There was no car in the driveway of Meghan’s house. He cruised along the curving road to the cul-de-sac, then turned around. The kid and his dog were nowhere in sight. That was good. He didn’t want to be noticed.
He drove past Meghan’s house again. He couldn’t hang around here.
He drove past the Drumdoe Inn. Wait a minute, he thought. This is the place her mother owns. He’d read that in the paper yesterday. In an instant he’d made a U-turn and driven into the parking lot. There’s got to be a bar, he thought. Maybe I can have a beer and even order a sandwich.
Suppose Meghan was there. He’d tell her the same story he told the others, that he was working for a local cable station in Elmira. There was no reason she shouldn’t believe him.
The inn’s lobby was medium size and had paneled walls and blue-and-red checked carpeting. There was no one behind the desk. To the right, he could see a few people in the dining room and busboys clearing tables. Well, lunch hour was pretty well over, he thought. The bar was to the left. He could see that it was empty, except for the bartender. He went to the bar, sat on one of the stools, ordered a beer and asked for the menu.
After he decided on a hamburger he started talking to the bartender. “This is a nice place.”
“Sure is,” the bartender agreed.
The guy had a name tag that read “Joe”; he looked to be about fifty. The local newspaper was on the back bar. Bernie pointed to it.
“I read yesterday’s paper. Looks like the family that owns this place has a lot of problems.”
“They sure do,” Joe agreed. “Damn shame. Mrs. Collins is the nicest woman you’d ever want to know and her daughter, Meg, is a doll.”
Two men came in and sat at the end of the bar. Joe filled their orders, then stayed talking with them. Bernie looked around as he finished his hamburger and beer. The back windows looked out over the parking lot. Beyond that was a wooded area that extended behind the Collins house.
Bernie had an interesting thought. If he drove here at night he could park in the lot with the cars from the dinner crowd and slip into the woods. Maybe from there he could take pictures of Meghan in her house. He had a zoom lens. It should be easy.
Before he left he asked Joe if they had valet parking.
“Just on Friday and Saturday nights,” Joe told him.
Bernie nodded. He decided that he’d be back Sunday night.
Meghan left Stephanie Petrovic at two o’clock. At the door she said, “I’ll keep in touch with you and I want to know when you’re going to the hospital. It’s tough to have your first baby without anyone close to you around.”
“I’m getting scared about it,” Stephanie admitted. “My mother had a hard time when I was born. I just want it over with.”
The image of the troubled young face stayed with Meghan. Why was Stephanie so adamant about not trying to get child support from the father? Of course if she was determined to give the baby up for adoption, it was probably a moot point.
There was another stop Meghan wanted to make before she started home. Trenton was not far from Lawrenceville, and Helene Petrovic had worked there as a secretary in the Dowling Center, an assisted reproduction facility. Maybe somebody there would remember the woman, although she’d left the place for the Manning Clinic six years ago. Meghan was determined to find out more about her.
* * *
The Dowling Assisted Reproduction Center was in a small building connected to Valley Memorial Hospital. The reception room held only a desk and one chair. Clearly this place was not on the scale of the Manning Clinic.
Meghan did not show her PCD identification. She was not here as a reporter. When she told the receptionist she wanted to speak to someone about Helene Petrovic, the woman’s face changed. “We have nothing more to say on the matter. Mrs. Petrovic worked here as a secretary for three years. She never was involved in any medical procedures.”
“I believe that,” Meghan said. “But my father is being held responsible for placing her at the Manning Clinic. I need to speak to someone who knew her well. I need to know if my father’s firm ever requested a reference for her.”
The woman looked hesitant.
“Please,” Meghan said quietly.
“I’ll see if the director is available.”
The director was a handsome gray-haired woman of about fifty. When Meghan was escorted into her office, she introduced herself as Dr. Keating. “I’m a Ph.D., not a physician,” she said briskly. “I’m concerned with the business end of the center.”
