Hush

16

HER MOUTH PARTED in surprise. It was a validation of what her gut had been telling her and yet his words were still a shock.

“Who else told you that?” she asked.

“First tell me about this Dr. Keaton,” he said. “Did you know him?”

At the mention of Keaton’s name, she could feel the blood rush recklessly to her face. She reached for her beer bottle, which she’d left untouched so far, splashed a little into her glass and took a sip. The coldness soothed her raw throat.

“Just in passing,” she said, avoiding his glance as she set the glass back down. “I’ve only worked at the clinic for a few weeks.”

“Do you think someone from the clinic might have killed him?”

Lake was slightly surprised by his direct question, but also relieved not to have to beat around the bush.

“It’s possible,” she said. “We learned yesterday that he’d given one of the nurses a set of his apartment keys and she’d left them in her desk. Someone could have swiped them and made copies.”

“Do you think there could be a connection between his death and the suspicions you’ve had about the clinic?”

“I’ve definitely worried about that. Though this all could just be a coincidence,” she said.

“You know what I’m going to say, of course,” he said with his eyebrows raised. “As a reporter, you learn there are few coincidences.”

“Can you please tell me what you’ve heard about the clinic?” Lake urged.

“Okay. About two months ago a woman called my producer Rachel out of the blue. She’d come across the same article you saw while she was doing a search online. She’d been a patient at the Advanced Fertility Center-of Dr. Daniel Sherman specifically-and said that we ought to do an investigation of the clinic. She claimed they were exploiting innocent patients and they needed to be exposed. My article was on Washington area clinics-I was living there at the time-but the subject overall interests me.”

“What did she mean by exploiting?”

“She refused to go into it on the phone. She set up a meeting with Rachel but Rachel had to reschedule because of some breaking news. Then, the day before their appointment, the woman called to say she had to reschedule and would get back in touch. That was a few weeks ago and we haven’t heard from her since.”

“What do you think she could be referring to?”

“Take a guess. You’re the one who works there.”

“I’ve never seen anything suspicious, but then again I’m not involved with the patients in any way. Plus, the fertility world is pretty new to me. Something could be going on right under my nose and I wouldn’t know it.” She paused. “You mentioned in your article that some clinics encourage procedures people don’t really need. That may be a possibility.”

“They could also be inflating their success rates,” he said. “That’s a big factor when someone is choosing a clinic.”

“I read that in your piece, that some clinics do that. I can’t believe there isn’t outside auditing done on those numbers.”

“I know. It’s a three-billion-dollar business with lots of competition and very little government regulation.”

Was the clinic capable of such things? Lake wondered. Overcharging desperate couples? Pumping up their success rates? Both Levin and Sherman-and Hoss, too-were certainly arrogant, and arrogant people often played by different rules.

“So there’s a chance this woman could be right?” Lake asked.

“It’s possible-though Rachel said she sounded like a bit of a nut job. Some high-maintenance Manhattan type who’s never been denied anything. I called the clinic myself and talked to Sherman. That’s probably why they had my article on file-they must have checked me out. He told me that this woman had emotional difficulties because of her failure to conceive and that her claims were baseless. I’d caught him off guard and he was pretty pissed. Said if I had anything further to say, I should speak to his attorney.”

“Is that why you haven’t tried harder to connect with her-because she might be unstable?”

“Partly. I’ve also been swamped with stories lately. But in light of Keaton’s death-and then your call-my interest has shot way up. Something could be going on there that needs to be exposed.”

Lake picked at the wet label on her beer bottle as her mind raced. Maybe Keaton had stumbled onto the fact that the clinic was involved in wrongdoing and had threatened to expose them. If the doctors there were engaged in unethical activities and the truth was brought to light, everything would be lost-not just the clinic, but people’s reputations and careers, even their medical licenses. That offered a perfect motive for murder.

But one detail still didn’t jibe. According to Maggie, Keaton had changed his locks since the late winter. If he’d uncovered something negative about the clinic then, and was concerned for his safety, why return this summer? Unless he decided it was his duty to dig up more evidence.

When she looked up she saw that Archer had slipped a credit card from a weathered brown wallet and was laying it on the bar.

