Джеймс Паттерсон - The Midwife Murders

He says the female Russian visitor visited almost every week to see how Katra was doing. The woman brought candy and cookies and always bottles of sweet wine. Katra was growing bigger. She was healthy. She was apparently happy. The woman apparently did some basic prenatal examination: stethoscope on belly, blood pressure. But one day something different happened.

Last month the woman arrived with her sweets and her wine, and Katra made a startling announcement. “I want to keep the baby,” she said.

“Don’t be a stupid fool,” the lady said. “The arrangement has been made.”

“We will return the one thousand. We will not take the nine thousand,” Katra said.

“The ship has sailed,” the woman said.

The disagreement between the woman and the Kovac family was noisy, Patrik says, but brief. The woman was stern and cold and actually spit on the floor.

I take his hand and say, “This is a very bad lady.”

Then Patrik says quietly, “But we are also very bad, to make this evil arrangement.”

I shake my head no. I ask if anything else happened.

“Only when the bad lady is walking out the door.”

“And what was that?” I ask.

“She say, ‘Don’t try to change things. If you do, no matter what you want or what you try to do, we will find a way to get Katra’s baby. ’”

And so they did.

CHAPTER 32

IT TAKES ABOUT THIRTY minutes for Patrik Kovac to unload his entire story of Katra’s pregnancy and the Russian couple. It must be frightening to tell. It is frightening to hear. But once it’s ended, I know I have to get in touch with either Leon Blumenthal or Rudra Sarkar or both.

Patrik, tears on his face, still trembling, comes with me to Sabryna’s apartment. As always, I walk inside without knocking. Sabryna clicks off the television, and all three of them look at me nervously. Their curiosity is, of course, completely understandable.

“There’s no time to explain everything. I promise I will. I’ll also say that the news is not good. But we might end up okay,” I say. “Right now I have to get back to the hospital. Like I said without saying, this is big stuff.”

“Isn’t it always?” says Willie, with a touch of childlike sarcasm.

“No. This really is,” I say. “Sabryna, can Willie stay here?”

“Doesn’t he always?” says Sabryna, with a touch of adultlike sarcasm.

Then Sabryna turns her attention to Patrik. She says, “And I’m supposing that you’re going to be here, too?”

Kovac looks at me for the answer to Sabryna’s question.

“He could use a better cup of coffee than mine, probably with a big shot of Jameson in it. And see if he wants a plate of Lucky Pot.”

Then I look at Patrik Kovac and say, “You’re not really a true American until you see a Yankees game in the Bronx and have a nice big soup bowl full of Lucky Pot.”

Understandably, Patrik looks confused. But I don’t have time to run with my joke. I need to talk to one of those dozens of law enforcement personnel sitting around at my hospital doing nothing. I take out my cell phone and call the GUH main line.

Eventually someone says, “Gramatan University Hospital. How may I help you?”

“It’s Lucy Ryuan, midwife,” I say. “Please connect me to the NYPD/FBI setup in the residents’ cafeteria.”

Finally I hear Blumenthal’s voice. I identify myself.

“What’s up now, Ms. Ryuan?” I wouldn’t call his tone of voice polite, but I might call it civil .

“I’m at home right now, Detective,” I say, “but I’ve just met with Katra Kovac’s father. He gave me a boatload of information on the attack and kidnap situation. I’m going to Uber back into Manhattan right now. You and I need to meet.”

“Okay,” he says. The tone of voice is now actually polite . “I was about to go out for a little supper. But I’ll wait right here. Never want to miss one of your lectures.”

I ignore the wise-guy crack and say, “Hey, I can bring something from home for you to eat.”

“That’d be cool,” he says. Maybe he is being sarcastic. I can’t tell anymore.

“Yeah,” I say. “We’ve got some delicious leftovers.”

“Sounds good. Thank you.”

I don’t dare ask him the question I’m thinking. How do you feel about meatloaf and cornflakes?

CHAPTER 33

Immaculate Conception Hospital

West Chelsea, New York City

IMMACULATE CONCEPTION HOSPITAL SITS directly next to the High Line on West 24th Street. All patient rooms have a view of either the majestic Hudson River or the wacky-beautiful High Line itself.

The patients pay dearly for the view. In return they receive the pampered service most of them are used to. A person might go to NewYork-Presbyterian for bypass surgery or Mount Sinai for cancer, but if they need a facelift, an eyebrow lift, or a tummy tuck, that person heads over to Immaculate.

Immaculate is the only hospital in New York City to offer an unusual and frequently sought surgical service: hand rejuvenation. After all, nothing undermines a magnificent facelift more than bumpy, blue-veined, wrinkled old hands.

Immaculate is also the hospital to visit if one is very rich and slated to give birth. The birthing rooms were designed by the late “Prince of Chintz,” Mario Buatta, with a lot of flowered fabrics and lamps made from antique Chinese tea containers.

Immaculate Conception may sound like the name of a Catholic hospital, and when it was founded in 1880, it was run by nursing nuns, but now, facelifts and chintz curtains. Times have changed. So have cafeteria conversations.

“I played tennis yesterday with my friend Kenny Kelleher. He’s the gastro guy up at Gramatan. He says the cops and the FBI are guarding the place like it’s Fort Knox,” says dermatologist-surgeon John Aquilino.

Dr. Aquilino is having a late-afternoon taste of a delicious 2006 Puligny-Montrachet in the Immaculate Conception wine bar with Dr. Jeffrey Schlotman, a surgeon whose specialty is fast-recovery breast reduction.

“That kidnapping stuff must be driving Barrett Katz crazy,” says Aquilino.

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer little prick,” says Schlotman.

“The crazy location. The welfare patients. The welfare bums. The whole thing. I wouldn’t let anyone I know go to Gramatan for a hangnail. You’re better off dead.”

“You get what you pay for,” says Schlotman.

They agree.

CHAPTER 34

I AM IN SUCH a rush to tell Patrik’s story that I don’t take the time to even spoon up the leftovers I promised. Instead, I end up bringing Leon Blumenthal food that’s even worse than meatloaf and cornflakes: six small peanut-butter and cheddar-cheese crackers, barbecue-flavored potato chips, and two Drake’s Ring Dings. All are courtesy of the lobby vending machine.

I drop Blumenthal’s “dinner” on his desk-table. He glances at the assembled junk food and says, “I’ll eat this later. When I can give it my full attention.”

That’s obviously my signal to start talking.

Blumenthal listens intently as I tell him the extraordinary story that Patrik Kovac just told me. Blumenthal nods occasionally. He types frequently on his laptop. He does not eat even a morsel of the crackers or snack cakes.

“Did Kovac say if he or anyone in his family got the names of the Russian duo?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

Shit. I’m not a pro. I’m arrogant, but I’m an amateur. Damn it. That’s probably exactly what Blumenthal is thinking, too. Well, too bad, because Mr. Kovac came to me.

“Don’t worry,” Blumenthal says. “We’ll ask. But chances are great that they didn’t give their names, and if they did, Kovac was so nervous that he probably wouldn’t have remembered the names anyway. Did he say if his daughter, Katra, knew he was coming to see you?”