False Conception Page 6

  Her voice lowered to a comforting hum. “I know what you mean. It’s difficult and it’s lonely and it stays that way a long time.”

  “But it gets better eventually?”

  “Better, yes. Perfect, no.”

  “Are you and your husband still friends? I think it would help if Marie and I could be friendly. If I knew why she did what she did.”

  Her face darkened and her lips paled. “I have no interest in a friendship with my ex-husband.” It was as definite as Newton’s law.

  I shook my head. “I don’t seem to be able to put my troubles behind me. How did you manage?”

  “I ran away from them,” she said without thinking.

  She looked at me until I squirmed, clearly intent on seeing if I was not what I seemed but rather a mercenary from the past who had been put on her trail to reclaim her. Much as I wanted to probe the issue, I didn’t think I could do it without scaring her off. Since I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t do anything.

  The talk of her troubles had scratched old wounds and she didn’t like the sensation. “I have to serve dinner now,” she announced firmly, the light out of her eyes and the warmth out of her voice. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go.”

  I hung my head and looked contrite. “I’m sorry I imposed. I appreciate the time.”

  “You’re welcome. I hope you find a nice place.”

  “Thanks.” I shifted from foot to foot to highlight my embarrassment. “This is awful, I know, but would you mind if I used your bathroom? I’ve had so much coffee, I’m floating—seems like the only place I could find to sit down was a coffee shop, and I hate to loiter without ordering anything.”

  “I’ve had days like that,” she said, and pointed. “First door on the right down the hall.”

  I followed her directions, then closed the door behind me. After a suitable moment for nature’s call, I turned on the water in the basin and began a hasty search of the drawers and cabinets.

  It was a small room, and I looked everywhere there was to look, but all I learned was that her soap was Dove and shampoo was Breck and toothpaste was Crest and deodorant was Sure. She flossed, she gargled, she enameled her nails; she curled her hair and painted her lips; she put something on her flesh called Rainbath Moisturizing Body Mist and something else called an Apricot Facial Scrub. Her only drugs of choice were Excedrin PM, Anacin III, and Actifed—nothing that required a prescription.

  When I’d finished with the bathroom I peeked in the kitchen. “Good night, Ms. Hammond. And thanks again.” Then I hemmed and hawed. “I’ll probably hang around that Yancy place till around eight or so, if you want to join me for a drink after dinner. I certainly owe you one, for all the help you gave me.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think so,” she said quickly, then met my eye for a moment longer than was necessary. “Maybe another time.”

  “I’ll be there till eight all the same, in case you change your mind.” I waved and took my leave, the sharp sting of sauerkraut finally erasing the lingering stench of the day before.

  I stayed at Yancy’s till nine, but Greta Hammond never showed up. For some reason, I thought she might, and for another reason, I hoped she would. There was something about her that stirred me, one of those subtle pinpricks that, without your knowing it until after the established fact, swells and heats and itches until it feels a lot like love.

  CHAPTER 8

  I spent the next morning thinking about Greta Hammond and deciding whether I should give her my seal of approval, or whether there was a reason to do other than tell the truth as I saw it. I’ve come across such reasons more often than you might imagine over the years, but this didn’t seem to be one of those times. When I’d reached a decision, I made an appointment to see Russell Jorgensen.

  By the time he could fit me in it was after six o’clock. The sun was splashing Hopperesque shadows across the pockmarked face of the city and the winds were frothing the bay like the makings of a thick meringue. As I walked into his office, Russell was gazing at the water and its environs as though he wouldn’t be happy till he owned it all.

  “I never get tired of this view,” he said as I sat down. “When I do, it’ll be time to give up the law and get into something else.”

  “Like what?”

  He shrugged. “Sail my boat to La Paz or Acapulco, maybe. You do much sailing, Marsh?”

  “None, as a matter of fact.”

  “Seems to me I’ve asked you to go out with me a time or two.”

  I nodded, although the correct number was more like a dozen.

  Russell was trying to remember a time when we’d shared a festive outing, but he couldn’t because there wasn’t one. “I guess something always came up,” he murmured.

  The something was that Russell never expended the effort to make the invitation anything other than rote. He was one of those men, a surprising number of them successful, who project social or political undertakings without the slightest intention of consummation. It’s frustrating, until you’ve been around them often enough to peg them for what they are and to learn that where you fit in their pantheon is somewhere near the bottom.

  “Sailing’s a nice combination of tranquility and terror,” Russell was saying. “Gives the old motor a pretty good tune-up, over time.”

  “Tune-ups like that are too pricey for me,” I said. “Luckily, I can get the same mix by walking around my block.”

  Russell laughed. “We really are going backward, aren’t we? Everyday life is becoming as perilous as it was in the Middle Ages.” He sighed and sat down at his desk. “Sometimes I’m glad I’m sixty-two.”

  “Sounds like you had a bad day.”

  He nodded. “That’s what litigators get paid for, isn’t it? To have bad days on behalf of their clients?”

  “Is it anything you want to talk about?”