“I hate to split,” he said, “but the publicist for the show is going to have my head if I don’t get up there on time.”

“I understand. Can I get this? I appreciate your taking the time.”

“No, it’s on me. But there is one thing you can do.”

Of course, she thought. Reporters like him were relentless.

“What?” she asked.

“Why don’t you nose around a little bit at the clinic?”

Lake caught her breath. “You want me to spy? I-”

“Hear me out. These clinics are like fortresses-it’s going to be impossible for anyone to get in and investigate without real proof of wrongdoing. Having you on the inside gives us a big advantage.”

“What exactly would I be looking for?” she asked tentatively.

“Tough to say since this woman didn’t give specifics. I’d see if you could find out what their real success rates are and compare them to what they tell prospective patients. I’d go through as many patient records as you can and make a note of what procedures people are having. Does anything seem excessive?”

She stared at the wooden bar, trying to decide what to do. The idea scared the hell out of her. She could barely handle Brie snooping. And as far as Lake knew, the killer could be watching her, too.

Archer studied her, clearly sensing her hesitancy.

“Look, I know this might put you in an awkward situation. But this could be an important story that needs to see the light of day. And time is of the essence. If Keaton’s death is related to any wrongdoing, they may try to destroy the evidence.”

“All right,” she said finally. “I’ll see what I can find. What’s the name of the woman who called you? I should start with her file.”

“Alexis Hunt,” he said, scrawling his signature on the credit card receipt. “Would you have a legitimate reason to be going through patient records?”

“No. Technically I don’t have the right to look at them.”

“Be very careful, then. And call me if you find anything.”

She withdrew a business card from her purse and as she handed it to him, the tips of her fingers touched his.

“My home number is on there, too.”

“Have you got kids yourself?” he asked.

“Two-they’re away at camp right now.” The thought of them flooded her with worry all over again. “How about you?”

“A twenty-three-year-old stepson from my former marriage. I kind of think of him as my own, though. Are you walking out now?”

“I’m going to finish my beer,” she said.

“Okay. Good luck-and call me if you run into any trouble.”

She watched him leave, threading his way confidently through the tables, seemingly oblivious to the out-of-towners who trailed him with their eyes. As she picked up her glass, she caught a man sitting solo focus on her and then quickly glance down. Women alone at hotel bars were always slightly suspect, she knew, but she didn’t want to leave until she had made sense of all the thoughts colliding in her head.

She’d probably been foolish to let Archer tap her as a spy. For him it was all about the story and making a major splash on Reveal. But for her it was a whole different game. She was already in a precarious situation, and this could make things even worse. Right now there were warning signs that the killer suspected she knew something about the murder. If Keaton’s death was tied to wrongdoing at the clinic and she learned what that wrongdoing was, the killer would have a concrete reason to harm her. And if there was wrongdoing that wasn’t tied to Keaton’s death, her spying would expose her to danger from a new front. It was double jeopardy.

And yet, she also knew that learning the truth could ultimately help her escape from the nightmare she’d found herself living through. The police would focus on the clinic and not on her.

She massaged her temples, thinking desperately. She was done with her research at the clinic, but she’d have to show up tomorrow pretending she still needed to do more-and she’d have to be careful not to make anyone, especially snoopy Brie, suspicious. The patient files were in the same storage room as the files she’d been researching, so at least she’d have a reason to be in that room. But what would she be looking for exactly?

An idea suddenly gurgled up in her mind: What if she spoke to Alexis Hunt directly? That way she might have a clearer sense of what she needed to search for. She’d need to talk to her soon. Lake rifled through her purse for her BlackBerry and called 411. There was an A. Hunt at 20 East Seventy-eighth Street. Archer had called the woman high maintenance. Well, that fit with the Upper East Side address.

Lake eased herself off the bar stool, deciding to make the call then and there-but outside, where there’d be less noise. As she strode from the bar, she thought she caught the man alone at the table checking her out again-this time above a folded newspaper. Did he assume she was an aging hooker?

Spilling out of the revolving door on Park Avenue, she saw that the sidewalk was churning with tourists, all eager for cabs, so she turned onto Forty-ninth Street and found a quiet spot midway down the block. She held her breath as she waited for someone to pick up the phone. After four rings a woman offered a blunt hello.

