Джеймс Паттерсон - The Midwife Murders

“NYPD people, of course, will also be on the line. We’ll be trying to track the location.”

Cilia is building up enthusiasm big-time. Somebody should hose this guy down. Cilia stands up, but Blumenthal, clearly having trouble allowing someone else to be in charge, takes over. Ball to Blumenthal.

“So here’s what you do … and we have a script worked out for you. Not a strict script, you know, sort of a guideline. You tell Orlov who you are. You tell him what you do. Then you tell him that you’ve got a terrific deal for him. Instead of his having to chase down women who are willing to hand over their newborn babies, well, you, because you’re a midwife, because you’re in the midst of all the baby action, you tell him that you always know lots of women with unplanned pregnancies. You’re also deep in these gals’ confidence. So you can sniff around. You have perfect access to these women. So you can see if they’d be interested in a deal like Orlov’s. What’s more, you’ll be so helpful, you’ll even supply him occasionally with a newborn. And if—and this is an important if —if a woman reneges on her promise, you can facilitate having her baby stolen or find him another one.”

When Blumenthal finishes presenting the plan, he seems pleased with himself, pleased with his plan. This is either the CIA or I Love Lucy .

“So I’ll be offering up myself as the Russian mafia’s dream come true,” I say.

Blumenthal says, “I wouldn’t say that, Lucy. I’d say you’ll be the NYPD’s dream come true.”

“Thanks,” I say. And then I decide to share with Leon Blumenthal and Bobby Cilia exactly how I feel.

“Look, guys, I know I sound like I fit neatly into the tough broad category. But since I heard this little scenario, I gotta tell you: I’m scared as shit.” As if to prove my point I extend my arm. My hand is shaking. “I’m not good at this sort of thing. I’m no actor. I’m no good at lying. I’m … I don’t know …”

Bobby Cilia says, “Hold on, Ms. Ryuan. This is not acting. This is not lying. This is police work.”

Ordinarily I would have simply classified this little gogetter as an asshole. But his passion is so real that I wish I could steal some of it and inject it into my veins.

Then Blumenthal hits me with a sharp left hook. “Lucy, now I’ve got something to say: You wanted to help us. You bitched and moaned. You said NYPD was lousy.”

Cilia adds his thoughts to the issue. “It’s going to be beautiful. We have phony files for you to bring to Orlov, files about pregnant women you’re working with, their due dates. Pics of other babies you’ve helped deliver. All of it is fictional. The files were concocted by the FBI’s CARD team, experts in child abduction cases. It’s going to be perfect. You’re going to be perfect.”

Nobody speaks for about thirty seconds.

Then I speak. Very quietly. “Okay. When does this happen?”

“We’re set up to do it now, if you’re ready,” says Bobby.

“I guess I’m ready. Or ready as I ever will be.”

Shit. This is exactly the kind of thing I wanted to be involved with. Why the hell am I so frightened?

Blumenthal seems pleased. He’s even got a trace of Bobby’s enthusiasm.

“No point in waiting,” says Blumenthal. “Strike while …” He and Cilia high-five each other. Blumenthal doesn’t even finish the cliché. And nobody offers me a high five.

Bobby hands me his cell phone and says, “Okay, take a look at the outline we wrote for you. We’ve put together a kind of a rough script for you. I think that’ll help you with Orlov … Just press 5-2-2-3.”

I press the buttons. A script appears. I read from it out loud. “Hello, may I please speak to Fyodor Orlov? This is Lucy Ryuan calling.”

Then I look up at my two new police partners.

“I love your opening line,” I say. My voice drips with sarcasm. “Sharp. Original. Insightful. We’re off to a really good start.”

CHAPTER 47

THE SCRIPT IS IN my estimation a fairly foolish masterpiece of wishful thinking. Sentences like:

Don’t be impatient, Mr. Orlov.

Yes, it is a good idea—no, great idea.

It’s been a real pleasure talking to you.

Finally, I say, “Let’s go do this quasi-entrapment thing before this script makes me change my mind. It sounds like it was written for Barney the dinosaur.”

“Who?” says Blumenthal. I assume the man is not a father.

Bobby Cilia says, “Okay, let’s get started.” Then he adds that we’re going to make the phone call from Blumenthal’s office. But apparently not before three more people are added to the audience. Cilia and Blumenthal invite an annoyingly pretty FBI agent named Oriana; a plainclothes detective whose name is Chub-o for reasons that are fairly obvious; and a middle-aged black guy whose facial expression says, Done it all, seen it all, nothing can surprise me . His name is Fred, and he wears bright green clip-on suspenders. I think the suspenders are meant to be a fashion statement.

And of course there’s me. And I’m still nervous as shit.

I ask Bobby Cilia for a Diet Coke. He brings me a regular Coke. “The sugar will be better for you.”

Why the hell does every man in New York know what’s better for me?

The phone makes a noise.

“You’re getting a text message,” I say to Bobby. After all, it’s his phone.

“Just answer it,” Blumenthal says.

I read it quickly. Fortunately, I read it silently.

LUCY, IT’S GOING 2 GO GREAT. LB

Huh? Oh. It takes me a second to realize who the text is from. LB is Leon Blumenthal. I look at Blumenthal. He winks at me. He freaking winks at me. Who winks at anybody anymore? But there’s something nice about it. He’s telling me, in his own awkward way, that he knows I’m nervous as shit, that I should stay calm, that this will be fine. Okay. Who knew that one wink could communicate so much?

“Let’s get moving, people. We got to get moving on this. It’s late. Even the Russian mob goes to sleep sometime,” Bobby yells. This kid can’t wait to be in charge of the place.

Goddamn, I’m nervous. How the hell did I end up here? This is just what I wanted, but come to think of it, maybe it isn’t.

“Lucy,” Blumenthal says, “remember, the script is just a rough map. Use your instincts. You’re smart. Trust your instincts. Just keep it all very small and very natural.”

“Ready, Lucy?” Bobby asks.

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m calling.”

A woman’s voice. “Yes?”

“Hello. This is Lucy Ryuan. May I please speak to Fyodor Orlov?”

“Just a moment.”

That was a lot easier than I expected. I hear no voice, no speaking, no noise as I wait on the phone. Blumenthal gives me a few nods, a few gentle hand gestures. Stay calm. It’s going to go all right.

Now a man’s voice on the phone. “You are Lucy Ryuan?”

“How do you know?” I ask.

He simply says, “Please respond to my question.”

I detect a very slight Slavic accent—Russian, as Patrik said, or perhaps somewhere else in Eastern Europe.

“Yes, I am. Is this Fyodor Orlov?”

“It is. How may I help you?”

“Well, I’m a supervisory midwife at Gramatan University Hospital.”

“I know who you are. You were supposed to deliver the Kovac baby.”

I’m thrown. I hesitate. Blumenthal nods gently. He holds out the palms of both hands in his own stay calm gesture.

“Yes, I was supposed to deliver it,” I say. “The baby’s mother was attacked, and the baby was stolen.”