Fertile Ground (9 page)

“I don’t think you need to worry about that.” Barone put the paper on the table. “Dr. Gordon tells you he’s onto something. Hours later you think he’s met with foul play because he hasn’t called you?”

She hesitated before telling him—she knew what he’d think. “Some of his clothes are missing, and some luggage. But he didn’t run away.” Her eyes welled with

tears. “He said he was stopping at his condo before checking out some things. Someone followed him here. Someone took his things and his car to make it appear that he ran away because of the charges against the clinic.”

“Do you have any idea who that could be?”

“No.” She hadn’t come to terms with the idea that someone she worked with every day, talked with, joked with, had engineered Matthew’s disappearance. The thought was preposterous, obscene. “He said he hadn’t phoned me at the clinic because someone could be listening in. He didn’t say who. And last night he said he might have to fire someone because of problems at the clinic.”

“But he wasn’t specific as to that, either?”

She searched his voice for sarcasm but found none. “No.”

Barone pulled at his mustache. “Maybe his investigation made it necessary for him to leave town immediately. Or maybe he learned of a family emergency.”

“His parents are dead, and he’s an only child. He’s never mentioned any close family. In either case, he would have called by now. I keep checking my machines at home and at the clinic. He hasn’t called. Someone took his things,” she repeated.

“What makes you believe that?”

She’d thought about this while waiting for Barone. “I know which suits are missing. Matthew was planning to give them away—they’re outdated. And they took his electric shaver, but he wasn’t using it anymore. About a month ago he started using a razor.”

Unbidden images—intimate, sensual—flashed through her mind. Matthew standing in his shorts in front of her medicine cabinet, stripping away the thick white mounds of lather in neat, parallel rows that exposed the contours of his cheekbones, his chin, his jaw. Matthew shaving her legs. Though she was plagued with uncertainty about marrying him, the possibility that she would never see him again was a physical ache.

“Anything else?” Barone asked.

It took her a second to focus on his question. “The air conditioning was running all day. Matthew would never have left it on if he’d gone away of his own will—he’s frugal about things like that.”

“He may have left in a hurry.”

“Even so,” she said. “And someone searched through his dresser and armoire. His shirts and underwear and socks—everything is a little messy. Matthew likes everything perfectly folded, in its spot.” His obsessive neatness, usually somewhat annoying, seemed suddenly endearing.

“My wife would be envious. With me, neatness is, to borrow from Shakespeare, ‘a custom more honored in the breach than the observance.” I’m afraid our two sons follow in my footsteps.” Barone smiled.

“I know this sounds silly.”

“Not silly at all,” he said soberly. “It’s the details that are often key.” He glanced around for the first time since he’d arrived, his eyes lighting on the black baby grand piano in front of the uncurtained French doors at the far end of the room; the ecru silk moire padded walls; the lithographs and sculptures that accented the serene beauty of the room. “This is very beautiful, very elegant. Your design?” he asked, turning back to Lisa.

He hadn’t asked, “Very expensive?” but she heard it in his voice. “Matthew hired a decorator.” He was unabashedly proud of this spacious, three-bedroom condominium and his BMW. Growing up in Minneapolis, he’d lived in a one-bedroom apartment and slept in the living room. Lisa often thought how sad it was that his parents weren’t alive to see their only child’s success.

“I’ll take a look,” Barone said and left the room.

She sat for a moment, then walked to the French doors and stared past the balcony at the twinkling lights of Century City. Was Matthew nearby, being held against his will? Was he alive?

“Dr. Brockman?”

She turned and walked toward the detective. She saw immediately from his face that he had nothing to tell her. What had she expected? A dramatic, Sherlock Holmes solution?

Barone was frowning. “I know this is painful, but you have to consider the possibility that Dr. Gordon left voluntarily.”

“No.” Lisa shook her head and sank onto the sofa.

He sat down next to her. “His car is gone. There’s no evidence to support that it’s been stolen. There’s no evidence of foul play here, no evidence of a breakin.”

“Someone got hold of his keys,” she said impatiently. “Someone took the wrong things.” Hadn’t Barone been listening? Her fingers dug into the sofa cushions.

