Hush

17

CHERCHEZ LA FEMME.

Translation: Look for the woman. What had Alexis meant by that? In old detective novels the phrase was uttered to suggest that a woman was the root of the trouble, but Lake doubted Alexis had used the cliché literally. Rather, the remark seemed to be her cryptic way of saying there was something else, a secret she hadn’t been willing to divulge. As Lake rode down in the elevator, she let her body sag against one of the walls. She’d been within arm’s reach of that secret but Alexis hadn’t trusted her enough to share it. Lake would have to look at Alexis’s file for a clue.

It was nearly dusk when the cab let her off in front of her apartment building, the time of day she’d always loved best in summer. Tonight, though, it filled her with dread. She’d have to go to bed soon, and potentially face the mystery doorbell ringer again. Before stepping into her building, she looked quickly up and down the block. The only people in sight were two preteen boys whipping a wiffle ball back and forth in front of the building next door.

“Is everything okay, Mrs. Warren?” Bob the doorman asked her as she stepped into the lobby. He must have seen her glance furtively down the street.

“Yes, thanks, Bob,” she said. “I’m just a little nervous about what’s happening. You know, the murder of the doctor I worked with.”

“But is everything okay with the police?” he said.

Great, she thought. All she needed was for Bob to mention the police visit to Jack.

“Oh, they were just interviewing everyone who works at the clinic. For background. It’s all very routine.”

Bob stared at her, his face pinched. He drew a small business card out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

“They were here again today,” he said solemnly.

Lake forced a smile as she reached for the card.

“Oh, it’s just a follow-up visit,” she said. “They just need to learn everything they can about the doctor… Well, have a good night.”

Hurrying to the elevator, she stole a look at the card. It was McCarty’s business card, with a cell phone number listed. In ballpoint pen he had scribbled, “Please give me a call.”

Is this how they get you to confess? she thought as she rode to her floor. They show up at your home again and again, asking bewildering questions that leave you feeling as if you’re about to blow. Or, she wondered, was there some new development-something linking her to Keaton? Suddenly she could barely breathe.

As soon as she had locked the door to her apartment and dragged the hall table back against it, she poured a large glass of white wine. She took two huge swigs before punching McCarty’s number into her BlackBerry.

She got his voice mail. Natch, she thought, part of the torture. Let her simmer in her own terror until he finally called her back.

She wanted more wine but she didn’t dare-it was critical to keep her wits about her. After microwaving one of the frozen mac-and-cheese dinners she kept around for the kids, she carried it to her office and opened her laptop to the PowerPoint presentation. It needed more work and she was running out of time. But after skimming the first page a few times, she realized she was too frazzled to concentrate.

By the time McCarty called back, twenty minutes later, Lake was walking in circles around her office.

“Lake Warren?” he asked. Her name sounded foreign when he said it, as if he were inquiring about a complete stranger.

“Yes,” she answered nervously.

“This is Detective McCarty. I take it your doorman told you we dropped by?” There was a sudden surge of traffic sounds behind him. He might actually be in her neighborhood, she realized, coiled and waiting for the chance to come by.

“Yes. He did. I’m sorry I missed you.”

He said nothing back.

“Um, how can I help you?” she asked.

“We were wondering if you thought about what we discussed.”

What the hell was he talking about? Was he implying that they were waiting for her to come clean about something?

“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said haltingly.

“Now that you’ve had a chance to think, do you recall seeing anyone go into Ms. Donohue’s drawer.” The volume of his voice dropped as if he were glancing down and reading something.

She checked her relief. This might be a trap, she told herself.

“Uh, no, I didn’t. I work in a small conference room in the back and I’m rarely near Maggie’s desk.”

There was a long pause. She pressed her lips together tightly, commanding herself not to fill the silence.

“All righty, then,” he said finally. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

“You’re welcome. I-I’m happy to help.”

“Great. I’m sure we will be back in touch.”

As she ended the call, she felt tempted to hurl her BlackBerry. What had his last comment meant? Did they definitely have her in their sights as a suspect?