She had Helene Petrovic’s file in her drawer. “The state attorney’s office in Connecticut requested a copy of this two days ago,” she commented.
“Do you mind if I take notes?” Meghan asked.
“Not at all.”
The file contained information that had been reported in the papers. On her application form to Dowling, Helene Petrovic had been truthful. She had applied for a secretarial position, giving her work background as a cosmetician and citing her recently acquired certificate from the Woods Secretarial School in New York.
“Her references checked out,” Dr. Keating said. “She made a nice appearance and had a pleasant manner. I hired her and was very satisfied with her the three years she was here.”
“When she left, did she tell you she was going to the Manning Clinic?”
“No. She said that she planned to take a job as a cosmetician in New York again. She said a friend was opening a salon. That’s why we didn’t find it surprising that we were never contacted for a reference.”
“Then you had no dealings with Collins and Carter Executive Search?”
“None at all.”
“Dr. Keating, Mrs. Petrovic managed to pull the wool over the eyes of the medical staff in the Manning Clinic. Where do you think she got the knowledge to handle cryopreserved embryos?”
Keating frowned. “As I told the Connecticut investigators, Helene was fascinated with medicine and particularly the kind that is done here, the process of assisted reproduction. She used to read the medical books when work was slow and often would visit the laboratory and observe what was going on there. I might add that she would never have been allowed to step into the laboratory alone. As a matter of fact, we never allow fewer than two qualified staff people to be present. It’s a sort of fail-safe system. I think it should be a law in every facility of this kind.”
“Then you think she picked up her medical knowledge through observation and reading?”
“It’s hard to believe that someone who had no opportunity to do hands-on work under supervision would be able to fool experts, but it’s the only explanation I have.”
“Dr. Keating, all I hear is that Helene Petrovic was very nice, well respected but a loner. Was that true here?”
“I would say so. To the best of my knowledge she never socialized with the other secretaries or anyone on this staff.”
“No male friends?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I always suspected that she was seeing someone from the hospital. Several times when she was away from her desk one of the other girls picked up her phone. They began to tease her about who was her Dr. Kildare. Apparently the message was to call an extension in the hospital.”
“You wouldn’t know which extension?”
“It was over six years ago.”
“Of course.” Meghan got up. “Dr. Keating, you’ve been so kind. May I give you my phone number just in case you remember anything that you think might be of assistance?”
Keating reached out her hand. “I know the circumstances, Miss Collins. I wish I could help.”
When she was getting into her car, Meghan studied the impressive structure that was Valley Memorial Hospital. Ten stories high, half the length of a city block, hundreds of windows from which lights were beginning to gleam in the late afternoon.
Was it possible that behind one of those windows there was a doctor who had helped Helene Petrovic to perfect her dangerous deception?
M
eghan was exiting onto Route 7 when the five o’clock news came on. She listened to the WPCD radio station bulletin: “Assistant State Attorney John Dwyer has confirmed that the car Edwin Collins was driving the night of the Tappan Zee Bridge disaster last January has been located outside the Manhattan apartment of his daughter. Ballistic tests show that Collins’ gun, found in the car, was the murder weapon that killed Helene Petrovic, the laboratory worker whose fraudulent credentials he allegedly presented to the Manning Clinic. A warrant has just been issued for Edwin Collins’ arrest on suspicion of homicide.”
38
Dr. George Manning left the clinic at five o’clock on Friday afternoon. Three new patients had canceled their appointments, so far only a half dozen or so worried parents had called to inquire about DNA tests to assure themselves that their children were their biological offspring. Dr. Manning knew that it would take only one verified case of a mix-up to cause alarm in every woman who had borne a child through treatment at the clinic. For good and sufficient reasons he dreaded the next few days.
