Джеймс Паттерсон - The Midwife Murders

Two hours later, I’m paying ten dollars—five each—so Willie and Cabot can hit the miniature golf course.

CHAPTER 43

I’VE GOT TO BE honest. Is there a sweeter sight than watching Willie lining up his putt as if he were on the eighteenth hole down in Augusta? Yes, there is. That’s the sight of my crazy messed-up brother trying to help Willie with his grip.

I’m sitting on a bench outside the enclosed “course.” There’s not much of a crowd here at the Hole in Fun: five annoying teenage boys who spend more time hitting one another with their dinky little clubs than they do hitting the ball. I see one mom and her two daughters playing. The mom yells a few times, “Oh, Tiffany, just kick the ball through the windmill door, for Chrissake. It’s almost time for lunch.”

I take out my phone and check my texts and emails. Tracy Anne tells me that Gina Esposito had a baby girl. The last line of the message is: She’s going 2 name her Stephanie Tracy Anne Esposito.

I text back, Nice. Very nice. And I mean it.

Then there’s an update from Troy: charts and statistics, mother weights and baby weights and appointment times, test results and problem assessments. Then a question from Troy: “Katz’s office called. Wants to know when you’ll be back.” Another email from Troy: “Detective B called four x yesterday. Should I give him your number?”

I respond, only a bit confused, only a bit curious. “Yes, give Blumenthal phone number. Thought I’d already given it to him.”

I look up and see that my son and my brother are fueling up on Coca-Cola and Fritos at the refreshment stand. I know they’re going to want to play again and again. I decide to call my mother and tell her that everything is fine, so very fine. I call her. When she answers, I say, “They’re having a good time. They’re doing well. Best friends,” and then, to my complete surprise, I start to cry.

“What’s wrong, Lucy?” Her voice is understandably nervous.

“Nothing,” I say. “No, nothing really.” I pause. Then I say, “I just wish that … I just wish it could stay like this all the time. Cabot and Willie and you and Daddy. Cabot being calm and Willie being happy. Daddy being … well, alive. You being … you. Busy and bustling around. And … I don’t know. That’s sort of all I want.”

“That’s what all of us want, honey. We want so little. And it’s so hard to get even that.”

I hear the call-waiting hiccup. The caller ID reads L BLUMEN NYPD.

Then I say the irritating words I hate saying or hearing: “Mom, I’ve got to take this call.”

When I switch over, I say, “Hello, Detective. Didn’t you tell me to take a vacation, stop delivering babies, stop butting into your case?”

“It doesn’t sound like me, but I might have suggested something like that.”

“Then why are you calling me, Detective?”

Then he says the magic words. “Because I need you here.”

“When?”

Inevitably he answers, “Right this very minute.”

CHAPTER 44

THERE’S QUITE A BIT of negotiating to do with my family in West Virginia before I can return to New York.

First hurdle: persuading Willie and Cabot to cancel another round of miniature golf so we can drive the hour-plus back to my parents’ house and then begin the trip back to New York. I’m successful getting them off the “course” only because I promise that the next time we visit Walkers Pasture they can play at least three rounds of golf.

Yes, I know this basic bribery is not the correct way to raise good children. But I don’t think it’s going to ruin Willie’s future.

Second hurdle: Mom suggests I can go back to New York whenever I want, but Willie should stay down in Walkers Pasture, West Virginia, with her and Daddy and Cabot for another day, as originally planned. I am utterly opposed. Adamantly opposed. So we have an impromptu family meeting in the living room. Family meeting has always been a euphemism in our house for group argument . We make believe we are the kind of family that always has family meetings; we most certainly are not.

We take our places on the sectional sofa. Mom serves red Kool-Aid in plastic cups. Even Daddy seems attentive to the goings-on.

My first gambit falls flat on its face: “We were planning to leave tomorrow anyway, Willie.”

Willie says, “Yeah, I know, but now I can stay longer and then take the train back to New York. Grandma said so.”

So much for that, Lucy. Nice try.

“What about your friend Devan, Willie? He’ll be lost without you.”

“No way. He doesn’t care. Devan has plenty of bigger kids to hang with. He actually prefers all those big dudes. Devan will not be lost without me,” says Willie. I’m afraid Willie’s right about that.

“What about Sabryna’s new baby? Don’t you want to see her?” It dawns on me that I do not know Val’s baby’s name. When we filled out the million forms, we used the phrase “Baby Girl Gomez.”

Willie says, “Oh, c’mon, Mom. The baby?” He shrugs and looks up at his uncle.

Cabot looks at me and says, “Oh, c’mon, Mom. The baby?”

And speaking of moms, mine says, “Well, it seems to me that this meeting has hit a little bit of a snag. Come into the kitchen, Lucy honey. You can help me make some sandwiches for your road trip.”

Of course I know what she’s about to say. But of course I follow her into the kitchen.

“I know why you’re fretting, and I don’t blame you,” she says. “You don’t want Willie spending so much time with Cabot.”

“Bingo!” I say.

“You know they won’t ever go three feet out of my eyesight,” she says.

“That’s good to know, because Balboa Littlefield’s car is parked only a hundred feet away.”

“Oh, don’t be such a Little Miss Worry Wart,” she says. “Tomorrow we’ll all drive to Pittsburgh and send Willie home.”

“You know I love Cab,” I say. “But I’m just afraid he’ll be a bad influence on Willie.”

“And you know I love Willie. And what I’m hoping is this: that Willie will be a good influence on Cabot.”

“Bingo!” I say. “You win.”

CHAPTER 45

I TELEPHONE RUDI SARKAR—from his own car—as The Duke lounges along the full length of the back seat, eyeing me. Hands-free dialing. All the caller does is speak into the air and say, “Dr. Sarkar’s office.” I tell Sarkar that I’ll be back in Manhattan around nine, maybe earlier. I want him to know that his car will be ready and available for him. For some reason, I don’t tell him that Leon Blumenthal has virtually ordered me back to New York.

“How were things in Walker Pasture?” he asks. There’s a very significant playful smirk in his voice.

“How’d you know that I …?” I begin, and then I stop.

Of course. I should have thought of it: Rudi Sarkar’s got a tracking system on his car.

“By the way, it’s not Walker Pasture. It’s Walker s, with an s, Pasture. It’s possessive case but without the apostrophe. I wouldn’t want you to get lost if you ever decide to visit.” As if the proper spelling and pronunciation of my little town’s name makes any difference.

“Sorry about that,” he says. Then he sarcastically adds, “You know that English is for me a second language.”

This little verbal tennis match has gone far enough.

“Hey, listen, Rudi, I really do appreciate the loan of the car,” I say. And I mean it. I’ve never driven anything this fancy. “Again, I really appreciate it.”

“No problem, Lucy. In fact, it has been a pleasure.”

A few hours later, after a much needed dog-business break out in front of our building, I drop The Duke in our apartment with a bowl of Big Lucy’s tasty pork shoulder. Then I take the Manhattan Bridge into the city and park Dr. Sarkar’s fancy car in his personal parking space at the hospital. As I exit the elevator and arrive at the residents’ cafeteria, I immediately notice that a little redecorating has taken place. Much of the space has been divided up with portable partitions. They’re not exactly floor-to-ceiling, but they do afford a little bit of privacy for some members of the law enforcement group. The remainder of the new setup is basically a bunch of modular cubicles with a few folding card tables on the periphery. These flimsy tables seem to be for assistants and secretaries.