Hush (18 page)

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.”

LAKE FELT A
rush of shame. Yes, she’d suspected Keaton was a total player, but she’d also allowed herself to believe that he’d seduced her because she was special and intriguing, not just another warm body to explore on a boring weeknight. How stupid and naïve of her, she thought.

“
Interesting
,” Lake said. She widened her eyes, playing the voyeur.

“Of course, needless to say, Gretchen is in a total tizzy about the whole thing,” Molly said. “She was even grilled by the police.”

“
Really?
How did that go?” Lake asked.

“Not very pretty. At first she figured they were just talking to everyone who knew him. But they actually asked her if she’d been
with
him that night.”

It was no surprise that the cops had concluded Keaton had been with a woman right before he died. She’d known evidence
would have pointed them in that direction. But Molly’s words were verification.

“So is this Gretchen woman a suspect?” Lake asked, trying to keep her voice gossipy.

“No. She has the proverbial airtight alibi. Besides, Keaton had more or less dumped her by then—which completely chapped her ass. They’d had a few dates and a hot weekend in Saratoga, and then nada. He didn’t even return calls from her. The next thing you know, she sees his picture splashed across the
Post
.”

“Saratoga?” Lake asked.

“Yup. They stayed at one of those fabulous turn-of-the-century hotels. I hate to tell you this, Lake, but Gretchen claimed he fucked like someone who should have taught a master class, so it’s a shame you missed out on that. Though considering the way things turned out, it’s probably best you did.”

Lake couldn’t bear any more of this, so she pretended to lose interest and awkwardly changed the subject. For the rest of the meal, as they discussed Molly’s work and her upcoming trip, she had to force herself to smile, to talk, to eat. When she reached for her purse, Molly insisted on picking up the check since she’d been the one who’d suggested lunch.

Out on the sidewalk they hugged goodbye.

“You’re not in love, are you?” Lake asked, gazing at Molly’s face.

“No—why do you say that?”

“You’re glowing. And I’ve been wondering about your mystery dinner party.”

“What dinner party?”

“The one you were picking up food for when we talked last weekend.”

“Oh, that was just for an old friend.” She glanced at her watch. “I better dash—I’m prepping for a shoot tomorrow. Take care, okay?”

“You too.”

“And, Lake, try to make some time just for yourself, will you? I know things are crazy right now, especially with the custody case—but you look exhausted. I’ve never seen you like this.”

It felt like a slap in the face

“Thanks for the
concern
,” Lake said, with a hint of sarcasm.

“I’m just worried, that’s all. You’re clearly under a lot of strain.”

“Okay, thanks,” she said, softening. “I’ll talk to you later.”

In the cab home Lake wondered if she was being overly sensitive about Molly, who was just being her typically blunt self. And yet Lake was sure she detected a snide tone in some of Molly’s comments today, suggesting some subterranean resentment. Perhaps Molly was annoyed because Lake had been so unavailable lately. As she replayed the conversation in her mind, her phone rang. To her chagrin, she saw it was Jack.

“Didn’t you get my message?” he asked brusquely.

“No,” she lied.

“Since I couldn’t make parents’ day, the camp director said I could stop by one afternoon this week. Will wants me to bring a few books—that sci-fi series he’s reading.”

“I take it something came up,” Lake said.

“If you must know, I had a work emergency.”

Or, she thought, he raced back to the city after shaving the fur off Smokey, loath to come face-to-face with her.

“Are you still there?” he demanded when she gave no reply.

“Yes. But I’m not understanding what you need from me.”

“I need to get the
books
—they’re on Will’s bookshelf. He hasn’t read the last two in the series.”

“All right,” she said, cringing at the thought of seeing Jack. “I have to be somewhere at six. Why don’t you meet me in the lobby at five-thirty.”

“That’s not the best time for me.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s the only time I have today.”

He accepted with an irritated sigh.

As soon as she was back in her apartment, she opened her laptop and pulled up what she had so far in her PowerPoint presentation. To her relief, her recommendations seemed stronger now that they were in a kick-butt font against a color background. Over the past day she’d toyed with the idea of suggesting that Levin become the public face of the clinic and be used more on television, so she added a slide spelling out the concept. That, she figured, should at least earn her points with his ego.

