Джеймс Паттерсон - The Midwife Murders

CHAPTER 68

KEESHA CHECKS HER COMPUTER screen while two other nurses quickly check the wristbands on the other babies in the nursery, all of whom are awake and screeching.

Why is crying contagious?

“You’re right, Lucy. The alarm system is down,” Keesha says.

I look through the viewing window and see that the hallway outside is quickly filling up with security guards, patients, pregnant women, smiling visitors, NYPD officers, nurses, doctors. It’s Macy’s on Christmas Eve. It’s hell on earth.

In a few minutes Dr. Sarkar is pushing his way through the crowd. He’s wearing sneakers, navy-blue nylon shorts that go down to his knees, and a sweat-stained white T-shirt. It’s obvious to me that he’s just come from the hospital gym. Funny when you see someone out of uniform—in this case, no rep tie, no Paul Stuart blazer—he can seem so different, so like a stranger.

I tell Sarkar what’s just happened, and his face flushes with horror and fear. Then he immediately examines the baby’s wristband.

I, of course, am becoming very panicky and a little angry. Nothing ever happens fast enough for my liking.

“For Chrissake, Rudi. Don’t you think we’ve already looked at the wristbands? We assume the wristband ID monitor is down.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he says. Then he begins unfastening the baby’s shoulder brace. “So this is not the Morabito infant,” Sarkar says. “Then who is it?”

Jesus Christ! That’s a good question.

Fortunately, Keesha has a good answer. “We’re pretty certain it’s the Fontaine baby. We’re going to do a blood test and match footprints and fingerprints in a minute.”

“This brace wasn’t even put on properly,” Sarkar declares as he hastily pulls it off. “And it’s too big. Not that it matters here.”

“The nurse on duty said that you were the one who brought the doctor to apply the brace,” I say.

“I did,” he says. “I brought one of the residents. Veronica somebody or other. I don’t recall her last name.”

I am about to say the obvious, that we can immediately find out Veronica’s last name. But Sarkar is clearly concerned about the crisis in front of us right now.

“Lucy, make yourself useful and call Detective Blumenthal,” he says.

A police officer standing right next to Sarkar hears Sarkar’s request and says, “Don’t bother. Detective Blumenthal already knows. He’s on his way.”

So much for making myself useful.

Then I notice a familiar face in the crowd. Bobby Cilia has shown up. He’s organizing a dragnet throughout the hospital. We’ve been here before: janitor closets, pharmacies, bathrooms, ORs, ERs, supply closets.

Maybe it’ll work this time. Who knows? Maybe Bobby Cilia knows more about the whole situation than … Shit! In my brain everyone looks anywhere from shifty to evil to guilty, except, of course, me.

“Make sure we have enough men both in the basement and on the roof,” Cilia says. He talks into his cell phone. He seems to be saying “Okay” and “Got it” a lot.

Organizational decisions of who will do what and who will tell who are made. Officers get their instructions and disperse, but they’re soon replaced by new and different people. Officers, G-men, emergency medical techs.

From the far end of the nursery a nurse who is holding a clipboard yells, “People, people, we’re missing a baby. We’re missing Harman, six pounds, five ounces.” The nurse stops talking, pauses for a few seconds. Then she shouts, “We’re short one baby.”

The phrase “We’re short” feels as sharp as poison in my ear. The words. The word choice. It sounds so foolish, so much like We’re short of cash, We’re short of coffee, We’re short of paper . So simple. So stupid. I’ve got to hold it together. Now is definitely not the time to be a crazy person. My mind isn’t quite working right.

Maybe the baby who Keesha thinks is the Fontaine baby is actually the Harman baby. But with the Morabito baby missing … Why the hell is this sounding like a hideously unfunny riddle? Why is my head throbbing? Why are my eyes burning?

My confused thoughts are interrupted by one of the police officers. He thrusts a cell phone toward me and says, “It’s Detective Blumenthal. He wants you.”

I say, “Yes,” and Blumenthal starts jabbering.

“Listen, I’m going to loop you in on everything I know. I feel that I owe it to you.”

“No argument about that,” I say.

Damn it. I didn’t mean to be pouty or petulant. I meant to sound grateful. Wait, I meant to sound professional. No time to stop and explain.

“Listen,” he says.

Why does he always begin something he’s going to say to me with the word listen ? And why the hell should I care? “I’m listening,” I say.

“Tracy Anne’s former boyfriend showed up here a half hour ago. He was busting to talk. He knows a lot more shit than even Troy knows. According to the boyfriend, Tracy Anne kicked him out of her life last month, so he’s in a big get-even mood.”

“What’d you find out from him?” I ask, even as I’m wondering if Blumenthal can hear my voice over the siren of his car.

“Ask Cilia. He knows everything I know. Cilia was there for the whole interview. He’ll fill you in. Stay calm, Lucy. We can close in on this thing if we just trust each other.”

Click.

So much for long good-byes. And I’m suspicious about “trust each other.”

I immediately look around the room and spot Bobby Cilia. He’s talking to Dr. Sarkar. They’re close in, very face-to-face. I immediately join them.

“I just spoke to Blumenthal,” I say. “He says you can fill me in, Bobby.”

“He sure can, Lucy,” says Sarkar. “That’s what Assistant Detective Cilia just did for me. This story is incredible.”

“I’m ready,” I say.

But before Cilia can start talking, Sarkar looks at his watch. Then he says, “I’m going back to my office to change clothes. Then I’ll try calling our leader in hiding, Dr. Katz. Thanks for taking the time to report to me, Detective.” Then Sarkar is gone.

I look at Bobby and say, “Now would you repeat for me the same astonishing info you just shared with Sarkar?”

Bobby begins plowing through his material quickly, passionately, yet methodically.

“Here’s the deal. We had a very sweet conversation with Tracy Anne’s boyfriend. Tracy Anne recently dumped the guy, and he was more than happy to give up some pretty dramatic info on his former lady friend. He was one pissed-off former boyfriend. He even brought himself into the precinct. Once the guy started to talk, it looked like he might never shut up. The guy’s an out-of-work actor, but I don’t think he was acting with us. He was angry, angry as hell. Anyway, he knew everything that she was up to. Everything.”

“Does this guy have a name?” I ask.

“I think his name was Eric. Yeah, Eric, Eric Storm, a real actorlike name. Anyway, this Storm guy tells us that Tracy Anne and two ‘Russian assholes’—his words, not mine—had a racket going, supplying babies to rich couples up in Southern Westchester. It’s sort of what you and Detective Blumenthal suspected.

“Eric Storm says the town Tracy Anne always mentioned was Harrison. I named a few other rich-people towns up in Westchester, like Rye and Scarsdale. Eric said they sounded familiar but that Tracy used to say—more than once, mind you—Harrison was the ‘real gold mine.’ That’s the quote. A ‘real gold mine.’”

My turn to talk. “So I’ll bet your boss, the great Detective Blumenthal, is heading up to Harrison now.”

“You got it, lady,” says Cilia. “He’s already connected with the Harrison PD. Plus he’s taking along three guys from the FBI. They’ve connected with their counterparts in White Plains, the Westchester County seat. This thing is on fire, Lucy.”