Джеймс Паттерсон: The Midwife Murders

I look away from the doctor. He speaks.

“Do not be ashamed to cry, Lucy. It’s a sign that you are a very good midwife.”

CHAPTER 8

YOU KNOW HOW WHEN you’re tired and the tiredness is so tremendous, so achy, that all your mind’s eye can see is … a bed? A big bed, a soft bed, any freaking bed in the world? That’s the tiredness I’m feeling when I walk into my apartment at six o’clock.

The sight of Willie, and a big hug from Willie, revives me for a few seconds. Well, it doesn’t quite revive me; it just really, really comforts me. But it also reminds me that I’ve got to fix some supper for the boy.

Yeah, I could send him downstairs to Sabryna’s for a meal. But how many variations on Jamaican goat stew can a kid handle? He loves Sabryna, but her cooking is sometimes another matter.

“What’s for dinner, Mom?” he asks. I do notice that his question sounds a little too formal, a little too staged. He’s been practicing that question, and he’s up to something.

“Oh, the usual,” I say. “Lobster, roast beef, and Baked Alaska.”

“You know, you’re not too far from the truth,” he says, with a smile that could light most of Brooklyn. He walks a few steps to the cluttered yellow Formica table, the one that had been in my mother’s kitchenette when I was a kid. He sweeps away two paper napkins and reveals two dinner plates, each with a scoop of tuna-mayonnaise salad, a wedge of iceberg lettuce covered in a bright pink sauce—Russian dressing … or did he injure himself cutting the lettuce?—and neatly buttered slices of toast with the crusts removed.

“You are an amazing sous chef, Willie. Just amazing,” I say.

“No, Mom. A sous chef is an assistant. I’m the guy in charge of the cold food course. I’m the chef garde manger .”

When you’ve got a nine-year-old who knows what a chef garde manger is, you’ve got a perfect kid or a future Emeril Lagasse … or both.

Everything about this little supper is perfect. It even erases my incredible tiredness. At least for a minute. But when the first forkful of tuna feels heavy in my hand, and when the first gulp of apple juice nauseates me, I hallucinate about the bed once more.

“Häagen-Dazs chocolate for dessert, Mom,” he says.

I smile, too exhausted to talk.

And then, the phone.

“Lemme get it,” Willie says.

“Only if you know how to deliver babies,” I say weakly.

“I’m a quick learner,” he says. He hands me my cell phone.

“Lucy, it’s Troy,” comes Troy’s voice.

“What’s up, buddy?” I ask. “I’m tired top to bottom. I’m about to pass out.”

“I just wanted you to know … Well, it can wait.”

“Don’t mess with me, Troy. Why’d you call?”

Then he spits it out: “Another baby’s gone missing.”

I don’t scream. I don’t speak. I don’t move. Instead, I cry. That’s it. I just start to cry.

Why? Why the hell? What’s happening? I should go in. I will go in. I’ll call an Uber. I’ll expense it. But I’m still crying.

“Lucy, you okay?” Troy says.

“No, I’m not okay,” I say quietly. “But I will come in.”

I glance over at the folded-out foldout couch. Then I look down at the crazy pink river of Russian dressing. Then I look at Willie, who’s staring intently at me.

“Mom, you gotta choose the right thing,” he says.

Like I said, he might just be perfect.

“You’re right,” I say. I stand up from the table.

Then I walk to the foldout and almost fall onto it.

Willie smiles. “Good choice, Mom.”

CHAPTER 9

I’M BACK AT GRAMATAN University Hospital the next morning. Early. The chaos and crowds on the sidewalks and entrance roads are overwhelming. It looks as if every newsperson in New York City has shown up to cover the scene. Yep, I guess my boss, Dr. Barrett Katz, could not keep news of the second missing baby under wraps.

“Are you on staff here at the hospital?” asks a preppy-looking guy outside the employees’ entrance to GUH. I assume he’s a reporter.

“Sure am,” I say.

Then, as I begin to walk away, he calls out loud and nasty, “Just hold it, lady. I need ID.”

I hand the preppy-looking guy my ID. He studies it.

“Your department?” he asks.

“I work in the cafeteria. I make the baloney sandwiches for lunch. One-third of them with mayo, one-third with mustard, one-third plain.”

A few other Gramatan employees are backed up behind me.

“Your attitude isn’t helping the situation, ma’am,” the guy says. And you know what? He’s right. I’m acting exactly like the kind of asshole I’d hate to be talking to.

“Sorry, man. I’m just cranky.” A pause. “I’m with the Midwifery Division.”

It’s a good thing I changed my tune. As I slip my ID back inside my wallet, I notice that two NYPD officers are standing on either side of me. They’ve been taking in my whole act.

“Sorry,” I say.

Then I see the all-too-familiar sight of Dr. Katz and Dr. Sarkar. They’re precisely where I saw them yesterday, doing their usual job: stopping hospital staff and giving them instructions.

My turn.

“Ms. Ryuan, I’ll be perfectly happy if you give out absolutely no information to the media,” says the very harassed Dr. Katz.

“Your happiness is always my goal, Doctor,” I say. I see that a small smile has invaded Sarkar’s lips. Katz ignores the sarcasm. He’s become very good at ignoring me.

“I noticed that you couldn’t even check in without making a scene, Ms. Ryuan. The time has come for you to learn a little respect,” Katz says.

“And I guess you’ll be the one to teach me respect?” I say.

Katz storms off.

I’m sure this is doing wonders for my career. The hell with it. If he ever touches me, I’ll have ten lawyers, all women.

Now Dr. Sarkar decides to speak. But of course before he talks, he, too, does the traditional eye roll. “Lucy, Dr. Katz is under a lot of pressure. Be nice.”

“To whom? To him? Obviously his solution to this horrendous, heartbreaking, terrible problem is to hire a lot more security people and warn us not to talk to the media. The media—for God’s sake—can be helpful. People go online. People watch TV. The people—those folks out there—might have information to help us.”

“Of course you’re right. I understand. I agree. There’s going to be a directors’ meeting in a half hour. I’m sure some of the directors will get Dr. Katz to cool down a bit. He’s been awake for twenty-four hours.”

I shake my head gently, and once again I try to find the kind-and-helpful me inside the rude-and-impatient me. “Okay, okay. What can I do to help?” I ask.

“Do what you usually do—just do a great job.”

“Dr. Sarkar, I—”

“Rudi,” he says.

Okay, he calls me Lucy. I should call him Rudi.

“Look. I get it. I really do get it. Katz is thinking about the hospital, its reputation, the bad PR. But you know what I’m thinking about?”

“Yes, I do. You’re thinking about the missing babies,” he says.

Hmmm. Bingo. Sarkar apparently has a good brain on top of that handsome face of his.

“That’s it. Rudi, there are two stolen babies out there—alone, starting life with who knows what kind of maniacs. There are two mothers right here, in this hospital, crying, aching, ready to die for their babies, ready to do anything to get them back.”

Sarkar nods. He’s grim. Then he says, “There’s a police and detective setup down in the residents’ cafeteria. It’s pretty impressive—computers, a lead detective, a few assistant detectives, a big group. NYPD is taking this very seriously.”