It took all of her effort to focus on adding the finishing touches. Her thoughts were constantly jolted back to her conversation with Molly and to the news about the investigation. Lake kept picturing McCarty and that pit bull Hull staring at the report from the forensic lab and wondering who’d been in bed with Keaton. If they discovered it was her, how could she ever prove she hadn’t murdered him?

But something else from the conversation gnawed at her—the part about Keaton having sex with that woman, Gretchen. Was it the idea of having been just another lay to Keaton? Yes. But it was more than that: the trip to Saratoga Molly had alluded to. People went to Saratoga in August to see the thoroughbred racing. And to bet on the horses. Perhaps Keaton really
did
have a gambling problem. As suspicious as Lake now was about the clinic, Keaton’s gambling issues might still be the reason he was dead. And that could mean some nasty mob type coming after her.

At four-thirty, her brain fried, she gave up on the presentation and faxed the kids. She wrote long notes this time, to make up for forgetting yesterday, and added little poems and cartoons. When she finished, it was almost time to leave for the meeting with Sydney Kastner—and then for drinks at Steve’s. Of course, first there would be the encounter with Jack, which she dreaded.
Before heading to the lobby, she went to Will’s bookshelf and grabbed the last two books in the sci-fi series.

Jack was ten minutes late, which was typical. When he finally arrived, without apology, she rose from the cushioned bench in the lobby and handed him a small shopping bag with the books inside. He rifled through the bag, inspecting the contents.

“Wait,” he said. “One of these is wrong.” He rattled off the name of a different book.

“You told me the last two books in the series.”

“If I did, I was wrong.”

As she met his hazel eyes staring back at her, she felt nothing but disgust. I don’t love him anymore, she thought. Not even the tiniest bit.

“Okay, please watch my things,” she said, plucking her keys from her purse. When she returned minutes later, she thrust the book in his hand, grabbed her purse, and left Jack without saying goodbye.

Sydney Kastner’s shop was on York Avenue, on the other side of Manhattan, and in rush-hour traffic the taxi only managed to crawl in that direction. On East Eighty-sixth Street the cab came to a complete halt, caught in an obnoxious knot of cars. When the driver laid on his horn for the tenth time, Lake felt like bounding from the backseat and running the rest of the way. If she missed Sydney, it would be days before she could learn what she had to share. Finally they began to move and she arrived at the shop ten minutes after six.

It was the tiniest of florist shops but totally charming, the window filled not only with plants and flowers, but quirky garden knickknacks. As she stepped in closer, Lake saw to her dismay that it was dark inside. Damn, she thought, I’ve missed her. Anxiously she pressed the bell. To her relief a few seconds later she heard footsteps make their way to the front.

She almost didn’t recognize Sydney Kastner. In place of the drawn and rattled woman she’d seen Rory console the other day was a calm, ethereal-looking creature. She was wearing a pale-blue sundress and her reddish-blond hair was worn loose now, with just the front part pulled from her face with a dainty barrette.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Lake said as Sydney ushered her into the store and locked the door behind her.

“I just don’t have much time, unfortunately,” Sydney said. She studied Lake’s face for a moment. “You were there the other day, weren’t you? When I was having my meltdown.”

“Yes. And I totally understand.”

“Would you like to sit for a second?” Sydney gestured toward two wrought-iron garden chairs close to the cash register.

“Thank you,” Lake said. “What an enchanting store.”

“It’s pretty much a labor of love. I barely cover my overhead, but I adore it. Ironic, isn’t it? I’m all about making one’s garden grow, but I can’t produce a baby.”

“You’ve had quite a few rounds of IVF. That must be very draining.”

“Yes. The drugs have been nearly unbearable. The funny thing is that unlike some women, I usually have no trouble producing viable eggs and embryos. They just don’t implant.”

“But since you have extra embryos, you won’t have to be subjected to the drugs for the next round.”

Sydney tilted her pretty face and eyed Lake quizzically.

