her watch; it was five after four. She hesitated, then picked up the phone again and dialed.

“Dr. Nestle’s office.” a woman said. “How can I help you?”

Lisa almost lost her nerve and hung up. She cleared her throat and said, “My name is Elysse Landes.” Her mother’s maiden name. “I’d like to make an appointment with the doctor.”

“Have you seen Dr. Nestle before?”

“No. My New York gynecologist referred him. My husband and I are new in town, and we’re eager to have a baby as soon as possible. I want to have a gynecological checkup before we start.” Her heart thumped noisily in protest.

“I have an appointment open next Thursday.”

“If you could get me in sooner, I’d be grateful. Now that we’ve decided, I’m anxious to get going. A day or two shouldn’t matter, but somehow they do.” She

laughed shyly and wiped the sweat off her upper lip. “I know I’m being silly.”

“The doctor has a very busy practice, Mrs. Landes.”

“I know. I heard he’s wonderful. Is there anything available sooner? Anything at all? I can come in very early or very late.” That was one advantage of not having a job—her time was her own.

A pause. “Dr. Nestle usually isn’t in on Wednesdays, but he’ll be in tomorrow. Hold on a minute, and I’ll check with him.”

Lisa tapped her foot while she waited.

“Nine o’clock?” the woman asked a moment later. “You’ll need to pay for tomorrow’s visit when you’re here.”

“Oh, that’s no problem. I really appreciate this.” She hung up, excited and nervous about what she’d done. Her hands were shaking. She sat on the bed to compose herself and heard the phone ring. A moment later Elana knocked on the door and told her Barone was calling. She’d been consumed with her suspicions about Nestle and couldn’t remember for a moment why she’d phoned the detective.

“You said it was urgent?” Barone said when Lisa got on the line.

“Yes.” She told him about the “dream” Chelsea and the other women had had. “But neither of the women can identify this man because he was wearing a mask. Obviously he works at the clinic. I can’t believe it’s one of the doctors. They’re the ones who harvest the donors’ eggs.”

“So this man killed Chelsea to punish her for donating eggs? Why not nine months ago, when she donated the eggs?” “The first time was a warning. He must have seen her when she came to the clinic recently. He either assumed or heard that she’d come to donate again. That sent him over the edge.”

“Interesting.”

She couldn’t tell what he thought. Even if he were in front of her, she was sure his face would be impassive.

“But why did he kill Dr. Gordon?” Barone asked.

“I’m not sure. Matthew was trying to find out who was responsible for admitting Chelsea. Maybe this man panicked.”

“But his investigation would have centered on her admission to the donor program. He wouldn’t have referred to the harvesting of her eggs or to her murder—remember, he learned about her death just a day before he himself disappeared.”

“You’re right.” She played with the phone cord. “Maybe the murders aren’t connected. Maybe there are two separate killers.”

“That’s a grand coincidence. Dr. Brockman. I don’t buy it.”

Lisa didn’t, either.

“I ran a check on the clinic staff,” Barone said. “You’ll be relieved to know that Dr. Davidson has no criminal record. Neither does Dr. Cantrell, although he does like to gamble. He’s heavily into the stock market and flies to Vegas all the time. He’s lost quite a bit over the last year at local casinos, too. Have you found out anything more about Dr. Gordon’s research?”

“I checked his office but didn’t find anything related to research on freezing eggs. I’m beginning to think I jumped to the wrong conclusions.” Or Sam had. This was his theory.

“Then what about the’ data lies’ notation you found?”

“Maybe Matthew was referring to Chelsea’s age, nothing more. I’m sorry I wasted your time, making you check the other clinics. Now you probably think I’m jumping to conclusions about this dream Chelsea and the others had.”

“Not at all. And it wasn’t a waste of time. Sometimes what you can’t corroborate is as interesting as what you can. By the way, did you know Norman Weld was arrested for harassing a doctor who worked at an abortion clinic?”

Her stomach tightened. “No. No, I didn’t,” she said softly.

Nedda Flom had left an envelope, just as she’d promised. Lisa opened it in her car and took out one of the four orange-and-white capsules. It was a quarter of an inch long, and there was no lettering to indicate the manufacturer’s name. She’d never seen a pill like this. It wasn’t something she remembered any of her colleagues having prescribed.

She drove to a local pharmacy and asked the young Asian woman behind the counter to identify the capsule for her.

“My daughter had it in her lunch box,” Lisa said, marveling at how adept she’d become at lying. “I think she swallowed one, and I want to know what it is, to make sure it isn’t harmful.”

The woman walked over to a white-coated pharmacist standing toward the rear. A moment later he approached the counter.

“Is your daughter diabetic?” he asked Lisa.

“No.”

“Then you’re okay. This is a placebo, a sugar pill. That’s why the concern if there’s a blood-sugar problem like diabetes. The capsule has a milk base, so it can also cause minor discomfort for someone who’s lactose

intolerant, but one capsule shouldn’t do any harm.” He smiled pleasantly.

“I’m relieved to hear that. Thank you so much.” She felt giddy, knowing that her suspicions about Nestle were valid.

From the pharmacy she drove to her apartment and emptied her mailbox before she went upstairs. Mostly bills, a medical journal, some department-store advertising brochures. She’d been checking her phone messages periodically from the Presslers’. She looked at her answering machine and saw that she had two new messages.

The first one was from a clearly agitated Baruch Hoffman. He’d heard on the news that authorities had confiscated the clinic’s files. Did this mean the police had the file of the dead woman and the information that would lead them to Naomi? Had Lisa found Naomi’s file?

