Chapter 3

"Sure I remember Erica Bailey," purred Dr. Swanson from where he stood, casually leaning over a high-backed chair.

He was a tall, slate-haired, dashing individual, some forty years of age, with a crinkly smile and a deep bass that soothed Lilly's somewhat rattled nerves in spite of herself. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend she liked the guy… although as soon as she opened them, this flimsy illusion was dispelled.

He seemed approachable and pleasant enough, but she couldn't like him. Maybe it was the way he glanced at her, coyly, out of the corner of his eye, as if certain she had already fallen prey to his charms. Or the despective way he had treated his receptionist on their arrival, practically ordering her to empty a room for them. And all of this in his very debonair, well-groomed voice—an asset he evidently knew how to use.

"What can you tell us about her?"

It came out sharper than she intended, and she couldn't even blame this mood on lack of sleep. Stillman had been kind enough to call it a day after dismissing Robert Feldman the evening before, and her girls hadn't been one bit of a nuisance. It was just this whole case getting on her nerves—not to mention being teamed up with Scotty again. She wanted some answers, and she wanted them now.

The good doctor shrugged his well-built shoulders beneath the white coat, dazzling them with a cultivated smile. "Nothing much. She was just a patient, one of many."

One of many? Lilly had the sudden urge to claw at his face. One of many? Although she knew full well she was supposed to be in control, she couldn't help flaring up whenever people so blatantly treated others as if they were nothing. Taking a deep breath, she began counting to ten in her mind and Scotty jumped in in the meantime.

"But this condition of hers—conjoined twins—is kind of rare, isn't it?"

"Very rare."

"So wouldn't you have liked to keep tabs on her, for research purposes?"

"Certainly, but it wasn't really up to me." Scotty was pushing his buttons and doing a good job of it, Lilly was grudgingly bound to admit. The doctor's voice, smooth as silk, was beginning to have a slightly perceptible edge to it. "Look, I don't want to sound callous, but I see dozens of pregnant women each day. Erica's condition was rare, but her ultrasound was none too clear and we couldn't be sure of the diagnosis."

"Come on, doc, tell us the truth. Did you even try to contact her?"

It was a little unnerving how Dr. Swanson never lost his suavity. "Of course I did. When she didn't show up for her appointment the following week, I asked Gemma, my receptionist, to get a hold of her. That's when we found out the address and phone number she had given were fake. It was all written into her file at the time. You're welcome to see it."

"Oh, we already have," Lilly frostily informed him, flipping the file open before his eyes. "We were hoping you could enlighten us—since you seem to remember her so well. For example, do you have a copy of this ultrasound of hers?"

"No, we don't keep the images. Just the report. Sometimes we print out pictures and give them to the family. Not when there are malformations, though. It just doesn't seem very delicate, don't you think, detective?" His slight mockery irritated her, though it shouldn't have.

"So that's what you think they were? Just malformations?"

"Look, I don't expect the two of you to understand, but ultrasounds aren't all that clear, especially at 13 weeks. What we saw was a gestational sac with one normal fetus in it, and an image suggestive of a second head. We couldn't find the rest of this second twin at the time. Could've been a conjoined twin—but it could also have been a badly deformed twin or just a normal twin hiding under its sibling. It happens sometimes. The only way to know for sure is through follow-up. But she never came back."

"Any idea of where she could've gone? Did she come alone that first time? Mention any family?"

Dr. Swanson knit his striking dark brows in thought. "No… wait. I do seem to recall someone with her—a sister, I think. Blonde girl, looked about college-age. And I have no idea where she could've gone. She wasn't one of my regular patients. As I said before—she came out of nowhere. And that's right back where she went."

"Here's the thing, doctor," Lilly spoke up, strolling over to his side in pretend friendly fashion. "We've just uncovered the dead body of two babies matching the description you gave us. Our coroner says the fractures on their skulls are consistent with the use of forceps, which, as I understand, is a tool only obstetricians can use."

"So, you see," broke in Scotty. "This puts you in kind of an awkward situation. Makes you look a little suspicious--don't you think? I mean, you use forceps, you knew about this pregnancy…"

"Think you could make a little money delivering these babies yourself? Away from the hospital environment?"

"Or maybe something went wrong and you had to hide the bodies in a hurry. Didn't want the medical community to find out you had made a boo-boo. Because you would've been a hero if you'd been able to deliver these babies, wouldn't you?" prodded Lilly, shamelessly enjoying this attempt at bringing his arrogant ass down a peg or two.

For the first time Dr. Swanson had the grace of looking a little disturbed. "You two have no idea what you're talking about," he spat disgustedly. "I never saw the woman after she showed up in my office that one time. She could have terminated the pregnancy for all I know—lots of women do, faced with the possibility of having a disabled child. And it would be incredibly dangerous to try to deliver a conjoined twin pregnancy vaginally—especially at home. I would never put my reputation at risk by attempting something crazy like that. Now, if you don't mind, I've got a lot of patients to see, so…" His message was loud and clear.

"Don't let the door hit you on your way out," Scotty muttered, holding the door open for Lilly, whose hands were full with Erica Bailey's file.

Lilly, half-glad to get herself out of that office and half-sorry they hadn't got what they came for, had the bad idea of turning to deliver one final smirk. Big mistake. Her foot caught on the edge of Scotty's shoe and before she knew it, Erica Bailey's file with all its millions of papers was strewn across the floor. Cheeks crimson with humiliation, Lilly looked back and caught a glimpse of that cocky son of a bitch doctor snickering at her. Anger flashed through her and she vented the only way she could—at Scotty.

"Dammit, Valens! Can't you at least stay out of my way?" she hissed, bending over the pick up the papers.

