Fertile Ground (38 page)

“So why did you insert an IUD, Doctor?”

“She changed her mind. She was extremely nervous on the examining table. Ask my nurse—she’ll tell you I had to calm Dr. Brockman down several times. You can’t deny that, can you?” he asked Lisa.

She didn’t respond but forced herself to look at him.

Nestle addressed Barone again. “When I completed the Pap smear, she started crying. She said that her husband was pushing her to have a baby, that she wasn’t ready.”

“That’s a lie,” she said calmly, though she was filled with a lead like dread.

“That’s when she asked me for an IUD. She didn’t want to tell her husband she’d changed her mind. She wanted to use birth control he wouldn’t be aware of. I

asked her if she wanted time to think. She said no. So I complied with her wishes.”

Everything she’d done was useless—coming here this morning, subjecting herself to his examination, letting him insert an IUD, taking the sheet with his notes. She thought she’d been clever, going to her own gynecologist earlier, but Nestle was having the last laugh. She had no proof now. She clenched her hands and bit the inside of her cheek, choking with anger and frustration. Barone was avoiding looking at her. She wondered if he was angry at her for wasting his time.

“And will your nurse testify to all this?” Barone asked.

Nestle sighed. “Unfortunately, I had just sent Denise for some specimen slides and swabs. You’d think, with all our inventory on the computer, I wouldn’t have to deal with this problem.” He smiled. “Anyway, after inserting the IUD, I told Dr. Brockman to lie down until the cramping stopped, and left to speak with Mrs. Bartholomew. When I returned. Dr. Brockman was gone. I felt duped.”

He turned to Lisa. “I should be angry at you for trying to trick me, but I pity you. Obviously you need to blame someone for what happened to the clinic, to Dr. Gordon.” He was trying not to look smug, but Lisa saw the pull at the corners of his lips.

“How can you refer fertile women for assisted reproduction?” Lisa asked, knowing she was probably giving him satisfaction, that she’d lost. “How can you live with yourself?”

“Dr. Brockman, every patient I’ve referred to the clinic has tried unsuccessfully for at least a year to conceive.”

“It’s hard getting pregnant when you’re using birth control. The patients I spoke to described symptoms consistent with having an IUD. And those fertility pills you gave them?” She opened her purse and took out a plastic bag with the orange-and-white capsules. “A pharmacist told me this is a placebo. It doesn’t do much to promote conception.”

Nestle leaned back. “For your information. Doctor, I gave certain patients placebos because, in my estimation,

after diagnostic tests ruled out any abnormalities, their anxiety about conceiving was preventing conception. I wanted them to relax so that their Fallopian tubes wouldn’t contract and prevent the passage of the egg.”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

The doctor pushed back his chair. “I think that’s all cleared up. Detective. I’m sorry you had to waste your time.”

Barone was rising. Lisa couldn’t believe it was all over. She was about to stand, too, when she had a sudden thought.

“What about your inventory. Dr. Nestle?” she asked.

He frowned. “My inventory?”

“I’m sure you keep an accurate record of supplies so that you don’t run low. Swabs, for example. Specimen slides. Gloves. And, of course, intrauterine devices. I bet that if we checked your inventory records, we’d find a discrepancy between the number of iUDs inserted in and charged to patients and the number ordered and still in stock.”

Barone was sitting again. He gave her a quick smile and studied Nestle.

The doctor glared at Lisa. “I’ve been more than patient, Dr. Brockman, but I won’t subject myself to any more of this.”

Barone said, “I think it would be interesting to examine your inventory records.” He turned to Lisa. “How many patients are we talking about. Dr. Brockman?”

“From my random sample, two confirmed, one probable. If we checked all the files, I think we’d find about twenty-five to thirty patients within a year’s period. Maybe more.”

“This is ridiculous!” Nestle’s voice was shaking with anger, but he was sitting down and his face had paled.

“So an inventory check would show thirty or so ILJDs unaccounted for?” Barone said, ignoring him.

“Yes.”

He addressed Nestle. “There’s an easy way to prove Dr. Brockman wrong. Can I look at your inventory?”

“No, you may not! This is a medical practice, not a warehouse.”

Barone smiled. “I’m not asking to see patient files, Doctor. Just an inventory analysis—which you said is on the computer.”

“I’m sorry. I’d like to cooperate, but I have no intention of inconveniencing my staff and patients to humor Dr. Brockman.”