“Dr. Brockman, try to think as a scientist, not as a fiancee. Dr. Gordon heads a clinic charged with misconduct. If he’s responsible, he had good reason to flee.”

“If you knew Matthew, you’d also know that he didn’t do anything wrong. He was trying to find out who was doing something wrong!” Why didn’t Barone understand that Matthew was in danger?

“Perhaps. Even if he’s not responsible, he may have decided he had to leave town for a while. So he doesn’t take his best suit. So he takes his electric shaver. He’s not careful about being neat when he’s packing. He’s in a rush. He’s not thinking clearly, you understand?”

“But he didn’t call.”

“He may not want to place you in danger. Or he may be worrying that any call he makes to you can be traced.”

There was a nugget of comfort in what he was suggesting. “Is that what you think? That Matthew is lying low until he finds out who’s behind the problems at the clinic?”

“As you pointed out, I don’t know Dr. Gordon.”

Which meant that Barone believed Matthew was guilty. “What if he didn’t leave voluntarily? Can you make some inquiries, try to find him?”

“I’m a homicide detective. Dr. Brockman.”

“I see. So someone has to be dead to get your help, is that right? I’m sorry,” she added quickly. “I’m frightened and tired. I shouldn’t be taking my frustrations out on you.” She pushed herself up from the cocoon of the sofa. “Thanks for coming. I’m sorry I wasted your time.” And mine, she said silently.

Barone stood, too. “I’m investigating Chelsea Wright’s murder. If Dr. Gordon’s disappearance is connected to that, then of course I’d do my best to locate him.”

Was he offering to help her? All she had to do was say yes, there was a connection. “Matthew told you everything he knew.”

“What if the ‘something’ he learned tied the clinic problems in with her? Think about it. Dr. Brockman,” he said when she didn’t answer. He walked to the entry.

Lisa followed him. “You really think there’s a connection?” ‘

“Two weeks ago Chelsea Wright visited your clinic. Three days ago she was murdered. Today the clinic is in the news and the director has disappeared. I’m a detective, Dr. Brockman. I don’t believe in coincidence. As a scientist, do you?”

“So you’ll look for him?” She was light-headed with relief.

“Chelsea Wright’s murder is my first priority. Get me something concrete, and I’ll check into it.”

“You’re the detective.” Anger stirred within her. Was he playing games with her?

“You’re at the clinic every day. You know the people. You have access to the files.”

“What about Chelsea’s boyfriend? You said he gave her a diamond pendant, so they must have been serious. Maybe she confided something to him that could be significant.”

“Dennis Hearly.” Barone sighed. “I spoke to him at the Century City Brentano’s, where he works. He knew Chelsea donated eggs, but was surprised to learn she was at the clinic two weeks ago. A nice young man—bright, sensitive. He cried when he told me he and Chelsea were planning to marry.” Barone opened the door. “Find me the connection. Dr. Brockman.”

She locked the door behind him and walked through the condominium again. At the door to Matthew’s office she stopped, then crossed the room to his desk. She turned on the laptop computer and viewed the directory for the main drive.

There were countless files. Judging by their names, most of them were patient files, probably duplicates of the ones Matthew kept at the clinic. She had no idea where to start, what to look for. None of the files was named “forget sig” or “data lies.”

She scrolled again through the directory. The latest entry—Matthew had named it “Notes”—had been made at 12:08 this morning. He’d worked on it after coming home from her place. She accessed the software program and tried calling up the file. The prompt asked for user’s password. She typed matthew. The prompt blinked:

“Access denied.”

The ringing of the phone jarred her, and she jumped in her seat, then picked up the receiver, unsure whether to say hello. When she finally did, there was silence at the other end, then the sound of a receiver being hung up.

She pressed star 69, a feature that would connect her with the last incoming number. She listened to the ringing of the phone for over a minute before she hung up.

It occurred to her that the caller had wanted to see if anyone was in the condo. She was jittery and had difficulty focusing on the “Notes” file. She typed Matthew’s birthday. Again access was denied. She tried her own name, his mother’s name, his father’s name. With each rejection she was increasingly frustrated. Finally, she admitted defeat for the night. She was anxious to read the file and find out why Matthew had protected it, but she was too tired to think, and the call had made her feel vulnerable. She decided to take the laptop with her.

