Shattered (37 page)

"Lisa . . ."

"No, I do want to know. I
have
to know. But . . . my mother . . . This is the last bit of time we'll ever have together. And I hate to spend any of it on this." All of a sudden she couldn't talk anymore because her throat was closing up. Not that she needed to say anything else: She knew Scott understood. Even as she looked at him with mute anguish, he unfastened his seat belt and leaned toward her, sliding a hand behind the back of her neck. Then he kissed her.

Lisa closed her eyes and kissed him back. In a moment the kiss that had started out as something gentle and tender turned torrid enough to make the windows fog over. He was just undoing her seat belt to pull her more fully into his arms when her cell phone rang.

28

Lisa let it go to voice mail,
but it broke the kiss up nonetheless.

"Want to get lunch before we go our separate ways?" Scott had let her go and was back in his seat. His voice was husky. His eyes were hot.

Shaking her head regretfully at him, she was at the same time listening to the message that had been left. Robin said:
Just wanted to let you know, Dr. Spencer is coming at two. He wants to talk to you.

"I have to go to the hospital." She told him what Robin had said.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"I thought you had work to do."

"If you need me, it can wait."

She smiled at him but shook her head. "I don't need you. Go do your work."

He looked at her for a moment without saying anything, then nodded. "Okay. I'll stop by the hospital later."

Then he snagged his jacket from the backseat and got out of the car, seemingly oblivious to the raindrops pelting him.

He followed her to the hospital, gave her a ride through the now pouring rain from the parking space she found to the front door, then drove away.

Preoccupied as she was, Lisa had almost reached her mother's room before it registered that he hadn't kissed her good-bye.

Again, she'd never been in a relationship with Scott before, so she couldn't be certain, but she was willing to bet quite a bit that he was the kind of guy who made a habit of kissing the woman he was sleeping with good-bye.

Something's up with him,
she thought for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

But then Mrs. Dalmain and Mrs. Henderson, two of her mother's friends, came out of the room, and she put the matter out of her mind as she greeted them. From there, she was drawn into the social vortex that was her mother's room on a Sunday afternoon until Dr. Spencer arrived promptly at two.

Her mother would be released soon, probably on Tuesday. That was the good news. The bad news was that he recommended that she move to a nursing home that provided around-the-clock medical care. The worse news was that tests showed her ALS was progressing to its final stage.

"She hates the idea of a nursing home," Lisa, shaken, told Dr. Spencer. Knowing, rather than suspecting, that her mother's time was measured in weeks now was making her feel light-headed and nauseated. "Our house is unlivable just at present, but I can find something to rent, or . . ."

Dr. Spencer shook his head and thrust a hand into the pocket of his white lab coat to come up with a folded sheet of paper. He was a short, thin, gray-haired man of about Martha's own age with a brisk manner that concealed a real dedication to his patients. Martha trusted him completely, and Lisa saw no reason to question her mother's judgment. It was just that what he was saying was very hard to accept.

"She's going to need around-the-clock skilled care in the very near future." He handed the folded paper to her. "I've already made arrangements with the Worley Center for her to take the bed they have available starting Tuesday." He nodded at the piece of paper. "That's the name of the new patient coordinator there. If you'll give her a call, she'll answer all your questions. Of course, if you object, you're welcome to make alternative arrangements or get a second opinion. But I feel this is what is best for Mrs. Grant."

Lisa was heartsick over it, but in the end she reluctantly agreed. Dr. Spencer had her mother's best interests at heart, she knew. But she also knew her mother would be upset, and for that reason she decided to put off telling her until Monday.

Fortunately, Martha had so much company throughout the afternoon and evening that Lisa's lack of sparkle went unnoticed. By pleading work, turning to her laptop, and relying on the steady stream of visitors to entertain Martha, she was able to stay out of her mother's direct orbit until her feelings were once again under control. The last thing she wanted was for Martha to sense that something was wrong.

