Джеймс Паттерсон - The Midwife Murders

As you might guess, I have absolutely no idea what the pieces are. Who wrote them? Who is playing them? My musical knowledge goes back no further than Michael Jackson and Phil Collins.

As Dr. Sarkar turns onto Roebling Street, far to the north, he shouts very loudly, “Back!”

I twist my neck slightly and try to look behind me.

“Back!” he shouts again.

I’m confused. For a moment.

Then he says, “Listen, Lucy. Cello Suite Number One in G Major.”

Mercifully, I finally figure out what he’s saying. “Oh. Bach! ” I say. “Now I get it. Bach.”

Sarkar smiles, and we drive south again, now along Nostrand Avenue, as Yo-Yo Ma’s cello comes pouring out of the speakers and into the car.

As we get closer to my neighborhood, Dr. Sarkar slows the car significantly. Then he suddenly pulls the car over and parks in front of Family Dollar.

“Are we going to go in and buy some polyester pillows?” I say.

“No. We are going to talk.” He is not smiling. He is not being his usual charming self. Sarkar looks quite serious.

My late grandmother had an expression: “I was so scared that I thought a flower was opening up in my stomach.” Right now, I’m feeling that a whole garden is opening up in mine. What are we going to talk about? Romance? Sex? Life? Death? Medicine? The hospital? No. Those subjects don’t seem, well, I don’t know, appropriate to the place we’re in right now.

“Okay, Lucy. I have an important question for you. What in hell are we going to do about this goddamn Detective Blumenthal?”

Phew! I guess. I am a little scared that Blumenthal is the subject, but I’m pleased at the question. It mirrors my own concern.

“You mean, what are we going to do about Blumenthal dragging his ass on this case?”

Sarkar’s response is fast and eager. “ You said it earlier. Child snatching. Kidnapping. Attempted murder. This is not a stolen bicycle or a purse snatching. This is the horror of horrors.”

This passion from Sarkar is pretty unusual. All I’ve ever known is his joking, teasing.

“It’s all I could think about while I was stitching up that poor woman,” he says.

“That’s all I could think about while you were stitching up that poor woman.”

“By the way,” he says. “I got a text message from Blumenthal’s assistant, some detective type, Bobby somebody or other. Two of the surgical nurses during the op do remember my asking Helen Whall to leave the room during the procedure. I apologize for not having remembered properly.”

“Pressure. Tired. A million things,” I say. “I can’t remember what I had for breakfast.” As a joke, I add, “Oh, wait, it was nothing. But yesterday it was Honey Bunches of Oats with Almonds.”

His smile is small but warm. He leans toward me—no, not for a kiss, just for closeness. Secret. He’s going to tell me secrets. Or so I hope, but I have to admit, as he moves closer to me, I am not unaware of the fact that he has the cleanest, sharpest features I’ve ever seen, that the bronze color of his skin is completely irresistible, that … God damn you, Lucy, get back into the conversation . Blumenthal. Katra. Babies. Blood. Shift gears, Lucy.

Sarkar starts the car up again as I begin to talk. “I don’t know. One thing is, Blumenthal seems very slow and unconcerned, but I think that could just be his style.”

Sarkar gives a little shrug and his eyes widen. “I don’t know, either. I should tell you that I have checked him out.” When we pull up in front of Sabryna’s little store on Nostrand, the GPS announces, “You have reached your destination.”

Before I say thank you, I say, “Rudi, did I give you my address?”

“No,” he says. “I confess, I looked it up. I was hoping I would use it someday.”

I am flattered—and not a little bit turned on—but it also makes me a tiny bit nervous.

“Lucy,” he says. “How about we continue our conversation about Detective Blumenthal right now, over drinks, or even dinner?”

I tell him the truth. “My son, Willie, is waiting for me. I’ve got to feed him, and I need to spend some time with him … I want to spend some time with him.”

“He can join us,” says Rudi.

“No. It’s what Willie and I call alone time . He needs it. We both need it.”

When Rudi speaks again, his voice is fast, crisp, and downright unfriendly. “Very well. Whatever you care to do. But I must tell you that I’m quite disappointed.”

For a moment I think he’s putting me on, faking the anger.

“Please get out of the car,” he says.

“Rudi, come on, enough teasing …” I begin.

“Damn it, Lucy. Get out of the car.”

He’s not teasing.

CHAPTER 20

THE NEXT DAY BEGINS like any other. I’m taking the number 3 subway train from Crown Heights into midtown Manhattan, and of course my cell phone is not getting service. Everyone around me on the train is listening to music or playing games, but I’m sitting there reliving my ride home with Dr. Sarkar. The ride, and the oddly unpleasant ending.

As soon as I get aboveground, two blocks from the hospital, I go to my cell and check the hospital page labeled “Daily Staff Locations.” I look first to see what’s up with Troy and Tracy Anne. Troy is “on call, in hospital.” Tracy Anne is “in hospital after 5 p.m.”

Then I click on what I really want to see. Is Rudi Sarkar in today? Here it is: “SARKAR A/D GUH GC.” This means that he’s spending all day (A/D) at the Gramatan University Hospital (GUH) clinic on the Grand Concourse (GC) in the Bronx.

Like most other New York City assholes who use their cell phones while they’re walking on the street, I bump into someone who reminds me that I am an asshole.

I make my way through the employees’ entrance security. This time, I don’t get into an argument with anyone.

Then I head straight for Katra’s room. She’s out of recovery and in a maternity patient room adjacent to the midwife area. The first thing I notice is this: a two-officer police team is standing outside Katra’s door. And a plainclothes female detective sits on a folding chair very close to the NYPD officers. The detective seems to know who I am. She says, “Go right in. One of your guys is in there, and the patient’s parents have been here overnight.”

Katra is in bed. Quiet, scared, teary, but not bad, considering she had her body sliced open and stitched back up less than twenty-four hours ago. She’s even had some time and energy to apply a little very pale pink lipstick.

“Katra’s doing good, by my evaluation,” Troy says, “really good, Lucy, but she’s not in the mood for talking.” He positions himself in such a way that I’m the only one who can see his eyes roll and his eyebrows arch up.

I look at Katra and then say to Troy, “I’m not surprised that she’s doing so well. She’s a strong woman.” I say it loud enough so I can clearly be heard by Katra and her parents.

Then more directly to Katra I say, “Everything should be okay, sweetie. Everything. The police are all over it.”

Katra turns away from me. Troy hands her a tissue and a plastic cup filled with ice water.

Then I hear a woman’s voice. It is hesitant, with a foreign accent, “And the baby. What of the baby?”

I look at the slim blond woman, carrying a ripped-off version of a red Hermès Birkin bag. She must be Katra’s mother. It is clear where Katra got her good looks. The parents really can’t be a helluva lot older than myself. They both wear jeans and have kinda hip haircuts.

Then the man speaks. “My wife ask you about baby. What you will say?”

“I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. I don’t know.”