She barely slept that night. Her body seemed gripped with tension and her throat ached again. At around three, as she tossed back and forth in her tangled sheets, she realized that she’d neglected to fax the kids earlier. The thought of Amy lying in her bunk bed sad and worrying made Lake’s heart ache.

It was drizzling outside when she dragged herself out of bed at six the next morning. Her sore throat seemed slightly improved but her heart had begun to race at the mere thought of the espionage mission ahead. She’d been so cavalier with Archer, jauntily agreeing to his suggestions, but now, as the time approached, she was nervous as hell.

She made coffee and noticed the message light blinking on the kitchen phone. She’d never checked when she’d returned home yesterday. The first call was from Molly, asking if she’d like to grab lunch today. The other was from Jack, saying he needed to talk to her. Go away, she wanted to scream at him.

She waited until ten to hail a cab to the clinic. The smartest approach, she knew, was to try to search through the files when everyone was preoccupied with patients. If she was lucky, she might even be able to avoid Brie altogether.

But she wasn’t lucky. After passing through the packed reception area, filled today with men, too-their sober faces made her think of soldiers being shipped off to war-she immediately came face-to-face with Brie outside her small work alcove. She was wearing crisp white pants and a long-sleeved white shirt, and with her cropped red hair she looked to Lake like a giant matchstick.

“Morning, Brie,” Lake said, trying to keep their exchange light.

“Can I help you?” Brie asked flatly, as if Lake were a stranger who’d pulled up alongside her to ask directions.

“No, I’m just dotting the i’s in my research. There are a few more things I need to read through.”

“Really?” Brie said in mock surprise. “I would have thought you’d be done with that part by now. I mean, your presentation’s tomorrow.”

“I guess I’m just a stickler for detail.” Lake knew sarcasm wasn’t the best approach with Brie, but she hadn’t been able to resist.

From there she threaded the maze of hushed corridors toward the small conference room. All the office and exam room doors were closed again today; behind some of them she could hear murmuring voices. She nearly jumped when Dr. Sherman emerged from one, closing the door quickly behind him. He nodded distractedly at Lake, his face flushed. She watched as he hurried down the hall and slipped into the lab.

In the conference room she dumped her purse and tote bag onto the table. For a moment she just stood there, deliberating. There was no reason to wait, she realized. She had to do it now. She took a pad and a pen with her in case she needed to write anything down.

As she turned the last corner toward the file room she nearly collided with Harry Kline.

“Oh, hey,” he said genially. “How goes it?”

“Fine,” she said as pleasantly as she could summon. She was still pretty sure he was the one who’d ratted her out to the cops-telling them that she’d seemed upset since the murder-and she had no interest in spending any time with him.

“I hear you’re doing your presentation tomorrow.”

“Yup. I’m just here to pick up a couple of files. Nice to see you.”

She could sense him following her with his eyes as she walked away. Just wait, she thought-he’d probably tattle to the cops that she was guilty of failing to engage in idle chitchat.

To her relief, no one was in the storage room-or in the kitchenette catty-corner to it. She had decided in advance that if someone came in after her, it would seem odd for the door to be shut all the way. So she shut it halfway and then dragged a small stepladder behind it. That way if someone pushed the door open further, she’d have a little warning.

She moved to the wall of patient files. Taking a stab at where the H’s might be, she pulled open a middle drawer. On the tabs of the hanging files were last names beginning with J and K. She slid the drawer shut and pulled open the one just to the left of it. The first name she spotted was Havers-this was where she needed to be. She flicked quickly through the row of hanging files. There it was: Hunt, Alexis and Brian. She pulled the file from the drawer.

It bulged with papers. She skimmed quickly through them-test results, more test results, details of the procedures performed, including the IVFs. With her limited knowledge, it was impossible to know if some of the procedures had been unnecessary. Alexis’s situation had been complicated and she may have truly needed all of it. Despite what Alexis had told her about having plenty of frozen embryos on reserve, it appeared only two were banked.

Lake laid the file on top of the open drawer, withdrew another file at random and flipped through the contents. It wasn’t as full as the Hunt folder but just as impossible to interpret. She realized that the only way to tell if something was wrong would be to photocopy some of the pages and get the objective opinion of another doctor. But the photocopy machine was adjacent to Brie’s alcove and she couldn’t risk it.

