Джеймс Паттерсон - The Midwife Murders

HANK IS HAPPY. GRETA IS GREAT. A NEW BABY BOY.

This is followed by typical corny copy:

Fashion celeb Greta Moss scored her own winning touchdown today. She delivered Hank Waldren Jr. to Hank Waldren Sr. Mother and Baby and Giant are doing great.

“You see, this is perfect news for Gramatan University Hospital,” says Sarkar. Then he scrolls again. This time he shows me a page on AOL News. An adorable photo of Greta—her full makeup miraculously undisturbed by the ordeal of delivery—and the cute new baby with the equally cute new father holding the little one. The cute caption is:

THE LITTLEST GIANT

If I wasn’t so angry, I’d be willing to admit that it’s a really irresistible picture. These three should model as a family. Hold on, Lucy. You’ve got to stay angry.

“Admit it. It’s really good for the hospital,” says Sarkar.

“Okay, I admit it, but what would really be perfect is this: you and your NYPD and FBI buddies actually find the missing babies instead of helping to feed a media blitz all about a celebrity baby. Like this: The cops find the madman who tried to kill Katra. The cops do their job. Possibly you can get in touch with your pal Blumenthal and tell him to wake the hell up.”

“I think Detective Blumenthal and his people are doing all they can do. I think they are doing their absolute best,” he says. He moves closer to me.

Oh, God, why am I thinking what I’m thinking? I am suddenly certain that Dr. Sarkar may lean in and kiss me. I’m frightened. I should have a plan. Will I kiss him? Will I turn away? Will he—

Instead he speaks, his face close to mine. “I am truly sorry for the deception.” His voice is almost a whisper.

I believe Sarkar is being sincere. I’m tough, but I’m not an idiot. Even I can only stay angry for so long.

“Yeah, okay. But don’t do it again,” I say. Damn it. Am I sounding like a nursery school teacher?

The moment has become intimate, close, warm. I think it might be a good idea to tell him about the video that Troy and I saw earlier—the blond woman in the high heels. This is perhaps the only real clue we have so far. All of a sudden I’m longing to share this knowledge.

The small smile on Sarkar’s face seems to broadcast friendship and trust. Yes, I think I should share the information. Then, immediately, I don’t know why, I change my mind. Then I think that time is passing—what have I got to lose? Why not?

But then Sarkar speaks before I can say anything. “Why don’t we go up and visit our celebrity couple and their new baby? Okay? Maybe we’ll get our picture on the internet.”

The moment passes. I won’t tell him. But I will say something else. “Listen, there’s something I want to ask you about.”

He looks vaguely confused. “Yes?” he asks. Then he smiles.

“Last night I saw another side of you, an angry, impatient, sort of ugly side. Okay, it was only for a second, I know. But when I left your car—or should I say when I was thrown out of your car?—it was just … I don’t know what to call it. Confusing?”

The smile vanishes from his face. He even turns away from me. “I know what to call it,” he says. “I would call it disgusting, reprehensible, the uncontrollable anger of a disappointed man, a man who is used to getting what he desires.”

“Take it easy, Doc. Even I wouldn’t go that far in the evaluation,” I say.

“You don’t understand, do you, Lucy? I wanted you to be with me. And you did not want to do so. I was angry.”

I am, of course, just a little confused. Maybe a bit of romance was in the air but surely not enough to cause disappointment and anger like that. Now I’m not even sure how to discuss the matter with him.

“Uh, okay,” I say. “I guess that clarifies it. It was, well, just surprising. I’d never seen you like that before.”

“And you will never see me like that again,” Sarkar says.

This time as he leans toward me I know that he intends to kiss me. I turn away slightly. I reach and brush my hand against his face.

“Now, don’t be angry, Rudi. This is not rejection,” I say. “But … I think we should go up and see the new baby right now.”

He laughs. “You are, as always, absolutely correct.”

Then he opens the door and gestures for me to walk through. We’re off to visit the three Waldrens.

CHAPTER 26

THE GENERAL HOSPITAL AREA outside Greta Moss’s birthing room is strangely quiet and almost eerily vacant. Where are the NYPD officers, the GUH guards, the nurses, the photographers, the reporters who turned this area into a wacky circus minutes ago? Where’s that lady with the cameras? The rent-a-cops in cheap suits?

Rudi Sarkar and I step into the birthing room. The bed has been stripped; the floor is still damp from mopping. The bathroom is empty; it smells of disinfectant. Instinctively Sarkar and I walk quickly to the nurses’ station. I am curious, confused, but I am not yet anxious. Dr. Sarkar simply looks concerned.

“Has Greta Moss been moved?” I ask the male nurse at the desk.

“I don’t think so,” says the nurse. “Let me check.” He goes to his computer screen. He looks, he scrolls, he squints. It’s taking too long, so I immediately think that something evil is going on. He continues to scroll. I’m about to scream. Then he finally speaks, “No. She’s still in birthing room 4.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. Yes, he’s sure.

Then Sarkar speaks. “Try looking for a patient named G. Leonard.”

The nurse scrolls the screen for a moment. “No one listed here with that name,” says the nurse.

“Let’s check the nursery,” I say.

Sarkar and I head toward the magical room at the opposite end of the corridor where the newborns are cared for and displayed.

When we arrive, one of the baby nurses—everyone in maternity knows Rudra Sarkar—immediately opens the security door to the nursery.

“Dr. Sarkar, welcome.”

“Is the Moss and Waldren baby in here?” he asks.

“No, but he should be here soon. We received an update only twenty minutes ago. Good delivery. Healthy baby. Scored a nine on the Apgar test.”

Nine is as close to the perfect score of ten as most babies achieve.

“We’re ready for the kid when he’s ready for us,” says the baby nurse. Then she adds, “I hear the mother is something of—”

“Never mind. Thank you,” Sarkar says. Then he turns to me directly and says, “Let’s go.”

We rush back out to the corridor. I shout to the desk nurse to call Security immediately. “And call that dumb-ass detective, too. His name is Blumenthal, Leon Blumenthal,” I say.

“If this is another missing baby, the Waldren kid …” Sarkar says, “I don’t even want to think about it.”

We begin opening and closing patients’ doors. Babies wail. Weary-eyed dads and beaming grandparents walk the halls. A few bassinets are being wheeled. A few baskets of flowers are being delivered.

“Lucy!” I hear as we open yet another patient’s room door. The voice is loud, urgent, and familiar. Of course I recognize the voice. It’s Tracy Anne.

I turn toward the sound of the voice.

I thought that Tracy Anne would not be in until much later today, but here she is. She’s running toward Sarkar and myself.

“If you’re looking for the Moss baby, he’s not here,” Tracy Anne says. If she is aware of an emergency, she sure doesn’t show it. She’s as calm and perky as ever.

“Well, obviously we know that,” I say. “Where the hell is everybody? The mother? The baby?”

Please have a good answer. Please don’t let this be another problem. This one would be an explosion heard round the world . A famous couple—a famous model, a football hero—a beautiful new baby …