Джеймс Паттерсон - The Midwife Murders

Tyonna smiles. No one else would be able to know that she’s smiling, but I can see it. And I tell her.

“I see that smile. Yes, I see that smile. I do.”

It’s early afternoon, and soon Tyonna and I are sitting in that same Brower Park on a metal bench, a foolish modern design with no back to lean against. I take a bottle of baby formula out of the insulated bag. It’s been resting against an ice pack, and I worry that now the bottle may be too cold. I rub the bottle against my arm.

I can almost hear my mother say, “Stop worrying about it. Just go ahead. She’ll take the bottle. The baby knows what’s best for her. Don’t wait till she starts fussing.”

My mother, even absent, is right. Tyonna happily takes the bottle. She’s hungry.

I hold the baby close to me. I tap her back gently. The burp. Oh, the wonderful sound of the baby’s burp.

I see if she wants some more. No. I try for another burp, but she’s done.

On this summer day, even here in the shade, the heat is oppressive. I look around and see people surrendering to the heat—women fanning themselves, men with bandanas around their foreheads, people pouring cold beers down their throats. But I also see children defying the heat—shirtless boys playing soccer, girls and boys jumping, splashing, screaming under the spray sprinkler.

“You want to go swimming, Peanut?” I say. I touch her nose again. “How about we go for a quick dip in the sprinkler to cool off, and then we’ll go into the museum and get changed, and then we’ll head home to see Auntie Sabryna.” The auntie title is my idea. Sabryna will go for it. I think.

CHAPTER 54

TYONNA AND I HEAD on over to the spray sprinkler area. I put the diaper bag in easy reach and easy view of where we’ll be standing. We stand only a foot away from the edge of the small drainage outlet.

“Let’s get wet!” I say to Tyonna.

I hold Tyonna precisely the way I held Willie when he was a baby, so the water doesn’t sprinkle on her directly. The spray hits my face and hair, and I shake my head so a few drops fall on the baby. I swear that I see Tyonna smile. I swear I hear her chuckle over the noise of children squealing and steel drums clanking.

Then it happens.

Sometimes people say, “It happened so fast that I don’t really remember how it happened.”

How can that be? I know everything that goes on around me. I do. I really do. But I am wrong. It erupts so quickly, so horribly, that I don’t precisely remember how it even started.

I see the two of them—a blond man in a light-gray suit, a woman in a tight black skirt and high-heeled shoes. They stand at the edge of the sprinkler area. They are initially right next to our diaper bag. Then the man in the suit walks toward me. The sprinkler water cascades on the man in the suit. A few people from the crowd watch the pair getting wet.

I know them. The vaguely handsome man—yes, it’s Orlov. Then I recognize the woman’s shoes before I actually recognize the woman. I hold the baby closer. I eye the diaper bag at the water’s edge.

Orlov is near me. Orlov is now next to me. I hold Tyonna even closer. She is crying.

“Hold that baby, tightly, Miss Ryuan. Try to quiet her down, if you will. And please remain quiet yourself.”

In this split second I am certain that I see sympathy in Nina’s eyes.

So make a scene. What difference will it make if I scream? And then I see the difference.

Orlov holds and hides a knife in the palm of his hand. I know almost nothing about knives, but I happen to know that this one is a Laguiole en Aubrac Shepherd’s Knife. It is a favorite glamorous Christmas gift for dads and big brothers back in Walkers Pasture. The knife is both sharp and beautiful. It is especially grotesque when held near Tyonna’s beautiful little face. My mind flashes to Tyonna’s neck sliced almost through, her tiny head dangling from her tiny shoulders.

I look at the woman. “How can you, Nina? Are you a mother? Don’t do this.” For a second, she locks her eyes with mine. I think I see understanding.

Nina says something in Russian to Orlov. I, of course, have no idea what her words mean, but as Orlov answers her I find the courage that only real fear can bring on: my voice memo app is, as almost always, open and easily accessed, since I use it frequently to take notes about patients. So I slip my hand into the pocket of my shorts and press the Record button.

At least I think I do. I hope I do.

Orlov and Nina exchange a few angry sentences in Russian. And then—

And then suddenly I wake up on the concrete ground. My face is swollen. My right knee aches. Tyonna is gone.

A young woman helps me sit up. Then I struggle to my feet. My knee feels as if it’s on fire.

I can see Orlov and Nina in the distance. They are not running, but they are walking fast, disappearing fast. I should scream for help. But the knife …

I have no chance of catching up to them, but I stand and hobble in their direction. I watch Nina and Orlov slip into the back seat of a big black car.

I stand where I am and cry. I am trembling. I am cold and wet and hot and dry, all at once. Strangers have gathered around me. A few of them have already called 911. In the mumble-grumble of the crowd, I hear, “The baby. The woman had a baby.” And “They took the baby. They took this woman’s baby.” I am crying.

For the first time I am in a total panic. I am alone. I screwed up so badly.

A young black man is speaking to me. “I got just the beginning, the beginning of the license plate is ‘W7.’ That’s all I got. I’m sorry.”

Me, too. W7. That’s all I got.

CHAPTER 55

Leños Bar Restaurant

Jackson Heights, Queens, New York

OFFICER DIAS RESTROPO AND Officer Matias Moreno are partners. No, not in the marriage sense of the word partners . They are just two ordinary guys, two ordinary cops. If asked, they would tell you so. They would say simply: “We’re just cops. Not good cops. Not bad cops. Just cops.” If asked how good the Restropo-Moreno team is, their sergeant would give them the most common Yelp review: “Good but not great.”

Restropo and Moreno patrol the area between Roosevelt Avenue to the south and Grand Central Parkway to the north. An occasional free Colombian lunch at Leños Bar Restaurant is as close to a kickback as they ever take.

They both come from South American families, both are Colombian, and they think today would be a fine time to tap Dias Diego, the owner of Leños, for a nice meal of chuleta valluna, the deep-fried pork dish that is perfect when paired with a cold Coke and a large order of red beans and rice.

Before the fried pork arrives, Dias Diego visits the police officers’ table.

“I don’t know whether this is of interest to you, mis amigos, but there’s been an automobile accident across the street. Nothing serious. You can take a look at it from the window near the bar.”

Both Restropo and Moreno have a similar thought: in the time it will take them to walk to the window, evaluate the situation, and, God forbid, go out and get involved, the crispy breaded crust of the chuleta will be soggy, and crispness is the whole delicious deal. So they do what they often do: they shoot Rock, Paper, Scissors—best two out of three. Moreno loses. And moments later he is standing next to the neon Schlitz sign at the front window, watching a small crowd gather around a black Mercedes S500. From Moreno’s deduction, it looks like the Mercedes sideswiped a light-green gypsy cab, a nondescript Toyota. The Toyota driver is arguing with the people from the Mercedes: two men, along with a woman who is holding an infant.