Fertile Ground (39 page)

“Not at all. I conceived almost right away, and I didn’t worry about a thing because I have the most wonderful OH . Jerome Nestle. Andrew found him—I think one of his cousins used him. Do you know Dr. Nestle?”

“We met just recently.” She filled a glass with water and noticed that her hand was shaking.

“I’m going to see him tomorrow, about the bleeding. He’s the one who got me through Andrew’s death, by the way. He said I had to stay healthy for the baby. So you

don’t think I have to worry about Andy?” The anxiety was back in her voice.

Lisa was disappointed about Nestle, though she was pleased, for Paula’s sake, that the woman wasn’t one of his victims. “If you’re that anxious, you can buy a special monitor. You can get one at any medical-supply store.”

“How do they work?”

“You strap it around the baby’s chest. The machine monitors the baby’s breathing pattern and heart rate. You can set the alarm to go off if he stops breathing for longer than fifteen seconds, or if his heartbeat drops below a certain rate.”

“If Andy has another episode, I’ll get one. Thanks, Dr. Brockman. I feel better just knowing there’s something I can do.” “I’m glad. And Paula, if you remember anything about this man who impersonated Detective Barone, call me?”

“Of course I will. Right away.”

In her dream, she was on an examination table. A masked figure was looming over her, holding a scalpel. “Hagar didn’t abandon her child,” he said. She sat up and reached forward to tear off his mask, but he shoved her down and shook her and whispered her name, over and over.

“Lisa, wake up.”

She forced her eyes open and saw Elana. She pulled herself up quickly. “What’s wrong? What time is it?”

“It’s a little after two,” Elana said in a low voice. “Sam’s on the phone. He says it’s urgent, or I wouldn’t have woken you.”

They found Matthew. Her heart lurched. She nipped back the blanket and stood up, then moved to the desk. “I’m sorry he woke you. I hope he didn’t wake the kids.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Elana slipped quietly out of the room.

Picking up the receiver, Lisa said, “Sam?” in a tight voice and held her breath.

“Ted Cantrell’s dead.” Sam’s voice shook. “He killed himself.”

“The police notified Edmond,” Sam said. “Edmond phoned me. They’re not sure whether it was planned or accidental. Apparently Ted took quite a few tranquilizers and was drinking.”

This made no sense. “He’s a doctor,” she said impatiently. “He knows that’s lethal.”

“That’s why they’re not sure. His ex-wife found him. It seems she came to collect some alimony checks he owed her.” Sam sighed. “Poor Ted. I didn’t like him much, but this…”

“Why would he kill himself, Sam? Did they find a note?”

“Edmond didn’t say.” He paused. “Lisa, the police found Matthew’s wallet and a Raymond Weil watch in Ted’s bedroom. The watch was inscribed to him.”

Matthew—/ love you. Lisa. She’d given him the watch when they became engaged. “You think Ted killed Matthew?” she whispered. She didn’t know why she was shocked—it wasn’t as though the possibility had never crossed her mind. Had Ted tried to run her down in his Porsche? But what about Nestle? Did that mean he wasn’t involved with Matthew’s murder? With the egg switching?

“It looks like it. Edmond says the guilt probably il4

weighed on him, so he took the drugs and drank. A painless way to go. I guess Ted’s the one who attacked us the other night at the clinic. Maybe he thought you were looking for evidence that he stole Matthew’s research. Did Barone ever follow up on that?”

She’d given up on the research theft as a motive some time ago and realized she’d never told Sam. “Barone checked with all the fertility clinics Chelsea could have gone to. He showed her picture—no one recognized her. And no one approached anyone about research on freezing eggs.”

“Really? There goes that theory. Barone must be thrilled with me for wasting his time.” He grunted.

She almost told Sam about the egg switching and Nestle; something kept her back. She wanted to talk to Barone first. “Actually, I found out something weird about Chelsea.” She told him about her talk with Chelsea’s boyfriend, about her call to Felicia Perry. “Can you imagine, Sam? Someone’s been harassing these donors when they’re in Recovery.”

“I can believe the harassing. But you think this guy murdered Chelsea?” He sounded skeptical.

” “Punished.” Think about his warning, Sam. It makes sense.”

“Where did you get Felicia Perry’s name?”

From the donor list. But she couldn’t tell Sam; he didn’t know she had a copy. She wet her lips and thought quickly. “I found it when I checked the computer for Chelsea’s recipient.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I don’t remember what I was thinking at the time. Why are you interrogating me?”