  He shook his head. “Another Colbert problem, as it happens. Not Stuart. Cynthia.”

  “Isn’t she sick or something?”

  “She’s not sick; she pigheaded. She doesn’t have an objective bone in her body, which makes it hard to reason with her. That, plus the fact that she has a mind like a steel trap.”

  “You look like her trap just snapped shut on your foot.”

  “Let’s just say we had a rather heated disagreement about ethics and morality.”

  “Yours or hers?”

  “Both.”

  “It looks like you lost the debate.”

  He shrugged. “With Cynthia, that’s the only option if you want to stay on good terms. So what’s the verdict on the surrogate, Marsh?” he segued suddenly. “Thumbs up or thumbs down?”

  I took a deep breath and said the words precisely as I’d rehearsed them an hour earlier. “The verdict is, I don’t know of any reason why Greta Hammond wouldn’t make an adequate surrogate mother for the Colberts.”

  Russell frowned. “That’s a strange way to put it, isn’t it? You don’t sound confident of your conclusion.”

  “I can’t be confident, Russell. No one can be confident in this situation.”

  “But you have to admit that’s something less than a ringing endorsement.”

  “There are a couple of things that bother me,” I admitted per my script.

  Russell stopped twirling his pencil. “Like what?”

  “For one thing, she’s supposed to have been married, and divorced, and to have had a child, but I couldn’t find evidence of any of those things.”

  “What kind of evidence did you expect?”

  “Some data in vital statistics, for one thing. Plus there wasn’t a single picture of a youngster anywhere in her apartment.”

  He blinked. “You got in to see her?”

  I nodded. “Briefly.”

  “Was that wise? I don’t think you were supposed to do that.”

  “I couldn’t see any other way to get a feel for the woman, Russell.”

  “How did you manage to meet her?”

  “I lied a little.”

/>   “That’s dangerous, isn’t it? What if you get caught?”

  I met his look. “I’m a detective. I lie better than I tell the truth.”

  He looked at me as though I’d grown a horn. “You didn’t tell her you were a detective, I hope. Sorry,” he added when he saw the expression on my face.

  Russell took some time to think about it. “Hell, Marsh; she probably got married in Reno and divorced down in Vegas. She could have had the child almost anywhere.”

  “I couldn’t find a single record of anything about her that was older than a credit problem about four years back.”

  Russell groaned as if his worst fears were about to be realized. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m not saying anything. I’m just telling you what I found and didn’t find. One more thing I found was that she told me her child was dead.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Based on my reading, I don’t think many experts would tell you that a woman whose only child was deceased was a good surrogate prospect. Psychologically speaking.”

  He thought about what I’d told him. “Are you suggesting I do something?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Then what?”

  “Actually, she seems like a nice woman. I guess my problem has less to do with her and more to do with the concept. I feel like I’ve been hired to play God and I’m not qualified for the job.”

  “You’re not playing God. The guys with the suction tubes and the petri dish are playing God. You’re just playing Casting Director. Give me a rundown of everything you did,” he went on guardedly. “So I can pass it on to Stuart. He’s the one who has to decide this thing.”

  For some reason, I found myself editing rather extensively as I abstracted my work, so it didn’t take long to run through it. “Based on all that,” I said when I’d finished my summary, “what I can say is that I found no obvious problem in signing her up as a surrogate, other than the thing with her kid. She’s a nice woman; she’s popular in the neighborhood; and she seems to like children—she’s pretty involved in the life of a little girl who lives nearby, for example. She’s got a decent job but could use some extra money. And she seems happy with her life. What else do you need to know?”

  “Does she drink, smoke, take drugs?”

  “None of the above.”

  “Does she sleep around?”

  I smiled. “I was going to try to get her to sleep with me but she wouldn’t even meet me for a drink.”

  Luckily, he didn’t think I was serious. “Is there a boyfriend?”

  “Not currently.”

  “What about the ex-husband?”

  “Out of her life, so she says.”

  It went on like that for twenty minutes more, with Russell tossing the questions and me lobbing back mostly neutral or uninformed replies. As time passed, I felt less and less comfortable with what I was doing, not on my own behalf, but on Greta Hammond’s; I felt like a Peeping Tom.

  “So I guess the bottom line is positive,” Russell announced when he’d run out of questions.

  “Let’s say it’s not negative,” I corrected. “For positive, you should talk to a shrink.”

  Russell shrugged. “The Colberts can make that decision. I’ll phone them and tell them as far as I’m concerned they can go ahead with the procedure. Last I heard, the implant is scheduled for Monday.” He looked to see if I concurred.

  I shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Russell wrinkled his nose and scowled. For some reason, it made me mad. “You look like you’re upset that I’m not taking a paternal interest in this thing. But it’s not my kid that will come out of this deal, or Greta Hammond’s, either. You want concern, talk to a Colbert.”

  Russell sighed. “Sorry, Marsh. I guess I’m still nervous about this whole business. I mean, I’ve never done anything like this before—it’s like giving the Colberts a chemistry set with a formula for making a human being. I’m not comfortable with the responsibility.”