Scott came by later to visit briefly with Martha and the ladies in her room before he and Lisa slipped off to the hospital cafeteria for a quick supper. As soon as she saw him, the news practically burst out of her. It was a relief to tell him everything. His calm good sense steadied her, and she was grateful for his strength. When he left she badly wanted to go with him, to spend the night with him, but at this point there was no way she could leave her mother even if he had suggested it, which he didn't. But this time at least he kissed her good-bye, a quick, hard kiss when she walked him to the elevator, dropped on her mouth in the teeth of the interested gazes of several of her mother's friends who were leaving at the same time.

She felt a ridiculous sense of loss when the elevator doors closed on him. For the first time it occurred to her that she was starting to rely on him a lot. Too much? Maybe, but the thought of not having him to turn to was bleak indeed.

When she went back to her mother's room, she settled down with her laptop to finalize some work while her mother chatted with the last of the visitors. Finally she finished everything that was urgent, only to look up and discover that the visitors were gone and her mother had fallen asleep while watching TV.

For a moment Lisa looked at the slight figure in the bed and listened to her labored breathing. Love and a sense of utter helplessness in the face of her mother's illness filled her with an indescribable sadness. But there was, simply, nothing she could do but stay at her mother's side as the clock ticked inexorably down. With a lump in her throat, she turned off the TV, then thought about going to sleep herself. It was already after eleven, and she had to be at work at eight. But sleep was beyond her for the moment, and instead she turned her laptop back on and wound up Googling the mark she had discovered on Katrina's foot: MBF, surrounded by a heart.

To her surprise, it was as simple as that.

The symbol was the trademark of the My Best Friend dolls, a line of expensive, limited-edition dolls that were custom-made for each lucky customer. Only a few thousand were created each year, from 1978 to 1985, when the company was sold to a larger toy manufacturer. The customer specified hair color and style, eye color, and skin tone, and chose the doll's clothing. The object was for the finished doll to look as much like its intended little-girl owner as possible. It was suggested that a picture of the child be sent in along with the order. If that wasn't possible, the company would do its best with the information provided.

Other than a telephone number and address for the new, larger toy company and a number to be called for doll repair, there was no more information to be gleaned from the website. With the fixed intention of calling the company in the morning to find out anything else she could, Lisa logged off the laptop.

Then she sat staring into space for a moment as it occurred to her that whoever had ordered Katrina had made a mistake. Unlike her own, the doll's eyes were blue.

Work the next morning was hectic.
ADAs Pratchett and Ellis were in court as the defense in the Gaylin grandmother-killer case argued for a competency hearing for their client. It had been Lisa's job to document all the defendant's previous mental health issues, and she was there with the prosecution team to walk them through what she had uncovered. As soon as she got back to the office, she had to rush back to court with copies of cell phone records for a vehicular homicide case. Kane was the prosecutor in that one. There was no mistaking the dislike in the woman's eyes as she practically snatched the papers from Lisa's hand. Knowing the cause, Lisa was fairly sanguine about it. Other than handing Scott over to Kane, which she wasn't about to do, there weren't a lot of options. After that she stopped by police headquarters to go over some crime scene photos with the detective who had taken them. While she was there, she made a trip down to the evidence room in the basement to check out some items that would be needed in court the next day.

By the time she finally made it back to her desk, it was after three o'clock. Rain had fallen in sheets all day, and despite the umbrella she had strategically provided herself with, she was damp all over and her feet were soaked. By way of a late lunch, she opened the Diet Coke and package of peanut-butter crackers she'd picked up at a vending machine on the way back in, and dialed the number for the toy company that was listed on the My Best Friend doll website.

She was on the phone waiting for her call to be transferred to the correct department when Scott, all business in a navy suit with his briefcase in his hand, walked into her line of vision. She hadn't set eyes on him all day, and she was surprised at how glad she was to see him now, especially when he wasn't doing anything any more exciting than striding toward his office, flanked by two ADAs and talking on his cell phone. He didn't as much as glance her way, but her eyes tracked him automatically. Her heart speeded up, and that "Hey, I'm really glad to see you" tingle was out in full force. She watched him until he was inside his office and the door closed, blocking her view, then recollected her surroundings and glanced self-consciously around to see if anyone else had noticed her interest. Fortunately, everyone else seemed to be too busy working.