“Humor me, then. Doctor,” Barone said quietly.

Nestle shook his head. “Dr. Brockman has fabricated this entire scenario. Why would I do such a crazy thing?”

“Because you’re a partner in the clinic, and negative press about fertility clinics caused a drop in new patients,” Lisa said. “And there were more and more clinics. So you inflated the Westwood clinic’s success rate by referring fertile women. And you encouraged the use of donor eggs, without the recipient’s knowledge or consent, for clinic patients on the refund policy.”

He stared at her. “You’re emotionally disturbed, you know. You should seek professional help.”

“I have.” She smiled. “That’s why Detective Barone is here.”

“Who’s your contact at the clinic?” Barone asked.

Nestle frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is it Dr. Cantrell? Dr. Davidson? The lab director? It would be better for you if you cooperated with us.”

The gynecologist pressed his palms against the edge of his desk and leaned forward. “Don’t you understand? I have no knowledge of donor eggs being used without the recipient’s consent. I’m a silent partner—I know nothing about the clinic operations. I invested money. I’m pleased when I get a decent return, but I’m hardly dependent on the clinic for my livelihood. I have a thriving practice that allows me to live quite comfortably.”

“Or maybe you worked with Dr. Gordon,” Barone said as if Nestle hadn’t spoken. “Is that why you killed him? Is that why you engineered his disappearance—to make him look guilty?”

Nestle slumped back against his chair. “You can’t seriously believe I killed Matthew!” His voice shook. His face, sagging and drained of color, resembled raw dough.

Barone raised his brows in exaggerated surprise. “I didn’t know you and Dr. Gordon were on a first-name basis. What happened? Did you panic? Did he threaten to tell the police of your involvement? Goodbye thriving practice, hello jail.”

“I’m not going to answer any more questions.” Beads of perspiration lined his upper lip.

“Why not. Dr. Nestle? Unless you’re hiding something.” The detective stood. “I’m taking you in for questioning.”

“I don’t have to go, not unless you arrest me. I know my rights.”

“If you prefer, I can arrest you.” Barone nodded. “I can show probable cause for fraud and subpoena your inventory files. I can probably convince the D.A. to charge you with murder, or accessory to.”

Barone’s musical voice sounded like a sonata to Lisa.

“I didn’t kill Matthew! I have nothing to tell you!” Nestle was blinking furiously. His eyes were darting back and forth.

“I can arrest you and read you your rights and handcuff you,” Barone said. “Or you can come in voluntarily for questioning. It’s your choice.”

The doctor seemed to be cemented to his seat. Barone had to repeat his name sternly before he rose, unsteadily, to his feet. “I have appointments scheduled outside the office.”

“Have your receptionist cancel them.”

“And say what? That I’ve been taken in for questioning by the police for something I didn’t do?” A little of his bluster had returned.

“You can say you’re assisting us in our investigation.”

The brown-haired receptionist was on the phone when Nestle, followed by Barone and Lisa, approached her counter.

“Next Tuesday at three is fine,” she said and hung up. She fixed her eyes on her employer and avoided looking at Lisa.

“Detective Barone needs my help, so I’ll be gone for a while, Katherine,” he told her. “Please cancel my afternoon appointments. Check my desk calendar.”

“Yes, of course, Doctor.” The phone rang. She lifted the receiver and said, “Dr. Nestle’s office. Can you hold a minute, please? I see.” She put the caller on hold. “It’s Paula Rhodes. She sounds anxious. Do you want to talk to her?”

Barone and Lisa exchanged surprised looks.

Nestle took the receiver and pressed the hold button. “Paula? Dr. Nestle. What’s wrong, dear?” He started to frown. “You’re sure it’s not your period?” He listened for a moment. “Well, don’t be alarmed. This isn’t uncommon postpartum. If the bleeding continues, come in tomorrow morning and I’ll take a look. We may have to do a D and C. All right. Yes. Please don’t worry.” He handed the receiver to the receptionist. “Pencil in a half hour appointment for Mrs. Rhodes at ten tomorrow morning.”

Lisa wondered if the doctor was being optimistic, scheduling appointments. She was even more curious about the fact that Paula Rhodes was his patient.

“Is that the Mrs. Rhodes whose husband died recently?” she asked Nestle as they were waiting for the elevator.

