Джеймс Паттерсон - The Midwife Murders

Meanwhile, lunch is getting cold. Moreno returns to the table, breaks open a can of Coke, and tells Restropo, “Just some stupid fender bender.”

No sooner has Moreno taken a gulp of his Coke than they hear the clear, clean whizz of a bullet and the sound of the crowd yelling. Both cops jump up and run to the window.

The Toyota driver is on the ground, bleeding from his right thigh—not a great location to take a bullet. As the two cop partners rush out the restaurant door, Restropo notices the woman quickly place the infant into the arms of one of her companions. The woman then begins to run east on Northern Boulevard. The two NYPD officers are more concerned with the wounded man on the ground and the crowd around him.

The expected “Stand back! Stand back, everybody!” Then the expected call for “Significant backup. Urgent. 8015 Northern Boulevard, Jackson Heights. Urgent. Shooting. No fatalities.”

God bless 911. Paramedics show up in five minutes. The female paramedic cuts the wounded man’s pants leg at mid-thigh while her partner begins tight-suturing near the wound. Another paramedic fixes an oxygen mask on the wounded guy, then secures his head in a neck brace.

Moreno and Restropo try to sort out the scene. The cast of characters: two men—a good-looking blond and a heavyset guy in a dirty white shirt and a pair of baggy black pants. The blond guy is holding the baby.

“The woman shot the driver,” says a teenage boy, pointing to the victim on the ground. “She shot him and ran like hell, over that way.” He points in a general easterly direction.

“That’s bullshit,” says the blond man. “Someone in this crowd shot him.”

Restropo and Moreno work fast. The hell with lunch. By now the Coke will be warm and the fried cutlet will be soggy. Restropo calls in an APB and gives the description of the runaway woman to the police desk: “short black skirt, white shirt, red shoes. A little on the fat side, I guess.”

“Fuck that!” yells the blond guy. “Check the crowd right here for weapons.”

Yes, the blond guy, the guy holding the baby, the guy yelling, he has a slight accent.

Moreno kneels next to the female paramedic. She gives him an update on the wounded man’s condition. “He’s gonna be okay. Whoever shot him missed the femoral.” Sirens. More sirens. Another ambulance. Two more patrol cars. A social worker takes the infant.

“We’re taking the baby to the hospital for tests.” The social worker gets into the second ambulance.

One of the newly arrived officers moves to the rear of the big Mercedes, then throws a thumb signal to Restropo. “Come here,” he says. Then he shows Restropo the screen of his cell phone: FRAGMENT PLATE W7 at child abduction? Check.

Restropo looks down at the actual license plate. W7656445.

“Holy shit,” says the new cop on the scene. “Looks like you and Moreno landed a big one.”

And they have. Fyodor Orlov is under arrest. The driver, the big guy in white shirt and black pants, is also booked. Best of all, Valerina Gomez’s baby is safe.

Only Nina, the female accomplice, is still on the loose.

CHAPTER 56

I GET A TWO-CAR police escort from the Brooklyn Children’s Museum to Gramatan University Hospital in midtown. I am beyond nervous: I am numb with fear.

Halfway over the Brooklyn Bridge the PD radio blasts the news: they’ve got Orlov in custody. We also learn that Valerina’s baby will be getting a total medical examination. They’re bringing the baby over to GUH. Very thorough, very top-level. Top-flight pediatricians. Blood pressure, cardiogram, blood tests. The works. I’m still numb, but happy numb, almost like being stoned.

As soon as the car arrives at GUH, we jump out and rush like mad to one of the pediatric examination rooms. This is a big deal, real big. Along with three pediatricians, they’ve got a hematologist, two cardiologists, even a dermatologist, for God’s sake, for my sake, for Tyonna’s sake. Also in the examination room are a social worker, two NYPD officers, and—whaddya know—Leon Blumenthal.

“This baby made it through like a star,” one of the pediatricians tells me.

I’d still like to slap Blumenthal’s face, but I figure one of us has to speak first. And it looks like it’s going to be me.

“I’ve got to call Sabryna,” I say.

Blumenthal nods. It’s quite the conversation.

Then I tap Sabryna’s number on my cell phone. She’s somewhere between frantic and furious.

“Whaddya do with the baby, Lucy, take her on a boat to China?” she says. “Tyonna is my responsibility. Where is she?”

“I should have called. I’m sorry. Tyonna’s at the hospital, my hospital, GUH, with me. Everything’s fine,” I say.

“Well, why wouldn’t everything be fine?” asks Sabryna. “How come you brought her into the city?” she asks, the word city being every Brooklynite’s name for Manhattan.

“No special reason. I wanted to look in on a few things, and I thought Tyonna might want to see where she was born.”

Where’d that come from? I’m just not good at the task of lying.

“I think you’re a crazy lady, Lucy. You better get her back here right now,” says Sabryna. “You hear me, crazy lady? Right now.” Oh, Sabryna’s angry, but I can tell that she may be calming down a bit. She’s most likely pleased that Tyonna is good.

“I’ll be back there in Crown Heights in less than an hour. I’m sorry. I lost track of time.” Then we say good-bye. Well, I say good-bye. Sabryna hangs up the phone.

I watch a nurse give the baby a sponge bath, put a clean diaper on her, and rub cream on the baby’s pudgy little legs. Then finally Blumenthal speaks.

“Lucky Lucy,” he says.

“What?” I say.

“Lucky Lucy. If you were a boat, that’s what we’d name the boat.” For good measure he repeats the name of the make-believe boat: “Lucky Lucy.”

“Lucky?” I say angrily. “Two goddamn days in a row I’ve been mugged!”

“And two goddamn days in a row you beat the odds. You got away with a little scratch in Penn Station, and this second time around you still got only a scratch, and—thank you very much—we ended up getting one of the kidnappers.”

If I needed further proof that there is a world of difference between Lucy Ryuan and Leon Blumenthal, this is it. To me my experiences were near-death deals; to him they were business as usual .

I am about to call him a stupid son of a bitch when Assistant Detective Bobby Cilia walks into the room. Cilia looks back and forth between Blumenthal and me. Then he starts talking. “The driver’s a wash. Seems to know absolutely nothing, but we’ll see. We can’t get shit out of Orlov. I was with him a half hour in the car and he just kept his mouth shut and stared straight out into space.”

Blumenthal says, “I’ll be at the precinct in fifteen minutes. We’ll work on Orlov there.”

“You’ll work on him ?” I ask.

“Yes,” says Blumenthal. “You think I’m talking waterboarding here? No, Lucy. Certainly not that extreme. But we need to find out everything he knows.” He pauses, then says, “Are you ever going to trust me?”

“I’d like my answer to be yes,” I say.

Then Blumenthal turns to look directly at me. “Okay, enough. Is there anything else you and I need to talk about?” Blumenthal doesn’t really wait for my answer. He simply answers his own question: “No. I don’t think so. The two cops who handled the Queens accident from the get-go are talking to my people. And we’ve got Queens and Long Island covered for a sign of this Nina woman.”

A pediatrician approaches. She’s carrying Tyonna. The doctor looks first at Blumenthal, then at me. Blumenthal holds up both his hands in the not me position.