Джеймс Паттерсон - The Midwife Murders

“Mmm, sounds familiar. Precisely how may I help you? Or even more precisely, what the hell do you want?”

The accent is almost buried, and his English is perfect. He’s done a lot of work to mask his origins.

“I’ve had a thought, something you might be interested in.”

“I doubt that very much. In fact, I am virtually certain that you are participating in a scheme to trap me. You see, I know how incredibly stupid the police of New York City can be. With that in mind, I know that if I cannot bribe the police, then I just wait. They will screw themselves over.”

Blumenthal is motioning me to keep going, and suddenly, like an actress feeling her stage fright evaporate, I speak with strength.

And I’m as surprised as anyone.

“Mr. Orlov, listen to me. Here’s the deal. Please listen.”

There’s silence from Orlov’s end, so I keep talking.

“I can guarantee you a supply of healthy babies from my hospital, Gramatan University. I can do it all very discreetly. I can do it neatly. Frankly, I can make it a lot easier for you to even obtain babies. The pregnant women trust me. I’m sure you have some connections at hospitals already. But I can assure you, none of those connections will be as helpful to you as I can be.”

There is a pause, a long pause. I am determined to wait Orlov out. I will not speak again until he speaks.

Finally. “I would be a fool to trust you, Ms. Ryuan, but I have had people watching you, and I know a few things about you—a single mother, a poor family, a drug-addicted sibling with a criminal record. So I am not certain. Perhaps we can work out something. I have the phone number of your assistant. I will—”

I am shocked. “Troy? Troy is working with you?”

Orlov laughs. “Of course not. All I said was that I had his contact information. I have much information on you and your colleagues … and your son, young William.”

I am suddenly too sick to speak. My eyes feel hot and salty.

Orlov continues. “So here is how we will proceed. I will text this Troy person, and I will give him the address of where you and I might meet. A place. A time. Intimate. Secret. And please keep in mind that I know so very, very much. It would be silly for you to have a group of stupid New York cops hiding in the bushes.”

Orlov hangs up. The room fills with words like “Great job,” “Good setup,” “Very nice, very nice.”

But Leon Blumenthal knows that I am very scared—mostly for my boy, but also for my mom, my brother, for myself.

When the room empties, leaving only Blumenthal, Bobby Cilia, and me, Blumenthal says, “So what do you think, Lucy? Are you still willing to go through with the meeting, on your own?”

I simply nod my head in fear and confusion.

Blumenthal speaks quietly. “Depending on where Orlov wants to meet, we’ll have NYPD strategically placed … Not quite ‘hiding in the bushes,’ but hiding somewhere nearby. And of course we’ll work with a decoy or two, but you’re basically going to be on your own.”

I nod my head. It means two things at once: I understand and I’ll do it .

“Are you sure? We can always scrap this,” Blumenthal says.

My own cell phone rings. I answer. It’s Troy.

“Where are you, honey?” he asks.

“I’m back in New York,” I say softly.

“Well, you must be having one hot romance cooking, and it looks like I’m going to be your secret little helper. I just got a text, which I’ll read to you: Urgent. Tell Lucy. Meet me 3 AM Crane Hill Cemetery Sunnyside Equipment House 3. Thx 4 yr help. Boy Sam.”

“Thanks, Troy,” I say.

“This stuff makes sense to you, Lucy girl?” he asks. “Your man’s name is Sam?”

I don’t answer.

Troy speaks again. “I’m only asking, Lucy. Do you understand all this? Does this message make sense to you?”

“Yes,” I say. “It makes complete sense.”

CHAPTER 48

AT TWO THIRTY IN the morning an Uber drops me off at 48th Avenue in Sunnyside, Queens. I’ve been followed at a safe distance by two detectives in a dark-blue Toyota Camry. They’re followed—or so I’m told—by Leon Blumenthal, Bobby Cilia, and two FBI agents. God only knows what Russian is following them.

I’ve been fitted out with a wire. The wire is different from anything you or I have ever seen in a movie or TV show. It is just a piece of flat round metal with Velcro on the back. A minuscule bit of plastic protrudes from the rim. The whole deal is barely the size of a dime.

It is attached by the Velcro inside a pocket of my black jeans. The whole fastening procedure took about five seconds.

I walk the two long blocks to Crane Hill Cemetery. The streets are empty except for a truck unloading cases of laundry detergent in front of a Met Foodmarket. Closer to the cemetery gate are three young men. They look threatening, but I’m not afraid. I know that both the guy unloading the truck and the three gangland-looking guys are police decoys.

Bobby Cilia initially suggested the decoys be two cemetery groundskeepers and an elderly widow visiting her husband’s grave.

“Are you nuts?” was Blumenthal’s reaction. “At three in the morning only psychos are visiting graves.” The eager Cilia kid has a lot to learn.

I feel curiously … free? Like an actress on a big movie set. I wear a loose shirt and carry a very large purse. It holds nothing but dozens of make-believe files about make-believe babies.

I’ve thoroughly studied a detailed map of the cemetery, so when I pass through the entrance gate, I know exactly where to find Equipment House 3. I pretend to be confused. I look left and right and left and right and then I nod to myself, as if I’ve newly discovered the small, flat brick building where I’ve agreed to meet Orlov.

The big black painted wooden door is unlatched, and I walk into a very dark room.

Strangely enough, I’m not particularly frightened. I’m nauseated by the sickly smell of lawn chemicals and fresh-mown grass clippings and fertilizer, but it’s as if I’m walking through my dramatic acting class role, a woman in a cemetery. I’m just another actress in another movie. This room is just another movie set. The gaffers are about to move the lights. I’m rehearsing my lines. “Can I get you anything, Ms. Ryuan? A bottle of water?” says an imaginary assistant. My agent is betting on this one. Maybe … I’d better stop this craziness. Shit! I’m scared.

Back to reality. Should I look for a light switch? I run my hand over the wall near the door. All I get is a small but nasty splinter from the molding.

Then I am startled by a woman’s voice. I think it’s nearby.

“Please, Lucy Ryuan, you can go back where you came from,” comes the voice, which has a Slavic accent.

Now I’m scared. And confused. “Go back where you came from.” Does she mean West Virginia or Brooklyn or Gramatan Hospital?

“Where?” I say. My voice is urgent. Or I think it is urgent.

“Go to the outside. Go to the pathway and walk left. You will meet someone. You will hear a voice call to you,” she says.

“Orlov?” I ask.

No answer.

“Who is it?”

No answer.

“Is it Orlov? Tell me.”

I hear what sounds like a Russian word of exasperation, then, “Just do what you’re told, Lucy Ryuan.”

So I do what I’m told. At least I’m trying to do what I’m told. I leave the shed, and I follow the pathway. When I come to a barely discernible fork in the path, I hesitate. That’s when I realize the woman who gave me my initial instructions is still walking close behind me.

I hear her voice. “I told you to turn left. Don’t you listen?”