“That’s the period of time we usually recommend,” Kramer said.
“My alternatives now?” Tracy asked.
“Well, we could try fertility drugs,” Kramer said.
She smiled softly. “You don’t sound optimistic.”
Kramer shrugged. “Given your age, your ORT score, and the length of time you’ve been trying to get pregnant, I’d say the percentages of a pregnancy are limited.”
“Limited, meaning . . . ?”
“Low.”
She considered the information. “What kind of fertility drug?”
Kramer looked as though the question had diverted his train of thought. He had probably been about to discuss the use of a donor egg, but Tracy did not want a child who was half Dan’s and half from someone she’d never met. She didn’t want a child conceived in a petri dish. She wanted their child.
“If we pursued fertility drugs, we’d start with a protocol of Clomid and monitor you with ultrasound to see if and when you were ovulating. You and Dan take care of business. After that, we wait ten to fourteen days to perform a pregnancy test. But under the circumstances—”
“What would be my chances?”
Kramer looked to be running numbers in his mind. “It’s difficult to quantify, but under the circumstances . . .” He paused. “Let’s be realistic. Yes, we could flog your ovaries with fertility drugs to get you to ovulate, but will your eggs even be able to be fertilized? And if so, keep in mind the high rate of miscarriages, as well as birth defects such as Down syndrome. Are you sure you can handle all that?”
“But you said that the ORT is not absolute.”
“It’s not a certainty,” Kramer said. “But it is informative. In your case, the chances are very slim, at best, of your getting pregnant. There are other options.”
“A donor egg.”
“Yes.”
Tracy sighed. If she were going to use a donor egg, she might as well adopt, give a good home to a child in need. She and Dan had agreed to make these decisions together. They agreed to discuss whether she should go on fertility drugs, which had some potentially negative side effects. They agreed that the decision to adopt would be one they evaluated together and in detail. But that was before Tracy knew for certain that she, and not Dan, was the problem.
“I’d like to try the Clomid,” she said. “I’d like to at least try.”
CHAPTER 7
Joe Jensen called Tracy as she drove downtown from Dr. Kramer’s office. “You want the good news or the bad news?”
She thought of her conversation with Dr. Kramer and decided she’d had enough bad news. “How about some good news.”
“The video team was unsuccessful tracking the Subaru after it departed the intersection, probably because it’s mostly residential areas without cameras.”
“If that’s the good news, don’t tell me the bad news.”
“The good news is patrol received a call from a woman who lives in that neighborhood.”
“They found the car?” Tracy asked.
“A black Subaru with damage to the hood and front headlight.”
“Where?”
“A vacant lot behind the woman’s home not far from the intersection,” Jensen said.
Half an hour later, Tracy and Kins were driving to the address on Renton Avenue South. The street, under some sort of repair, was lined with orange cones and city workers in yellow jackets and white hats. Kins pulled to the curb and parked behind a patrol car in a sloped driveway. As he exited the car, he flashed his badge at an overly zealous city worker trying to tell him he couldn’t park there.
“You’re driving a Prius?” the worker asked, disbelieving.
They’d pulled the car from the pool. Kins called it the Toyota sewing machine.
“We’re doing our part to save the environment.”
Tracy slipped on gloves and wrapped her jacket tight to ward off the chill as she climbed concrete steps. A cracked walkway led to the front door of a small, single-story, clapboard home, which was typical for that area. At the top step, Tracy sensed Kins was not beside her. He stood at the bottom step. “You all right?” she asked.
“Just give me a second,” he said. “I’ve been sitting and it’s cold. That’s a bad combo.” He grimaced and started up the steps. Tracy waited for him. Together they approached a uniformed police officer standing near the front door. He looked frozen, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his blue SPD jacket, his chin tucked low into the collar, an SPD baseball cap pulled low on his head. As they approached, Kins sidestepped a child’s bicycle lying in the crabgrass.
“My partner is in the back talking to the property owner,” the officer said, his mouth emitting white wisps as if exhaling cigarette smoke. He led them along concrete pavers to a wooden gate at the rear of the property. “When we got out here I remembered the call from the morning roll call. Black Subaru, right? It looks like it was in some kind of accident.”
The officer pulled a string, and the bottom of the gate scraped against a stone paver as it swung in. The lawn had been cut around the clutter—two older-model cars that didn’t look like they’d been run in years, a motor home, and several rusted boat trailers. At the back of the lot, partially obscured by bushes and trees, was a black Subaru.
Joe Jensen stood speaking to a woman dressed in black jeans tucked into her boots. A down jacket extended to her knees. Jensen again had his head covered by the black knit ski cap.
Tracy and Kins introduced themselves.
“I saw it this morning and figured it was one of the neighbors’,” the woman said, sounding both upset and excited by the attention. “My husband charges fifty dollars a month to park a car or trailer, and a hundred dollars for the motor home. This morning, after I took my daughter to school, I knocked on doors and asked the neighbors who owned the car. It doesn’t belong to any of them. So I called it in to get it towed, and I was told I’d have to pay in advance.” She sounded like someone had just asked for her kidney. “It isn’t my car. Luckily someone reported it as stolen.”
Luckily, Tracy thought.
Jensen gave Tracy and Kins a subtle eye roll. He’d apparently heard the woman’s spiel already, possibly more than once. The three of them excused themselves and crossed to the car.
“Do we know when it was reported as stolen?” Tracy asked Jensen. She felt the cold stinging her cheeks.
“Seven o’clock this morning. Owner said he went out to get in his car, and it wasn’t there.” Jensen held the broken car part, in a plastic evidence bag, up to the damage to the left front headlamp. “It fits,” he said. “This is the car.” The windshield on the passenger’s side had cracked like a spider’s web. The hood was also dented. “Initial impression, the driver hit the kid and he wrapped around the hood, hit the windshield, then got propelled forward. That’s why he was so far from the intersection.”