“I’m not.” He sounded surprised, aggrieved. “Look, it’s late, and we’re both upset about Ted. I’ll talk to you in the morning, okay?”

“Okay.” She hung up the phone and wondered suddenly whether Nestle was still being held when Ted had killed himself.

“They let Nestle out at five-thirty,” Barone told her when she arrived at the station at ten o’clock in the morning. “Dr. Cantrell’s ex-wife found his body at nine-thirty. They haven’t done an autopsy yet, but from other signs-rigor, the color of the body—the medical examiner thinks Cantrell died around eight.”

“Do you think Ted killed Matthew?” Barone had asked her to come down he’re, and she wasn’t sure why.

“I don’t know. I’m in touch with the detectives on his case—West L.A. is handling the investigation. They promised to keep me informed. You know they found Dr. Gordon’s wallet and watch?” he asked gently.

“Yes. But the police searched his apartment on Tuesday, when they confiscated his files, the same day they confiscated my things. Wouldn’t they have found them then?”

Barone shook his head. “They weren’t homicide detectives searching for Dr. Gordon’s murderer. Dr. Brock man. They were looking for evidence of medical malpractice.”

“You’re right.” She played with the clasp on her purse. “So what about Nestle?”

“I have copies of the inventory files. I’m going through them today.”

“I think he killed Ted. Either Ted was his accomplice, or he made him a scapegoat, just like he did with Matthew.”

“It’s possible.” Barone sounded guarded.

“You don’t think he did it?”

“There’s been an interesting development. That’s why I asked you to come to the station. My partner and I went to Norman Weld’s apartment this morning. He was reluctant to let us in, but in the end he did. Right in front of us, on his dinette table, he had a stack of pamphlets warning against the use of donor eggs.” Barone pulled over a sheet of cream-colored parchment paper and handed it to Lisa.

She read the flowery text full of biblical references, including one to the passage from Genesis. “Hagar, Sarah’s handmaid, abandoned Ishmael and left him to die

in the desert when she was cast out of the house of Abraham, for she could not bear to hear him cry. God called to Hagar and promised that if she took care of her son, he would grow to be a mighty nation. And Hagar listened to the Almighty. And He spared the child and the mother. Beware, daughters of Israel and of Christ our Lord. If you continue to abandon your babies, if you leave them to cry, the wrath of the Lord will be visited upon you …”

“Weld admitted to us that he’d authored the text himself,” Barone said. “He seemed pleased, actually. Lucky for us the pamphlets were in plain view. We didn’t have a search warrant.” “Did you ask him if he harassed Chelsea and the others?”

Barone nodded. “He denied it at first, but then he broke down and cried. He said he was responsible for Chelsea’s death, and he was sorry.”

She inhaled sharply. Her breath whistled through her teeth. “He admitted he killed her?”

“He wouldn’t elaborate, and then he refused to talk. So we brought him in. He wants to talk to you. Dr. Brock man.”

She was taken aback. “Why me?”

“He wouldn’t say. Maybe he’ll tell you what happened. He’s here, in the jail. You’ll be perfectly safe.”

She hesitated, then said, “All right,” in a voice so low the detective could barely hear her.

Norman was sitting cross-legged on the narrow cot in his cell. He was hugging his arms and rocking back and forth, keening.

Barone said, “Mr. Weld, Dr. Brockman is here to see you.”

He was still rocking, still moaning.

Barone rattled the bars of the cell and called Weld’s name louder. Norman turned around. When he saw Lisa, he shut his eyes.

“I knew you’d come,” he said. “God answered my prayers.”

“Let me go inside to talk to him,” Lisa told Barone.

She watched him signal to the guard, who unlocked the cell door. It clanged shut behind her.

“I can’t talk if he’s there.” Norman pointed at Barone.

“Pretend he’s not there,” Lisa said softly. “Pretend we’re alone.” She sat on a hard chair three feet from the cot and Norman. His face was haggard and tear-streaked. His eyes were owlish.

“I’m so sorry about Dr. Cordon,” he said. “You believe me, don’t you?”

“Yes. You prayed for him, Norman. That was very kind.”

“I had to pray for him! I prayed for that girl, too. Chelsea Wright. And for Dr. Cantrell. I’m responsible.”

She was chilled to the bone. “What do you mean, Norman?”

“I have the gift of prophecy. I hear the Lord’s commands, and I follow them.”