Wearily he drove the eight miles to his home in South Kent. It was such a shame, such a damn shame, he thought. Ten years of hard work and a national reputation ruined, virtually overnight. Less than a week ago he had been celebrating the annual reunion and looking forward to retirement. On his seventieth birthday last January he had announced that he would stay at his post just one more year.
The most galling memory was that Edwin Collins had called when he read an account of the birthday celebration and retirement plans and asked if Collins and Carter could once again serve the Manning Clinic!
On Friday evening, when Dina Anderson put her three-year-old son to bed, she hugged him fiercely. “Jonathan, I think your twin isn’t going to wait till Monday to be born,” she told him.
“How’s it going, honey?” her husband asked when she went downstairs.
“Five minutes apart.”
“I’d better alert the doctor.”
“So much for Jonathan and me being on-camera, getting the room ready for Ryan.” She winced. “You’d better tell my mother to get right over, and let the doctor know I’m on my way to the hospital.”
Half an hour later, in Danbury Medical Center, Dina Anderson was being examined. “Would you believe the contractions stopped?” she asked in disgust.
“We’re going to keep you,” the obstetrician told her. “If nothing happens during the night, we’ll start an IV to induce labor in the morning. You might as well go home, Don.”
Dina pulled her husband’s face down for a kiss. “Don’t look so worried, Daddy. Oh, and will you phone Meghan Collins and alert her that Ryan will probably be around by tomorrow. She wants to be there to tape him as soon as he’s in the nursery. Be sure to bring the pictures of Jonathan as a newborn. She’s going to show them with the baby so everyone can see that they’re exactly alike. And let Dr. Manning know. He was so sweet. He called today to ask how I was doing.”
The next morning, Meghan and her cameraman, Steve, were in the lobby of the hospital, awaiting word of the delivery of Ryan. Donald Anderson had given them Jonathan’s newborn infant pictures. When the baby was in the nursery, they would be allowed to videotape him. Jonathan would be brought to the hospital by Dina’s mother, and they’d be able to take a brief shot of the family together.
With a reporter’s eye, Meghan observed the activity in the lobby. A young mother, her infant in her arms, was being wheeled to the door by a nurse. Her husband followed, struggling with suitcases and flower arrangements. From one of the bouquets floated a pink balloon inscribed, “It’s a Girl.”
An exhausted-looking couple came out of the elevator holding the hands of a four-year-old with a cast on his arm and a bandage on his head. An expectant mother crossed the lobby and entered the door marked ADMITTANCE.
Seeing these families, Meghan was reminded of Kyle. What kind of mother would walk out on a six-month-old baby?
The cameraman was studying Jonathan’s pictures. “I’ll get the same angle,” he said. “Kind of weird when you think you know exactly what the kid’s gonna look like.”
“Look,” Meghan said. “That’s Dr. Manning coming in. I wonder if he’s here because of the Andersons.”
Upstairs in the delivery room, a loud wail brought a smile to the faces of the doctors, the nurses and the Andersons. Pale and exhausted, Dina looked up at her husband and saw the shock on his face. Frantically she pulled herself up on one elbow. “Is he okay?” she cried. “Let me see him.”
“He’s fine, Dina,” the doctor said, holding up the squalling infant with the shock of bright red hair.
“That’s not Jonathan’s twin!” Dina screamed. “Whose baby have I been carrying?”
39
“It always rains on Saturday,” Kyle grumbled as he flipped from channel to channel on the television set. He was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, Jake beside him.
Mac was deep in the morning paper. “Not always,” he said absently. He glanced at his watch. It was almost noon. “Turn to Channel 3. I want to catch the news.”
“Okay.” Kyle clicked the remote. “Look, there’s Meg!”
Mac dropped the paper. “Turn up the volume.”
“You’re always telling me to turn it down.”
“Kyle!”
“Okay. Okay.”