Scotty glared at her, stung. "Well, excuse me for trying to be a gentleman," he grumbled under his breath, charging ahead out the door into the parking lot.

Lilly let him go, a little conscience-stricken. She shouldn't have taken it out on him—he had been trying to be nice, after all. And it really wasn't his fault she'd tripped. But why did Stillman insist on pairing them up, when it was obvious they didn't get along? He was a good investigator but his very presence unsettled her… to the point of… of making her physically clumsy.

Gemma, the olive-skinned, petite receptionist with the round horn-rimmed glasses, was already crouched on the carpet, gathering Erica's papers together with proficient speed. Her sympathetic look seemed to not only recognize but understand Lilly's exasperation at having to work with someone against her will. Lilly couldn't help being grateful for it, complete stranger though she was.

An old polaroid of Erica, the only one they'd found, fluttered out of the folder and Gemma picked it up, her eyes flickering with surprise.

"Something wrong?" Lilly asked.

"I remember Erica Bailey from 3 years ago," said Gemma slowly. "This… isn't her."

Vera and Jeffries sat in the Bryants' new living room, a nice, cozy little shelter—all bright, warm colors and fuzzy textures. Jenny Bryant was a picture-perfect housewife, all the way down to the pink-checkered apron she wore. Her cheeks were round and rosy, her graying hair perfectly set—even the tea she offered was top-quality. Her husband, middle-aged, balding, and portly, seemed rightfully happy at her side. Jeffries felt an unexpected tinge of loneliness looking at them. He and his wife would've been happy like that… in another lifetime maybe…

He hated being responsible for the broken disbelief in their placid, contented faces when told of the macabre finding in their former backyard.

"Are you sure?" Beau Bryant asked, sputtering a little. "We haven't lived there in nearly a month."

"We realize that," replied Jeffries gently. "However, we've been informed the body had been lying there between six months and five years. So it would have been while you were still living there—in all certainty."

Beau and Jenny exchanged horrified looks. It was Jenny who finally spoke. "You can't possibly think we had anything to do with this?"

"I'm sorry, but as you were living in the house at the time, I'm afraid you must be considered suspect," Vera countered.

"Well… what do you think it was? Murder?" gulped Beau.

"That, or a home delivery gone wrong," was Vera's comforting comment.

Once again Beau and Jenny gazed at one another, helplessly. "Well—that can't be our case. Our youngest child is 18. He's just gone off to college in Cleveland. And I haven't been pregnant since his birth—my gynecologist can vouch for me."

"How many children do you have, Mrs. Bryant?" Jeffries asked, changing the subject. They were getting too worked up for their own good—and not in a useful way. Skimming over the mantelpiece, he noticed there were at least three different children, all tow-headed and smiling, staring out at him at different stages of their lives. Two boys and a girl, from the looks of them.

"Three. George is 26, he's living in New York. And Sarah, our only daughter—she's 24—just moved back to Philadelphia a few weeks ago. But she's never been pregnant," insisted Jenny defensively. "I would've known. We've grown apart but she still confides in me. Though she hasn't visited since Christmas 2002. She meant to come for spring break that year but couldn't, because we took a long trip with the rest of the family—to Aruba. Afterwards, between school and work… I guess she never could make the time to visit again."

Jeffries could understand her pain. It was the same pain he felt when he thought of his own grown children spread across the country—and of his growing grandchildren, whom he hardly ever got to see. Life was just too busy, too much to trouble to visit your folks sometimes. Funny how it never used to be too much trouble when his wife was still alive.

"Anyone stay in your house while you were in Aruba?" Vera asked, evidently oblivious to Jeffries' mood. Not that Jeffries minded. Like most people, he didn't care to share his misery.

Beau shook his head. "We never liked the idea of having strange people staying over. That's why we never took long trips. That was the only time. Even our dog went with us. We kept the house locked up ."

"Notice anything funny about your backyard when you returned?"

"Yeah—the lawn had died. But I guess that was to be expected. Since we didn't want to let anyone into the house, no one was there to water it. So, yeah—it was a little sketchy when we returned. But nothing else."

Now it was Jeffries and Vera's turn to exchange glances. This interrogation was going nowhere. Might as well head back to headquarters, see what Lilly and Scotty had found. And if they had been able to keep off each other's throats.

Stillman had never been a man of many words. And this case was no exception.

"So?" was the only question he had in store for Vera and Jeffries, as soon as they arrived.

"Nothing much. The Bryants seem like a perfectly normal family. Denied any knowledge of the situation."

"Yeah, but of course, they would. They took this trip, in March 2003—went to Aruba for three weeks," Vera added. "Think that could be when it happened?"

Stillman shrugged. "Who knows. Think we may have to start asking for blood samples, try to match the babies' DNA to the Feldmans and the Bryants. There isn't much else we can do to get to the bottom of this."

Even he sounded discouraged. A rare thing for Stillman.

"So what happened with the Erica Bailey angle?"

"There is no Erica Bailey," Scotty griped. "I mean, there is—but she's not the one who had that ultrasound. The name matches, but we showed the doctor's receptionist that picture we have of Erica Bailey, and the receptionist said it was nothing like her. Our Erica Bailey had long, curly dark hair, brown eyes, and looked much younger than 36. Gemma Whitney, the receptionist, is in there with the sketch artist trying to make a likeness of her right now."

"Okay, here's news," announced Lilly breathlessly, choosing that exact same moment to barge into the room, blonde strands flying. "I ran her through the FBI database. It seems Erica Bailey, 29, mother of two, was reported missing by her husband in July 1995. There's been no word of her since."

A gloomy silence filled the room.

"Great," Vera ruminated, the only one capable of voicing out what was on all other minds. "So I guess now we have two mysteries. What happened to these babies—and where the hell is Erica Bailey."