Джеймс Паттерсон - The Midwife Murders

I say, “But they said nothing … they …”

“We’re going to get them,” Blumenthal says. “You’ll see.”

“We’re going to get them”? “Terrific”? What the hell?

I guess I’ll never understand police work.

CHAPTER 50

AFTER A FEW HOURS of rough sleep, I’m tired as hell the rest of the day. And I’m not in the mood for big decisions. The only significant choice I make is to wear my eyeglasses instead of my contacts. On the subway into Manhattan, I miraculously get a seat, and I miraculously make it to Gramatan University Hospital without falling asleep in that seat.

I notice six NYPD officers instead of the usual three standing outside the main entrance. I also can’t help but notice a small crowd of spectators and a larger crowd of TV cameras.

I head for the employees’ entrance. Only two officers are there. Inside I have to show my hospital ID to two different check-in detectives. I also get to be frisked (first time that’s ever happened here) by a woman with a security wand. The rear entrance lobby is crowded with the usual mix of nurses and orderlies and doctors.

“Over here,” I hear, Tracy Anne’s voice.

I quickly find her face in the group. She’s standing with Dr. Sarkar. He’s wearing his white coat with his official badge: R SARKAR, CHIEF OB-GYN.

“What the hell’s happened now?” I ask. I’m ashamed to admit that I wish I had worn my contacts.

Tracy Anne looks bad—bad under any conditions but particularly bad for her. Her hair, which is always, always, always perfect, is a total grease-bag of loose ends and frizz. Tracy Anne and Sarkar look at each other. Then Tracy Anne looks at me.

“You haven’t heard?” she half asks, half states.

“Two more infants have gone missing,” adds Sarkar.

Anger erupts in me. “‘Gone missing’ sounds like the newborns got up and walked out on their own. Don’t use those words. Call it what the media calls it. Say they’ve been kidnapped or stolen.”

“Lucy, you’re exhausted. From last night at the cemetery,” Sarkar says.

Before he can continue, I say, “Last night? How the hell do you know about last night?”

“Leon Blumenthal told me,” he says.

Tracy looks away from the two of us, as if she’s heard something she should not have heard. I’ll have this confidentiality argument in a moment, but for now I have a more important question.

“Does Blumenthal know about this latest kidnapping yet?” I ask.

“Yes, we called him immediately, around three thirty this morning, when the incident was reported to Security,” says Sarkar.

So Blumenthal knew about this while he was watching me with Orlov and Nina. He knew this when he was hugging me and congratulating me, when he told me I had been “absolutely terrific.” And then Bobby Cilia drove me home while Blumenthal rushed back to GUH to jump into the new kidnapping investigation. And I was snoozing alongside The Duke in my apartment? Son of a bitch!

“Who are the babies? Who are the mothers? What’s the situation?” I say as fiercely as I can.

“They’re twins,” says Tracy Anne. “Twin boys. They came in at good weights. They were a planned C-section because they were a multiple. You know the mother, Dolly Korest. She and the husband are … like … like … your perfect Upper East Side couple. They’re—”

Sarkar jumps in. “The Korests are apoplectic, as you might expect.”

“Yeah, as I might expect,” I say.

The lobby suddenly seems much more crowded than when I first walked in. It’s also far noisier. All these people seem to be walking faster than normal. I’m used to the pace and the crowd of GUH. When you work at GUH—or any big hospital complex, for that matter—you get used to big crowds. It is a place with hundreds of doctors and med students and nurses, thousands of patients, visitors, technicians, custodians, cooks, ER people, paramedics, ambulance drivers, physiotherapists.

But this? This looks almost like a crowd surging out of a stadium after a football game. I feel as if the crowd is pressing in on Sarkar and Tracy Anne and me. Then, another surprise from the crowd. They all begin parting into two groups, forming a sort of cleared passage in the middle. I look at the central point of the passage and see Leon Blumenthal walking quickly. Next to Blumenthal, trying to keep up with him, is Dr. Barrett Katz. Katz is in his usual blue Brooks Brothers button-down shirt, but his tie is askew, his collar unbuttoned. His suit jacket is missing. I realize I’ve never seen our CEO without a suit jacket before. On the other side of Katz is a uniformed police officer, a woman. Behind this officer is another officer, a man. It seems as if everyone but this group of four is holding a cell phone in the air. It looks like all the phone cameras are aimed at Dr. Katz.

I break through my area of the crowd, and I rush toward Blumenthal and Katz. I push myself into Blumenthal’s face. Katz and the officers look at the two of us, but they keep on moving.

“Not now, Lucy,” Blumenthal says. He tries to move past me, but I stand firmly in front of him. He bumps into me. But I’m going to hold my ground.

“What’s happening, Detective?” I ask.

“I’ve got to go,” he says. He looks over my head. I assume he’s looking for Katz and his escorts. Then I realize that Blumenthal and I have attracted attention, a small group of men and women with cell phone cameras and other recorders are aiming them at us.

I say as quietly as I can, “You lied to me last night. There were two other babies taken … kidnapped. You knew that. And you sent me home like a little kid.”

He grabs me by the shoulders. “I sent you home because you were exhausted and confused and in a state of shock. I did it for you,” he says.

“That’s bullshit,” I say. I know he’s lying. But I’m exploding with questions.

“Whatever’s happening with Katz, does this have to do with the missing babies?” I ask.

Blumenthal says nothing. Then comes a barrage of questions from the small group of reporters who have not followed Katz but instead stayed to watch Blumenthal and me.

“Can you tell us what this is all about, miss?”

“What’s your role in the unfolding story here?”

“I understand you’re the supervising midwife.”

My own cell phone is suddenly alive with texts.

One from Blumenthal.

Will xplain all Trust me LB

One from Troy.

Teen girl w preemie need u or TracyA NOW T

And one from my mother. Mom’s text is, of course, written like a letter.

Hi, Lucy. Willie boarded the Pittsburgh train at 7:30. It arrives at Penn Station at 4:56 this evening. All is well. I think Willie has a bit of a cold. He says he doesn’t. Kids! He’s as stubborn as you were when you were his age. OOXX, Mom.

CHAPTER 51

I’VE ONLY BEEN TO Penn Station about two million times, and every time I’m there it looks uglier than the time before. Trash cans overflow. Fluorescent lights flicker on and off. I read a newspaper article that they don’t fix the broken chairs in the waiting room because they think they’re going to rebuild the entire station soon. Great idea, but I’m pretty sure I read that article about fifteen years ago.

I’m early to meet Willie’s train. It’s scheduled to arrive at 4:56, and I’m there at 4:54. For me, that’s early. I look at the ARRIVALS board and see that it’s listed at TRACK 12 ON TIME. On time? This must be my lucky day. And it is, until I arrive at track 12 and see a large handwritten sign by the ARRIVALS board.

TRACK CHANGE. PITTSBURGH 4:56 ARRIVAL

NOW 5:10

TRACK 17

Story of my life. Too good to be true. Eventually, after a search that sent me from one staircase to another, I am standing outside track 17, which bears another handwritten sign: PITTSBURGH ARRIVAL. That’s it. Four other people seem to be waiting—an old man in a heavy black woolen coat, a young black woman in what appears to be native African dress, and two teenage boys smoking some very unpleasant-smelling weed.