“I don’t gossip about my patients. Dr. Brockman,” he snapped. “But yes, her husband died five months ago, when she was pregnant. She’s a brave, wonderful woman who’s been through hell, so before you add her to your list of patients to harass, let me tell you she conceived without any problem and never stepped foot in that damn clinic.” He glared at her. “Any more questions?”

She had many more questions, but she wasn’t even sure what they all were.

“There’s good news and bad news,” Barone told Lisa when he phoned her at the Presslers three hours later. “I convinced a judge to issue a subpoena immediately so that we can examine Nestle’s inventory. I’m heading to his office right now.”

“And the bad news?” She’d been sitting around doing nothing, waiting for the detective’s call. She would have loved to have been in the room when Nestle was interrogated.

“Technically, we can hold him for forty-eight hours without charging him, but his lawyer is demanding an immediate OR release.”

“What’s “OR’?”

” “Own recognizance.” He’s arguing that Nestle’s a highly respected physician and member of the community, that we have no proof of wrongdoing. The D.A. is leaning toward releasing him until we get evidence.”

She frowned. “What about the fact that he inserted the iUDs? That’s fraudulent medicine, isn’t it?” “We have to prove it first. And we have to get at least one patient to file a complaint. I went to see Nancy Bartholomew and Nedda Flom. Neither one is ready to file.”

Lisa was dumbfounded. “Why not?” “Mrs. Bartholomew refuses to believe that Nestle gave

her an IUD. She’s furious with you, with me, with everyone who’s trying to railroad him, as she puts it. I sensed that Mrs. Flom believes it’s possible but doesn’t want to get involved.”

“Isn’t she angry at Nestle for what he did?”

“She’s having a baby—that’s all she cares about. She doesn’t want to get dragged into a trial. Maybe in a few days or weeks she’ll think about it, get furious, and give me a call. As for Mrs. Bartholomew, she’s had a long relationship with Nestle. He helped her get pregnant. She believed he was her savior and doesn’t want to think she’s been deceived.”

“But what he did is grasping and unethical! And he may be a murderer.” Lisa couldn’t believe this was happening She had an urge to confront both women and shake them until they saw reason.

“You don’t have to convince me. I ran a DMV check on him, by the way. He drives a black Lamborghini.”

She was going stir crazy, sitting around doing nothing. She remembered that she still hadn’t straightened up her bedroom. She drove to her apartment and checked her mail, then put a load of laundry in the washing machine in the basement. Back upstairs she listened to her phone messages—Sam, Edmond. Sam again.

She finished the bedroom, then decided to call Paula Rhodes. Nestle said she’d conceived without difficulty, that she’d never gone to the clinic—but what if he was lying? What if Paula was another of his “IUD” referrals? What if, unlike Nancy Bartholomew and Nedda Flom, she’d be willing to file a complaint?

She phoned the house, and the maid answered. A minute later Paula came on the line.

“I’m glad you called. Dr. Brockman. I’ve been thinking about you. Did Detective Barone find the man who impersonated him?”

“No.” Could that have been Nestle? “I was wondering whether you’d remembered anything else about him.”

“No, sorry. I hope you’re being careful.”

“I am. How are you? And how’s Andy?” She remembered that Paula had been anxious about her baby.

She sighed. “I’m having women troubles—my OH said it’s normal post-baby bleeding. Andy’s okay, I guess.”

“You sound unsure.”

“The pediatrician said he’s fine. He said there’s nothing unusual about a baby not breathing for a few seconds. But he said to watch for any more episodes, and if Andy becomes limp or turns a different color, to call immediately. He didn’t say, but I know what he’s worried about—SIDS. My cousin’s daughter died of that. Lorraine put her to sleep. In the morning she was gone. Just like that. I guess that’s why I’m neurotic.”

Sudden infant death syndrome. There were usually no symptoms for this heartbreaking killer. But there were risk factors, chief among which were premature birth and other incidents of SIDS in the family. Andy was a preemie. Lisa recalled. “Have you been putting Andy to sleep on his back?”

“Oh, yes. And I’ve been sleeping on the day bed in his room. If you can call it sleep.” She laughed lightly. “I’m up most of the night, checking him. The pediatrician thinks I’m a worrier. What if he’s wrong? What if I should be doing something?”

“Do you smoke?”

“No, why?”

“Smoking contributes to SIDS. Also, don’t leave stuffed animals in his crib. By the way, you mentioned that Andy was born premature. Did you have a difficult pregnancy?” She hated asking for information under false pretenses, but she had to know.