“Alexis Hunt?” Lake asked.

“Who is this?” the woman demanded.

“My name is Lake Warren. I-I know you have some concerns about the Advanced Fertility Center. I’d really like to discuss them with you.”

“Are you a patient there?”

“No, but-there’s a chance I may be able to help you. Can we meet and talk?”

“How did you get my name?” No nonsense. Not the least bit friendly.

“Kit Archer.” Lake hated having to use his name but she could tell if she didn’t, Alexis was quickly going to hang up.

“Do you work with him?”

“No, but I spoke with him. I have some concerns like you do.”

A few seconds of silence followed.

“All right,” she said. “I’m just off Madison on Seventy-eighth. How long will it take for you to get here?”

“You want me to come now?” Lake asked, startled.

“I don’t do lunch, if that’s what you had in mind.”

“Okay, I can come now,” Lake said. “I’m about ten minutes away.”

Lake hailed a cab and collapsed against the backseat. She couldn’t believe she’d done this. Calling Archer was one thing; meeting with a patient was definitely crossing the line. It felt like such a bold move, one that might even annoy Archer if he found out. But she’d already set it into motion, and it was too late to turn back now.

Alexis Hunt’s apartment was in a pricey-looking prewar building. The doorman rang up and then directed Lake to 14B, which turned out to be one of only two apartments on the fourteenth floor. From the voice on the phone and the tiny bit Lake knew of her background, Lake had formed a picture of Alexis in her mind: someone older, hardened and bitter from what she’d gone through, perhaps even furious at the world that boxed smart, ambitious women into marrying late and thus trying to conceive when the odds were against them. So Lake was startled, then, when the door swung open and she was greeted by a fairly pretty, composed woman who seemed no older than thirty-two or thirty-three. She had blond hair styled in a plain, preppy bob, green eyes, and a tiny mouth dabbed with berry-colored lipstick. Though she was slightly overweight, she wore a green-and-white wrap dress that flattered her figure, the kind you often saw on well-heeled suburban women who still dressed to go into town. She didn’t look like a nut job. She looked like someone who was about to share her recipe for spinach and artichoke dip.

“Come in,” was all she said. Lake stepped inside and followed her into the living room.

The apartment was what you might expect in that building-classy but blandly decorated in muted blues and greens. Lake could see a small library off one end of the living room and a dining room at the other, and she guessed there were probably two bedrooms off the long hallway. There was something oddly unlived-in about the space-no mail or keys scattered on the hall table, no magazine left open on the couch.

“I’m still not clear who you are or why you called me,” Alexis said bluntly. She took a seat on an antique straight-back chair, the least comfortable-looking piece in the room. Maybe she doesn’t want to get comfortable, Lake thought. She chose the blue chintz couch but perched just on the edge of it.

“I’ve been looking into fertility clinics,” Lake said. “I came across Kit Archer’s article and tracked him down. He told me about his producer’s discussion with you.”

“So you’re an investigator of some kind?”

“No, not that. I-”

“Are you writing a book or something?”

“No-not a book. It just happens that I have a reason to be researching the Advanced Fertility Center clinic. Mr. Archer told me you have some issues with them.”

A smile suddenly formed on Alexis’s face, a surprising move given her coldness so far. It was a tiny, wicked smile that suggested she was about to dish on a bad boy they’d both known in college. The composure had all been a front, Lake realized, just a thin, fragile coating for the woman’s fury.

“Not issues plural,” Alexis said. “Just one. They completely destroyed my life.”

“How?”

“Excuse me for seeming dense, but I’m still a little confused,” Alexis said. There was a real edge now to her voice, as if a screw had been tightened. “What’s your motive in all of this-and why do you expect me to cooperate?”

“Another person-someone familiar with the clinic-has raised concerns about them,” Lake said. “If they’re guilty of wrongdoing, they need to be exposed.”

“Aren’t we the concerned citizen,” Alexis said mockingly.

I’m losing ground, Lake thought anxiously. She had to try a different approach.

“Do you mind my asking what kind of procedure you underwent with Dr. Sherman? Was it in vitro?”