Lisa dreaded returning his call, dreaded informing him that his wife might have received Chelsea’s eggs. She told herself she wanted to learn more before she spoke to the Hoffmans but knew that in great part she was procrastinating.

The second message was from Edmond.

“I’m glad you phoned,” he told her when she returned his call. “I was so distraught this morning about the clinic that I didn’t ask how you are. Selena said you were assaulted at the clinic Sunday night. Are you all right? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m shaken, but okay.” If “okay” included having nightmares that left her in a cold sweat, of panicking at sudden noises. “On Monday we were meeting with Judge Gilbert—I didn’t want to bother you then. After that I didn’t see you until this morning, and with everything going on, I forgot to mention it.”

“What were you doing there on Sunday night anyway, Lisa?” He sounded annoyed.

“I was afraid if I waited till Monday, the police might confiscate the files.”

“So did you find anything before this man attacked you?”

There was something in Edmond’s tone she didn’t

like—or maybe she was just being paranoid. She considered the fact that he was the chairman of the board of the clinic. And that Nestle, a silent partner, was his friend.

“I didn’t find the Hoffman file. And you were right, Edmond. There are far too many files to look through.” She hoped Sam hadn’t told him she’d photocopied over a hundred files. She was suddenly anxious to get off the phone.

“By the way, Georgia said you asked about Jerome Nestle. Was there something in particular you wanted to know?”

“No.” She wet her lips. “His name came up in a conversation and it sounded familiar. I wondered where I’d heard it.”

“He’s a fine doctor and a good friend. Georgia said she told you he’s a silent partner in the clinic. That’s something he doesn’t like advertised, so please keep it to yourself.”

“Of course. I’m glad you told me.” Was this a warning?

In a lighter tone, he said, “I’m confident the police will see that these allegations ars unfounded. When that happens—and I hope it’s soon—I intend to reopen the clinic. I’ll want you to be there.”

“I hope to be, Edmond.”

“How will you manage in the meantime? If you need some money to tide you over—”

“That’s extremely kind of you, Edmond, but I’m fine.”

“Let me know if you have any problems. I know Matthew would expect me to watch over you. I won’t let him down.”

“I appreciate that, Edmond,” she said, though the idea of Edmond watching over her filled her with unease.

Her bedroom and bathroom were still a mess from the police search. She put on a Barbra Streisand CD, turning up the volume on her player, and began with the bathroom. The white-tiled floor was a sea of toiletries. She felt again the helplessness, the sense of being violated. Shaking her head to dislodge her anger, she set to work.

Her mind was overloaded with information: The

masked man who’d accosted Chelsea; the thirty-one patients who’d apparently received donor eggs without their consent or knowledge; Jerome Nestle and his scheme to inflate the clinic’s statistics and increase his profits.

There were definitely profits, she thought as she returned the last few items and shut the bathroom cabinet doors. Matthew had told her that the clinic had been doing extremely well, that Edmond and the board of directors were pleased. There had been a period over a year ago, she remembered, when Matthew had been alarmed. That was when the media had blasted the low success rates of fertility clinics. New patient enrollment had dropped.

Then Edmond had instituted the refund policy for women under forty, and the clinic statistics had risen, and the numbers of patients had increased dramatically.

The refund policy.

Gina Franco had asked about it yesterday, wanting to know how clinics could afford to offer refund policies and not go broke, since with each IVF cycle, the odds of getting pregnant decreased. And Lisa had answered that they could afford to offer the refund because they had great success helping these women conceive.

Had someone shared Gina’s concern? Had someone tried to ensure that women on the refund policy would conceive, so that the clinic wouldn’t have to repay thousands and thousands of dollars?

The thirty-one “donor problem” women were all under forty. All of them had undergone a second IVF cycle. According to the Jane Doe list, they’d all received donor eggs.

Because they’d failed to conceive after the first IVF cycle, using their own eggs? Because the odds decreased with each IVF cycle? Because the probability of their conceiving would be higher with eggs from young donors?

The clinic didn’t have to repay the money. The statistics would improve. More patients, more money.

Naomi Hoffman, Lisa remembered with a jolt, was on the refund plan. She’d had one unsuccessful IVF cycle before she came to the clinic. Was that why someone had

given her Chelsea’s eggs? To ensure that she’d become pregnant?

Maybe this was all a product of Lisa’s imagination, of exhaustion. She didn’t know for a fact that these thirty one women were on the refund plan.

The files would tell her.

Sam opened the Presslers’ door. “Elana invited me for dinner,” he told Lisa as she entered the house. “Don’t look so thrilled.”

“Sorry. I have a lot on my mind.” With an effort, she erased her frown and walked with him to the dining room. Elana was putting a glass salad bowl in the middle of the table and talking to Benjie, who was setting out the forks.

“I was getting worried,” Elana said. “Are you all right?”

“I was at my place, putting things back in order, and lost track of the time.” She smiled contritely. “I hope you haven’t been waiting for me.”

“We’re just sitting down. The kids ate earlier, so it’s adults only—a rarity around here.” Elana laughed. “Do you want to freshen up?”

Lisa didn’t know how she’d get through a meal with Sam and considered saying she was too tired to eat, but that would be rude. “Yes, thanks. I’ll be right back.”

In the bathroom off the hall, she looked in the mirror and could see why Elana had asked if she wanted to freshen up. Her hair was a mess. She was pale. She found a brush in her purse, removed her banana clip, and brushed her hair. Then she put on fresh lipstick and blush. She went to the guest room and put her purse on the bed. The stack of problem files lay on the desk. She picked up the first stapled file and fanned through the pages. There it was—the fee contract.