On the way home she thought again about the “Notes” file. She also contemplated Barone’s offer and wondered whether he was sincere in wanting to help, or whether he thought Matthew had run away out of guilt, and was hoping, through Lisa, to trap him.

She was normally a cautious driver and always checked her rearview mirror every thirty seconds or so, a habit her father had ingrained in her when he taught her to drive. Several minutes after leaving Brentwood, she started paying careful attention to the car behind her. She’d noticed it when she was driving west on San Vicente; it had

turned right when she had turned right onto Barrington, then left onto National. It was possible that, given the day’s events, she was paranoid.

It was also possible that she was being followed.

By Barone?

By Edmond Fisk, who hoped Lisa would lead him to Matthew? He hadn’t believed that she didn’t know where Matthew was.

By the someone who had engineered Matthew’s disappearance?

Her heart beating faster, she drove under the San Diego Freeway overpass and turned right onto Sepulveda. The car pulled back but was still behind her, its headlights glaring at her. At Palms she made a sharp left and accelerated.

She’d already decided that if the car stayed on her tail, she wouldn’t go home. She dialed 911 on her cellular phone and asked for the address of the nearest police station, which she learned was about one mile away, in Culver City.

“Is there a problem, ma’am?” the dispatcher asked.

She was two blocks from Keystone and her apartment building. She looked in the rearview mirror again.

The car was gone.

“No, no problem. Thanks anyway.” Her hands were shaking. Her thighs and underarms were drenched with perspiration.

Get a grip, she told herself.

The Minute by Minute reporter, Gina Franco, was tall and thin and strikingly pretty, with creamy skin set off by short, thick black hair that sat like a glossy helmet on her head. She was wearing tan slacks and a navy blazer. A lace-edged, ivory cotton camisole peeked out from the V of the jacket.

“Thanks for seeing me. Dr. Brockman,” she said after they shook hands. “I’m sure your schedule is hectic enough without having to make time for the media.” Her smile softened her angular face and the intensity of her gray-blue eyes.

“That’s quite all right.” The smile seemed genuine, Lisa thought as she led the way from Reception, but she knew that the reporter would be assessing her and the clinic throughout the interview, looking for a dramatic story. The morning Times had devoted three pieces to the allegations; the one on the front page had shown a photo of Matthew beneath the bold headline: infertility specialist DISAPPEARS—FUGITIVE

OR FOUL PLAY?

Inside her office. Lisa motioned to one of the upholstered visitors’ chairs. “Can I get you coffee or tea?”

“No, thanks. My bladder’s a sieve. But you go ahead.” Dropping her woven hemp-colored bag near one of the chairs, Gina Franco approached the wall with the charts

detailing assisted reproduction and the female anatomy.

Lisa walked over to the credenza behind her desk. With one eye on the reporter, she poured boiling water from the electric coffeemaker into a porcelain Wedgwood cup and selected a packet of amaretto-flavored coffee. She’d been trying to cut down on coffee and ice cream, but her willpower had disappeared along with Matthew.

“Interesting,” Gina said. She’d crossed to the left side of the room and was standing in front of a framed gray poster board filled with snapshots of children. “Your success stories?” she asked, turning to face Lisa.

“Yes.” Lisa added two packets of sweetener and a packet of creamer and stirred. “I don’t know if you noticed, Ms. Franco, but along the walls of the hall you’ll find many more snapshots of babies conceived in this clinic.” “Please call me Gina. And yes, I noticed. Very touching, and very impressive.” She moved to one of the armchairs and sat down. From her bag she removed a pen and a burgundy spiral notebook. “You’re younger than I expected. Thirty?” she asked, making no attempt to disguise the fact that she was studying Lisa.

“Thirty-one.” Lisa placed her cup on a dark brown coaster and sat down at her desk.

“I’m thirty-four. You must be very smart to have come this far in such a short time.”

“I worked very hard.”

Gina smiled. “All work and no play?”

“Basically.” After leaving her parents’ home. Lisa had been driven to succeed quickly. She’d overloaded on courses, finishing college in three years. During medical school and her internship and residency and her stint at the Manhattan clinic, she’d sacrificed her social life to excel, to make her mark.