Meg was standing in the lobby of a hospital. “There is a frightening new development in the Manning Clinic case. Following the murder of Helene Petrovic, and the discovery of her fraudulent credentials, there has been concern that the late Ms. Petrovic may have made serious mistakes in handling the cryopreserved embryos. An hour ago a baby, expected to be the clone of his three-year-old brother, was born here in Danbury Medical Center.”
Mac and Kyle watched as the camera angle widened.
“With me is Dr. Allan Neitzer, the obstetrician who just delivered Dina Anderson of a son. Doctor, will you tell us about the baby?”
“The baby is a healthy, beautiful eight-pound boy.”
“But it is not the identical twin of the Andersons’ three-year-old son?”
“No, it is not.”
“Is it Dina Anderson’s biological child?”
“Only DNA tests can establish that.”
“How long will they take?”
“Four to six weeks.”
“How are the Andersons reacting?”
“Very upset. Very worried.”
“Dr. Manning was here. He went upstairs before we could speak to him. Has he seen the Andersons?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Meghan turned to face the camera directly. “We’ll be here with this unfolding story. Back to you in the newsroom, Mike.”
“Turn it off, Kyle.”
Kyle pressed the remote button, and the screen went blank. “What did that mean?”
It means big problems, Mac thought. How many more mistakes had Helene Petrovic made at Manning? Whatever they were, no doubt Edwin Collins would be held equally responsible for them. “It’s pretty complicated, Kyle.”
“Is anything wrong for Meg?”
Mac looked into his son’s face. The sandy hair so like his own that never stayed in place was falling on his forehead. The brown eyes that he’d inherited from Ginger had lost their usual merry twinkle. Except for the color of the eyes, Kyle was a MacIntyre through and through. What would it be like, Mac wondered, to look in your son’s face and realize he might not belong to you.
He put an arm around Kyle. “Things have been rough for Meg lately. That’s why she looks worried.”
“Next to you and Jake, she’s my best friend,” Kyle said soberly.
At the mention of his name, Jake thumped his tail.
Mac smiled wryly. “I’m sure Meg will be flattered to hear it.” Not for the first time in these last few days, he wondered if his blind stupidity in not realizing his feelings for Meg had forever relegated him in her eyes to the status of friend and buddy.
/> Meghan and the cameraman sat in the lobby of Danbury Medical Center. Steve seemed to know that she did not want to talk. Neither Donald Anderson nor Dr. Manning had come downstairs.
“Look, Meg,” Steve said suddenly, “isn’t that the other Anderson kid?”
“Yes, it is. That must be the grandmother with him.”
They both jumped up, followed them across the lobby and caught them at the elevator. Meg turned on the mike. Steve began to roll tape.
“I wonder if you would speak to us for a moment,” Meghan asked the woman. “Aren’t you Dina Anderson’s mother and Jonathan’s grandmother?”
“Yes, I am.” The well-bred voice was distressed. Silver hair framed a troubled face.
By her expression, Meghan knew the woman was aware of the problem.
“Have you spoken to your daughter or son-in-law since the baby was born?”
“My son-in-law phoned me. Please. We want to get upstairs. My daughter needs me.” She stepped into the elevator, the little boy’s hand grasped tightly in her own.
Meghan did not try to detain her.
Jonathan was wearing a blue jacket that matched the blue of his eyes. His cheeks were rosy accents to his fair complexion. His hood was down, and raindrops had beaded the white-gold hair that was shaped in Buster Brown style. He smiled and waved. “Bye-bye,” he called as the elevator doors began to close.
“That’s some good-looking kid,” Steve observed.
“He’s beautiful,” Meghan agreed.
They returned to their seats. “Do you think Manning will give a statement?” Steve asked.
“If I were Dr. Manning, I’d be talking to my lawyers.” And Collins and Carter Executive Search will need their lawyers too, she thought.
Meghan’s beeper sounded. She pulled out her cellular phone, called the news desk and was told that Tom Weicker wanted to talk to her. “If Tom’s in on Saturday, something’s up,” she murmured.
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