What if she could talk to other patients? she wondered. If something were going on, Alexis probably wasn’t the only disgruntled person out there. She thought of the woman she’d seen Rory comfort-the one she’d discussed with Harry Kline. Though Harry hadn’t mentioned the name, she’d heard Rory say it. Mrs. Kastner. Lake slipped the Hunt file back in its place, and after checking quickly behind her, pulled open the drawer to the right. There was a file for Sydney and Ryan Kastner, and it was even thicker than the Hunts’. As Harry had revealed, Sydney had undergone eight rounds of IVF. The most recent IVF had resulted in ten embryos-with three being transferred-but no pregnancy had resulted.

Eight did seem excessive. Maybe Sydney had been encouraged to do too many, pressed like Alexis to continue with the process despite the fact that it wasn’t working.

Considering how distraught she’d seemed, she might be open to talking. Lake flipped back to the front of the folder, to the basic information form patients filled out before their initial consultation. The address listed was on East End Avenue. As Lake finished jotting it down, along with the various phone numbers, her eye caught something odd. Next to each name, in pencil, was a series of letters: Rb next to Sydney’s, BRbr, by her husband’s. Lake had no idea what they could mean.

Lost in thought, it took her a moment to hear the alert being signaled in another part of her brain. Her head snapped up. There were soft footsteps on the carpet in the hall. Someone was headed toward the storage room.

She clapped the file shut and crammed it into the drawer. She had just slid the drawer shut and stuffed the paper with the numbers into her pocket when she heard the door knock against the stepladder. Slowly she turned, trying not to seem startled. To her utter dismay, Brie was standing in the doorway.

“What are you doing?” Brie asked roughly.

“What am I doing?” Lake asked, trying to sound mildly indignant. “As I told you, I still have a bit more research to take care of.”

“But those are patient charts in there,” Brie said.

Lake turned around and pulled her upper body back, as if scrutinizing the drawers in front of her.

“Oh, right,” she said. She crossed the room, let her eyes roam for a moment and then pulled open the drawer with the press clippings. The whole time she could sense Brie’s eyes boring into her.

“What’s going on with the stepladder?” Brie asked.

“Excuse me?” Lake said, tugging a press file from the drawer. She turned and faced Brie again.

“Why was the stepladder against the door?”

Lake glanced casually in that direction.

“It was in the middle of the room,” she replied. “I just moved it out of the way.”

Brie didn’t say anything. She just stood there, watching, as Lake walked past her out of the storage room.

Lake’s heart was still pounding as she reached the small conference room. She’d played indignant with Brie, but she doubted she’d deceived her. And to make matters worse, Lake had left evidence behind. If Brie opened the drawer Lake had been standing in front of and saw the Kastner file stuffed haphazardly in the wrong spot, she’d realize that Lake had been rooting through there-and clearly on a mission.

Lake knew that the best move she could make now was to just get out of the clinic. She grabbed her bags, leaving the press file on the table as she fled.

Out on Park Avenue, she hurried north along the wet, glistening sidewalk. She would catch the crosstown bus on Eighty-sixth Street and escape to her apartment. It had stopped raining and people were out again-nannies pushing strollers; thin women toting yoga mats and shopping bags; doormen lolling in front of redbrick apartment buildings. How could everything seem so sane, she wondered, when her own world was a nightmare? By now Brie had probably figured out that Lake had been checking out a patient chart. And she had more than likely squealed to Levin. If asked, Lake would have to say that she had grabbed a file before realizing she was in the wrong drawer and hastily stuffed it back in-as unconvincing as that sounded.

The irony of her busted spy mission was that she had absolutely nothing to show for it, though it had given her the idea of reaching out to Sydney Kastner. Without allowing herself time to deliberate, she dug her BlackBerry from her purse and called Sydney Kastner’s cell number. She was greeted by a soft hello.

“Ms. Kastner?”

“Yes?”

“Good morning. My name is Lake Warren. I’m a consultant with the Advanced Fertility Center and I’m trying to touch base with some of the patients-for, um, background research. I’d be so grateful if we could meet for a few minutes to talk.”