Her tongue seemed frozen to her palate. “What does God tell you to do, Norman?” she asked gently.

“To warn those who do evil. To warn those who don’t heed His bidding. To tell them He will strike them down and wreak His vengeance!” His eyes had a wild, feverish glint.

“And does God ask you to carry out His vengeance for Him?” Lisa asked, careful to keep her intonation bland.

“Sometimes,” he whispered, nodding. “Sometimes.”

“Did God ask you to punish Chelsea Wright?”

“I told her she would be punished, and she was.” He was rocking again. “So I was right. I’m responsible.” “Because she donated eggs a second time? Is that why, Norman? Because she didn’t listen to the first warning?”

His eyes became unfocused. “What?”

She repeated the question.

“I warned her, and she was punished. I’m responsible.”

“What about Dr. Gordon? Did you warn him, too?”

“I prayed he would stop what the clinic was doing. And he stopped, didn’t he?”

“Did you punish him, Norman?” she whispered. Her

heart was racing, thumping against her chest.

“They didn’t listen, so I had to put a stop to it. You see that, don’t you?”

“You mean Dr. Gordon and Dr. Cantrell? Is that who you mean, Norman? Did you punish Dr. Cantrell?”

“I don’t know.” He frowned. “I prayed it would stop, so it did.”

“Where is Dr. Gordon, Norman?”

“He’s dead, isn’t he? So is Dr. Cantrell. I’m responsible.” He was weeping now, his face scrunched up in pain.

“Did you kill them, Norman?”

“I don’t know!” he moaned. “I prayed it would stop, and it did! I didn’t want them to die, but they did, so I’m responsible. I am my brother’s keeper!”

She flinched at his anger and grabbed onto the sides of her chair. “Why did you want to talk to me, Norman?” she asked when she saw that he was more composed.

“To tell you I’m sorry,” he murmured. “To tell you I’m responsible. I don’t want you to die, too.” He gazed at her lovingly.

She was paralyzed with fear. “Did God tell you to punish me, too, Norman?”

“He said to warn you. He said it had to stop. I offered to pray with you, but you refused. I knew then that I had sinned. I tried to stop it, but Dr. Gordon died anyway. And now Dr. Cantrell is dead, too.”

“How did you try to stop it, Norman?”

He smiled. “I called the purveyors of smut because I knew there was no other way, because she was dead. I told them about the evil.”

Norman had started the rumors? “You told the media we were switching embryos?”

“God bade me to stop the evil, so I did.” Rocking again.

“Did God bid you to kill Chelsea Wright?”

“I’m responsible.”

“Did God bid you to kill Dr. Gordon?”

“I’m responsible.” Rocking faster, harder.

“Norman—”

Suddenly he stopped. “I’m tired now.” He lay on his side and assumed a fetal position, his knees tucked into his chest. He shut his eyes.

“I appreciate your coming,” Howard Melman said. “After our last conversation, I wasn’t sure you would.”

“You said it was urgent.” Lisa had called her machine from the police station and heard Melman’s message and wondered.

He nodded. “I thought about what you said, about my letting my anger prevent me from helping catch Chelsea’s killer. And now I hear that another clinic doctor was killed. Ted Cantrell.” He tightened his lips. “Did you know him?”

“No. That’s not the point.” He leaned forward. “Tell me again what Chelsea told Dr. Gordon.”

“She said she wanted to donate eggs again. He told her that because her ovaries were hyper stimulated last time, he couldn’t allow her to do it.”

“Something’s wrong. Very wrong.” Melman’s brow was furrowed with worry. “Chelsea couldn’t have donated eggs. She’d stopped ovulating after she donated the eggs—that’s almost a year ago.” Lisa frowned. “Are you sure?” “They told her at the clinic that after she stopped taking the fertility drugs, it might take a few months before

she started ovulating again. Six months later she still wasn’t ovulating. So she came to me.”

This explained Melman’s anger at the clinic and its doctors.

“I took a few tests and told her not to worry, that it takes longer with some women for their natural cycle to kick in, and that stress would only make it worse. She tried to be patient, but when she came here just before I left for my vacation, she still hadn’t ovulated, and she was depressed, like I told you. Cried and cried like her heart was broken.” Melman shook his head.

“What happened?”

“She’d been reading up on egg donation and learned there could be complications later, fertility problems. Maybe ovarian cancer. So she was worried that she and Dennis—that’s her boyfriend—wouldn’t be able to have kids.”