"Can I help you?" a voice spoke in her ear, distracting her. Lisa explained that she was trying to track down the purchaser of a My Best Friend doll that was sold in the early 1980s.

"We've maintained the records of all our sales for that particular doll, so I should be able to help you. Do you have a serial number?"

"Serial number?"

"The dolls all came with certificates of authenticity that included serial numbers. If you have the doll, the number is also stamped on her lower back."

Lisa hadn't thought to look for a serial number. Of course, it would be a simple thing to check tonight and call back with the information in the morning, but she would rather not take the extra time unless she had to. "I don't have the serial number."

"Do you have the purchaser's name and state?"

"Grant," Lisa tried. "In either Kentucky or Maryland."

"Hold on." A moment later the woman was back. "Yes, we do have a My Best Friend doll that was sold to a C. B. Grant of Lexington, Kentucky, on January twelfth, 1981."

Barty. The date was before her own birth. Lisa frowned. Had he ordered the doll in anticipation?

"That date--was that when the doll was picked up or ordered?"

"All our dolls were delivered rather than picked up, which is why we retain a registry of states. That would be the date when the order was placed. Payment in full was required at the time of the initial order, and so the records would indicate that was when the sale took place."

"When was the doll actually delivered?"

"Just a minute." She came back on. "I don't see the date in the file. The orders usually took about four months to fill."

That would make it April 1981, which made sense: It was her birth month.

Except Barty would have had no way of knowing what she was going to look like when the order had been placed. She had still been inside her mother's womb.

If he'd guessed, it had been a really outstanding example of precognition--except for the color of the eyes.

Then something the woman had said finally registered.

"Did you say you have a file there? For this particular order?"

"Yes, I do."

Lisa swallowed hard. "Is there a picture? Of the child?"

"No. If there was a picture, it would have been sent back along with the doll when the delivery was made."

Lisa thanked her and hung up. The urge to run to Scott and tell him what she had just learned was strong, but a quick look around discouraged her. There were too many eyes to see and tongues to wag if she did something so unprecedented as to head for his office. For herself, she didn't really care, but for Scott she did. He had carved out a brilliant career for himself, and she refused to provide fodder for gossip that might embarrass him or, worse, subject him to the kind of "creating a hostile environment in the workplace" drama that knowledge of their relationship might subject him to.

But there
was
something she could do. She could get her answers directly from the horse's mouth.

Picking up the phone, she called Barty.

And got his voice mail, which wasn't a shock. He had caller ID on his phone, and she figured that the chances that he wanted to talk to her were probably about nil. She left a message asking him to call her, and hung up.

The thought she couldn't get out of her mind was that maybe Katrina wasn't her doll at all. Maybe Katrina had been created for Marisa Garcia.

Why Barty would have bought a doll for Marisa she didn't know. How such a doll could have come into her own possession she didn't know. What she did know was that the doll resembled Marisa more closely than it did herself, especially if Marisa's eyes were blue. And the clothes Marisa had been wearing in the picture in the cold-case file looked to be almost identical to the clothes Katrina was wearing.

So, what did that tell her?

Maybe Barty had used Marisa as a model for a doll to be made for his unborn daughter, who would turn out to be herself. Maybe he suspected that they would look alike because he knew they were related. Presumably if some sort of egg or embryo transfer had been involved, he would know about it. Maybe the fact that Michael Garcia had broken into the Grants' house in Maryland was because he was angry about his wife's egg or their embryo being used for another couple's fertility treatment. Maybe . . . well, she didn't know what, but somehow it all had to tie together. All those disparate facts had to combine to make a cohesive whole. The problem was that she wasn't yet quite sure how.