“Meet? What about?” she said. She sounded hesitant but not put out.

“I’d like to learn your impressions of the clinic-what your experience has been like.”

“Are you doing some kind of opinion poll?”

“No-not exactly. We just want to better serve patients in the future. And present the clinic in the right way to the public.”

“Hmm, well, my husband and I are going away for ten days, but I could do it when I get back, I guess.”

Lake’s body tensed. She had to see her before she left.

“Is there any chance you could squeeze me in today? I’d love to complete my report this week.”

“I suppose you could come by my shop at six tonight. I have plans after work, but I could talk for a minute after I close the store.”

“Perfect,” Lake said, relieved. “I really appreciate you finding the time.”

“Not a problem. You see, there is something I’d like to tell you. Do you need directions?”

Lake’s heart skipped as she scribbled down the shop’s address. Don’t get too excited, she warned herself. But she couldn’t help but wonder if she would hear a revelation that could help her.

As soon as she hung up, she emailed Kit Archer. “Nothing to report yet but still looking.”

She’d no sooner dumped her BlackBerry in her purse when it rang. She dug nervously for it again, wondering if Levin had been briefed by Brie and was tracking her down. But the screen showed it was Molly calling.

“Did you get my message about lunch?” Molly asked. “I feel like I haven’t talked to you in days.”

“I’m sorry,” Lake said. “I’ve just been so busy…finishing my presentation.”

“Can you meet today? I bet you need a break.”

A small part of her longed to say yes, just to have human contact unrelated to the clinic. But she dreaded the idea of having to fake chitchat and pretend that her life was perfectly normal.

“How about a rain check? I’ve just got so much to do.”

“Are you sure? What if I told you I have some interesting gossip about your old pal, Dr. Keaton?”

“What do you mean?” Lake said carefully.

“Just a little something I picked up from another friend; I think you’ll be intrigued. And I’m right in your neighborhood.”

“The West Side?”

“No, the Upper East Side. Aren’t you working for that fertility clinic on Park Avenue? I’m at a restaurant off Madison, near Sixty-second.”

“Um, okay,” Lake said. “I guess I could do a quick lunch.” She had to find out what Molly was talking about.

The restaurant was a French café twenty or so blocks south, so Lake decided it would be easiest to walk. The whole way there she fretted about what the “gossip” was. Had Molly heard something about the police investigation?

Molly was sitting just inside the café, beside the open floor-to-ceiling windows. She was dressed in a sleeveless celadon-colored dress that flattered both her coloring and her well-toned body, and her thick red hair was half up, half down. She looked stunning but also happy, as if life today was especially delicious.

“Great dress,” Lake said as she slid into her chair.

“Thanks. You, of course, can wear anything. There are three colors that go with my hair and I have to work them to death.”

All Lake wanted was to pump Molly for the news about Keaton, but she held back. Molly had a nose for trouble, and Lake knew that if she appeared overeager, it would only arouse suspicion.

“Was it nice to be in the Catskills again?” Molly asked, fiddling with a slice of baguette but not eating it.

Lake didn’t dare say a word about Smokey. Molly would begin probing, asking all sorts of questions.

“No, not so great,” Lake said. “It’s going to take some getting used to-being in a house I once shared with someone else.”

“Speaking of Jack, he hasn’t dropped by again, has he?”

“No-thank God.” She was getting tired of always having to provide Molly with a Jack Warren status report.

A few minutes later, after their salads had been ordered, Molly twitched in her chair, signaling she was ready to dish.

“Sooo? Don’t you want to hear my news?” she asked.

“News?”

“About Mark Keaton. Don’t be coy. That’s how I got you here.”

“Do tell, then,” Lake said. She could hear how stilted her voice sounded.

Molly wetted her full lips and then pursed them together. Damn, don’t make me beg for it, Lake thought.

“Do you remember me mentioning a woman named Gretchen Spencer? She’s a stylist I’ve known for years. We both worked at Harper’s Bazaar and went freelance around the same time.”

“I think I do,” Lake said. Just tell me, she felt like screaming.

“Well, she apparently spent the entire weekend with the good doctor two weeks before he was murdered.”