Джеймс Паттерсон - The Midwife Murders

I say nothing, but I’m thinking, Thankful? Maybe if he cracks this case. Then I’ll be thankful.

“May I escort you up the stairs?” Sarkar asks.

“Yeah, sure,” I say, and I walk past the elevators, heading to the door of the internal stairway.

My mind is still churning. Commissioner Poblete said that Blumenthal is creative in ignoring the rules?

I come up with an idea. A great idea. A very, very creative idea.

I’m going to find out just how far Blumenthal is ready to push it. I’m going to see just how creative he might care to be.

“You go up ahead of me,” says Sarkar as we enter the stairwell. “That way I’ll be able to catch you if you fall.”

“It also means that you’ll have a terrific view of my gluteus maximus,” I say.

“Lucy, please!” he says with mock surprise. “And anyway, don’t worry. Do remember. I am a gynecologist.”

CHAPTER 36

TWO MINUTES LATER DR. Rudra Sarkar and I go our separate ways. He returns to his office, but I return to the stairwell. I’m going back to see Leon Blumenthal.

As I enter the makeshift operations room and approach Blumenthal’s table, I swear there’s a very slight smile on his face.

“What took you so long to get back to me, Ms. Ryuan?” he asks. Yes, that is definitely a smile on Blumenthal’s face.

And he’s even better looking now that he’s lost the grumpy-dad expression. Funny how a guy’s face can turn from meh to handsome just because of the mood he’s in and, I guess, the mood I’m in.

“Nothing like a funny detective when there’s a multiple kidnapping and a brutal assault to be investigated,” I say.

“Haven’t you heard the expression ‘If you don’t laugh, you may end up crying’?”

I roll my eyes a bit.

Then Blumenthal says, “Anyway, how can I help you?”

“I have a great idea.”

“I was afraid of that,” he says.

“Look,” I say. “If you’re going to be an asshole, then I—”

“Sorry,” he says. “And I mean it.” I think he does. There’s something almost annoyingly real about Leon Blumenthal. He’s so real that what he’s thinking and what he’s feeling always seem to show up at the same time.

“Let’s move over to that table near the fruit smoothie machine,” Blumenthal says as he stands up. “I think my colleagues may be a little too interested in our conversation.”

“That’s intriguing. They’re going to hear all about it the moment I leave the room,” I say.

Blumenthal says nothing.

We walk to the end of the room, and I discover that we are standing in a jungle of “healthy food” vending machines. Who knew that such machines existed when I was buying junk food for Blumenthal an hour earlier? One vending machine supplies fresh-ingredient smoothies; another has a complete selection of Nature Valley bars; a third sends out small packets of sunflower seeds or granola or unsalted raw cashews.

Give me a Wendy’s chocolate Frosty and a Milky Way candy bar any day.

Blumenthal and I sit down.

“So what’s up?”

“I’ve got a plan,” I say. “Hear me out before you say no.”

“Go,” he says. And at least he’s acting interested.

“It’s simple,” I say.

“That’s always good,” Blumenthal says. “Simple works for me.”

“It’s simple, but it’s also dangerous.”

“That’s not always good.”

The moment I am actually about to tell Blumenthal my idea, I realize it does seem incredibly dangerous. But it also seems exciting, and most important, it seems like it could work.

“Begin,” he says. “Come on. Let’s bring this plane in for a landing.”

“Okay. I will pose as a pregnant woman, a poor pregnant woman. I can do an Irish accent. I can do a low-class English accent. I can certainly do a low-class Brooklyn accent.”

Blumenthal nods a bit.

I continue. “So we’ll get the name of the Russian couple from Patrik Kovac. I’ll contact them, or you’ll have somebody credible contact them, and then I’ll meet with them. I’ll make arrangements to sell them my baby, and then—”

Blumenthal begins shaking his head back and forth.

I try to ignore him and keep talking. “We’ll start with the first payment. I know that we’ll have to get a payment. Depending on where we meet them, we can have surveillance cameras. Then we—”

Blumenthal stands up. “Stop. Stop right there, Ms. Ryuan.” And, yes, he is speaking in a fairly loud voice.

“No. I won’t stop. This is a good plan. And I know that deep inside you think it’s good, too.” I stand up to face him.

But he’s on a roll. He keeps talking. “No. I absolutely do not think it’s a good plan. Deep inside me or just on my surface, I do not think it’s a good plan. It’s stupid. It’s foolish. It’s unprofessional. These Russians aren’t amateurs. This isn’t a TV show. This isn’t a movie. Don’t you think the Russian couple are part of a larger group? How do you imagine pulling this off? Do you plan on stuffing a pillow in your jeans to fool them? Of course not. Think it through, Lucy. For God’s sake, think it through. They’ll have gynecologists and pediatricians and thugs with guns and knives. Stick to delivering babies.”

That last line— “Stick to delivering babies” —is the one that really kicks me hard in the stomach.

I know Blumenthal is being sensible. Maybe he’s even absolutely right. But now I’m in that weird position of not being able to back down. I search for a defense. And I come up with a really shitty one.

“I’m trying to be proactive,” I say.

“Proactive?” he says, loud enough for a few of the people at the other end of the room to suddenly look toward us. “Proactive? Proactive is the dumbest new made-up word in the English language. It’s a synonym, a synonym for wasting time, for making a lot of noise for no real reason.”

I decide to storm away from the table before he can storm away.

I get to the door of the cafeteria. I turn around and say exactly what I feel like saying.

“Remember this, Detective Blumenthal. Remember that I gave you a golden opportunity. Remember it when another baby goes missing.”

“Wait, Ms. Ryuan,” he says loudly.

The strength of his voice freezes me in place. The next thing I know, Blumenthal is standing close to me. Closer than he should.

“Look. I really do understand your passion about what’s going on. I really do.”

“No. I don’t think you—”

“Take me at my word.”

And suddenly I feel as if I will.

“Take a break. That’s my advice. Get away. Take a break. Go to the beach. Go to the country. Go to the movies. Do something. Take ninety-six hours to stop delivering babies, stop thinking about this case.”

I look into his hazel eyes. For the first time, I don’t have the urge to disagree with him.

“When you get back—after that little break—we can talk again. You have done a lot for this case, and I appreciate the help. You are one smart woman.”

CHAPTER 37

I PRACTICALLY RUN BACK to my office. Not in anger. Not in frustration. Not for any reason but that I’m tired, and Blumenthal might be right. And—oh, hell—I don’t know what I’m even doing.

Up those same damned back stairs. I’m breathing heavily, and my heart is pounding. I’ve gone full speed.

It’s about midnight, but of course GUH, under siege and security, is as hectic as if it were noon. I fade into the hospital crowd. Guards and NYPD officers patrol the halls. Patients buzz their buzzers. The air is pierced by the cries of “Nurse. Nurse. Please, Nurse.” The PA system regularly blasts announcements like “Dr. Somebody, please report to Room Someplace immediately.” Orderlies joke with nurses. Babies wail.