“Oh, we’d be here all night if I described everything,” Alexis said. She was forcing such a hard, fake smile it looked as if her cheeks would burst. “At first I did intrauterine insemination, sometimes fondly known as the turkey-baster method, except they really use a plastic catheter to shoot the sperm up inside you. Then there were the hormone cocktails I had to inject in my belly. And let’s not forget the progesterone suppositories. Lovely. Then we proceeded to IVF.”

“You’re so young. What was the problem?”

“I had cysts on my ovaries-which came as a complete and utter shock. Not only had there never been any symptoms, but I’d gotten pregnant easily several years before. As it turns out, my first pregnancy had pretty much defied the laws of probability-and the chances of it happening again naturally were next to nil.”

Instinctively Lake’s eyes flicked around the room, searching for a sign of the child. On top of a mahogany side table at the far end of the couch was a silver-framed photograph of a toddler, about fifteen months old. From where she sat Lake couldn’t make out the child’s features, but it was impossible to miss the halo of hair so blond it was nearly white.

“Yes,” Alexis said, catching the movement. “My daughter Charlotte.”

“And she’s about three now?” Lake said. But as she spoke the words, an eerie feeling enveloped her. There was no other evidence of the child anywhere.

“No,” Alexis said. “She died of meningitis when she was eighteen months old.”

The words hit Lake like a punch to the stomach.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she said.

“Do you have children?”

“Two.”

Alexis stared at Lake, her eyes suddenly wide and blank. For a brief moment she looked like a character on a horror-movie poster, a mother whose children have been abducted by aliens or lured away forever by gremlins hiding in the cracks of the floorboards.

“Then you can at least imagine what it would be like,” Alexis said. “Honestly, a few people actually suggested that my grief must not be so bad because Charlotte wasn’t really a person yet.”

“How terrible,” Lake said. “I-I assume you were never successful in having another child?”

“Very good guess,” Alexis said, flashing the evil grin again. “Oh, Dr. Sherman insisted I would be. I had plenty of eggs-in his words, a virtual plethora of healthy eggs-and it was just a matter of time getting one of our test-tube embryos to implant in my uterus. After the fourth attempt I was ready to try another clinic but Sherman practically insisted we stay. He just knew it would happen. So I stupidly gave him one more chance-and then another. It was all an utter failure.”

“But why not try another clinic now? They each have different areas of expertise. Maybe you’d have luck at one of the bigger ones affiliated with a medical center.”

“I was going to start someplace else-at Cornell, as a matter of fact. But then my husband ran for the hills. He didn’t find fertility treatment all that fun, though it’s hard to imagine why. Stabbing a needle in my ass every night, watching me fatten up like Jabba the Hut on the drugs and then turn into a screaming maniac. What’s not to like?”

Lake almost winced.

“What about having a child without your husband?” Lake asked. “Did the clinic freeze any of your embryos?”

“There were extra embryos-plenty of them-but Brian wouldn’t give me permission to use them. He found someone else. So the last thing he wanted was a baby with me.”

Lake bit her lip, thinking. She needed to nail down Alexis’s specific complaint.

“When you told Archer’s office that the clinic was exploiting people, did you mean because they pushed you to have treatments that had little chance of working?”

Alexis eyed her guardedly. The wariness was back.

“Partly,” she answered.

“Was there anything else? Did they ever-um-overcharge you, for instance?”

Alexis stared at Lake quietly for a moment, her whole body still.

“I’ve shared an awful lot of information with you,” Alexis said finally. “And I don’t have anything else to tell you.”

Then she shot up from her chair, indicating that it was time for Lake to leave.

“But I want to help,” Lake said, rising too. “I really do.”

“You say you want to help, but you refuse to tell me your real agenda,” Alexis said, marching out of the living room with Lake in tow.

Lake started to protest, but she could see that it was hopeless. Alexis had said all she was going to say. When they reached the front door, Alexis swung it open.

“Have a nice evening,” Alexis said flatly as Lake stepped into the hall.

“Thank you for seeing me. I just wish I knew-”

Alexis flashed the tight fake smile again.

“As the French say, ‘Cherchez la femme.’”

And then she shut the door in Lake’s face.