  “Me, either,” I said truthfully.

  “But we’re only agents, right? The Colberts are the ones making the decision.”

  “Absolutely,” I said, and grinned at his embrace of my own rationale.

  Russell swore at the imprecision of existence, then shook his head and returned to the window to gaze. “You have kids, Marsh?”

  “No,”

  “Want them?”

  “Sometimes, and sometimes I think it would be a criminal offense if I brought a duplicate of me into the world. Littering, at the very least. How about you?”

  “Two. Boy and girl.”

  “And?”

  “The boy is fine. Well, not fine, but okay. In school at Santa Cruz. Plays in a band called Spit. Noise like you wouldn’t believe; lyrics make him sound suicidal. But we talk on the phone. And he comes home for Christmas. And cashes my checks. Which on the whole is better than a lot of families I know.”

  “And the girl?”

  Russell blinked and looked out the window for so long I thought he’d forgotten my question. “She’s crazy.”

  “Literally?”

  He nodded. “Bi-polar. Manic-depressive. Lives in L.A., wants to be an actress on the days she doesn’t want to be a truck driver. Refuses to speak to me for months, then speaks to me for hours on end without letting me get a word in edgewise. Her latest gambit is to tell people I abused her as a child so horribly that I made her sexually dysfunctional.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He blinked and shook his head. “Yes, well, that’s my problem, not yours. Or the Colberts’, either. I’m sure this Hammond woman will do the surrogate job just fine.”

  He wanted me to concur but I didn’t. “How good a job will the Colberts do when Greta delivers their baby?”

  Russell laughed, but the light in his eyes was cold blue. “That’s not my job, either, thank God.” He returned to the desk and sat down. “There’s one more thing you have to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “These surrogate contracts. Since there’s no legislation that validates them in California, it’s not clear how good they are—what aspects will and won’t be specifically enforced, what remedies are available in case of a breach, that kind of thing.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means we want to make damned sure this thing stays out of court. And the only way to do that is make sure Ms. Hammond performs according to the contract.”

  “And the Colberts too, of course.”

  He ignored my bow to equilibrium. “I wrote in as much in terrorem language in the agreement as I could—that a failure to perform by Ms. Hammond would constitute the intentional infliction of emotional distress, that liquidated damages of twice the amount of the surrogate fee would be appropriate, that time was of the essence in the situation so the Colberts can pursue all expedited remedies in the event of a breach to ensure that their rights are protected.”

  “Sounds like you touched all the bases.”

  “Maybe. But you can be even more helpful.”

  “How?”

  “Once the embryo has been implanted, and the fetus begins to develop, I want you to see the Hammond woman again. And this time throw the fear of God into her. Make sure she knows that if she departs from the contract in any way, or tries to contact the contracting parents during the pregnancy or at any time after the child has been born and she’s given it up, her life will become a living hell. She will be sued for damages and more than that, she’ll be hounded to the ends of the earth. Her background will be checked for every transgression more serious than a hangnail. Her boss will be told she’s a welsher and the neighbors will be told she’s a slut. Throw whatever else you can think of in there—I want this woman to be afraid to breathe unless it’s covered in the contract.”

  I was shaking my head before he had halfway finished his spiel. “This is a mother we’re talking about, right, Russell?”

  “Right.”

  “Just wanted to m
ake sure. For a moment it sounded as if you were talking about a terrorist.” I stood up and walked to the door. “I won’t do your dirty work for you, pal. You’re going to have to have that bad day all by your lonesome.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The next time I heard from Russell Jorgensen, six weeks had passed and he was talking to me over the phone. “Greetings, Marsh,” he began cheerfully.

  “Russell.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Average or below. You?”

  “Not that bad.” He waited for me to say something, presumably about the Colberts, but I didn’t. I still had a sense of foreboding about the case, a need to keep my distance, as if an inner sense was telling me that the surrogate arrangement constituted some sort of risk to me personally.

  “Well, they went ahead with the implant,” he said when I’d stayed silent too long.

  “Good for them.”

  “It took the first time—rather unusual.”

  “Great.”

  “The Colberts are thrilled. They can hardly sit still when they talk about it.”

  “I’m happy for them.”

  “Good. Because there’s one other thing they want you to do.”

  “If it’s more of the in terrorem stuff, my answer is the same as last time.”

  “Nothing like that,” Russell assured me quickly. “I apologize for even raising the subject—I was out of line.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  Russell seemed genuinely contrite. “This isn’t like that at all, Marsh—they just want you to give them an update. You know, go back and check the Hammond woman out again, make sure things are still what they looked like two months ago.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. No tough stuff, no nothing. You don’t even have to speak to her, if you don’t want to. Use your best judgment; just keep in mind the confidentiality requirement—she can’t know the Colberts are the contracting parties.”

  I thought it over. Despite my disinclination to revisit the issue, I found my professional reluctance overridden by my personal desire to see Greta Hammond again.