“I don’t know who told you that. I don’t have any extra embryos. They implanted all three that were produced this time.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lake said awkwardly. That was odd, she thought. She was sure the chart had indicated ten embryos had been harvested.

“Besides,” Sydney said. “There isn’t going to be a next time. That’s the thing I wanted to tell you.”

Lake paused, considering the news. “Why? Have you decided to try another clinic?” she asked.

“Actually, my husband and I have decided to adopt,” Sydney said, smiling. “I haven’t even told Dr. Levin yet.”

“That’s wonderful,” Lake said. “Congratulations.”

“Deep down I think I’ve always
wanted
to adopt. My younger brother is adopted and I completely adore him.”

Lake felt a rush of joy for the woman followed by a surge of disappointment. So
this
was the revelation Sydney had hinted at on the phone? Lake had hoped for so much more to help her case.

“In hindsight, how do you feel about the clinic? Were you satisfied?”

“Yes…. Yes, I was.”

Lake sensed reluctance in the answer, like an undertow. Maybe there
is
something else, she told herself.

“Did—did you ever feel pressured to keep going?”

Sydney lifted her pale, freckled shoulders as if she had something to say but didn’t know how. Here it comes, Lake thought.

“No, never,” she said, shaking her head. “Initially I wanted to do whatever it took to get pregnant. If I seem hesitant it’s only because the experience turned out to be worse than I imagined—not the clinic per se. Like I said, I hated the drugs. And I despised feeling so desperate and going to those awful support groups. When someone in the group would get pregnant, the rest of us would want to howl like wounded animals.”

“So there was nothing about the clinic that troubled you?” Lake asked. She had to force herself not to look crushed. “Something you wish they’d done differently?”

“Why do you keep asking that? I thought you work for them.”

“I do,” Lake said brightly. “But part of growing and improving is hearing honest criticism.”

“That’s smart, I guess.” Sydney glanced at her watch. “Look, I
really do have to dash. I can’t say I’m sorry never to be going back to the clinic, but I wish everyone there the best. They do good work.”

Sydney stood up and grabbed a purse from near the cash register and began guiding Lake back to the door.

“What finally made you decide to pursue adoption?” Lake asked. She was grasping at straws, she knew.

“It sounds crazy,” Sydney said. “But it was that doctor’s murder. Dr. Keaton.”

It was chilling to hear his name spoken here in this quiet little shop.

“But what…I don’t understand. How could that influence you?” Lake asked.

“I was Levin’s patient but Keaton came in on the day I was having my last procedure. I told him that if it didn’t work, I was thinking about bagging the whole thing. He surprised me by saying that would be okay, that sometimes we just know in our guts what the right thing to do is. Right after I found out I wasn’t pregnant, I heard he was murdered. I just took it as some kind of weird sign.”

Lake fumbled for a response but none came. Instead she thanked Sydney for her time and wished her luck with the adoption pursuit. As she hurried down the sidewalk, she could hear the shop’s steel security gate lowering with a rackety clang.

She hailed a cab going west.
Now
what? she wondered despondently. There had been no big revelation from Sydney. And yet there’d been that odd discrepancy. Her chart had said ten viable embryos had been produced, whereas Sydney Kastner thought there were only three. Levin may have lied to her so that she’d agree to another round of ovulation-stimulating drugs, ratcheting up her bill. It was certainly a possibility, but Lake wondered how she’d ever prove it.

The last thing she wanted to do right now was to have a drink
with Hilary and Steve. And yet she knew that it would be good to see Steve away from work. He had the inside track there and maybe she could get him to talk about the clinic and see if he inadvertently revealed something worth knowing.

She’d been to their apartment just once before, when Sonia, Steve’s sister, had been in town several years ago. It was all the way back on the West Side, in one of the luxury high-rises just north of Lincoln Center. Tonight when Hilary greeted her at the apartment door and Lake stepped inside she saw that “fixed it up” had been a gross understatement. The rooms had been reconfigured and redecorated within an inch of their lives. The furniture was sleek and modern—lots of white leather—and the walls displayed huge abstract paintings with designs that seemed to actually throb.

“Wow, you’ve done an amazing job,” Lake said.