The Midwife Murders

by James Patterson

  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.

  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.

  “The baby goes to Ms. Ryuan,” he says. Then he speaks directly to me, “Get her back to Sabryna as fast as you can. I’ll get someone to drive you. And take another day of R and R.”

  I want to say, “Don’t you dare tell me what to do, asshole. You’re not my boss,” but instead I take the sweet-looking, sweet-smelling baby and brush her face gently.

  Then I reach into my pocket and remove my cell phone, the phone that has the recording of Orlov and Nina. I’m now holding the baby against me with one arm and holding the phone in the hand of the other arm.

  “Will you take the baby, Detective?” I say.

  You’d think I’d asked Blumenthal to hold a grenade.

  “Babies don’t like me. In fact, they hate me.”

  I don’t even bother saying “I’m not surprised.” I’m sure Blumenthal knows that I’m thinking it.

  I manage to press some buttons on my phone.

  “What’s up, Lucy?” he says.

  “What’s up is the recording I sent you just this second. When I’m out of here, give it a listen.”

  “Give me a preview,” he says.

  “No,” I say. “I’ve got a baby who needs a nap.” Then, as the baby and I head toward the door, I say, “Oh, and, by the way, when you listen to the recording, be sure to have a Russian language translator standing by.”

  CHAPTER 57

  “YOU TAKE MY BABY out for a walk and where’d you walk her? Africa? Canada? Nicaragua?”

  “Are all your guesses going to be countries that end with the letter a?” I say.

  Understandably, Sabryna does not appreciate my humor.

  Loudly she says, “Where you been, lady?”

  Here we go. Sabryna is pissed. So much for my thinking that she calmed down. I can’t say that I blame her. I move to hand her the baby. Sabryna reaches out to me and quickly pulls Tyonna into her own arms.

  “Come on, Lucy. Start your confession. You owe me a fine explanation.”

  I am just no good at lying. When I tell someone a lie, he or she always knows I’m lying. My voice becomes sing-song. My eyes look everywhere except into the other person’s eyes.

  “It’s like I told you. I got a call from the hospital. They were backed up. I thought it wouldn’t do any harm to go there and take the baby with me.”

  “Well, you thought stupid,” says Sabryna. “All’s you have to do is call me on your phone and tell me what’s happening. I worried so’s my head was bursting until I heard from you. And I’m not too sure that I’m believing your story even now.”

  Oh, shit. I knew this wasn’t going to work.

  “Tyonna had a great time at the hospital. You know, with all the other babies.”

  Sabryna tilts her head. Her forehead wrinkles with a quizzical expression. “What in hell’s wrong with you, Lucy? They’re stealing babies like they were candy bars in my store, and you go bringing Tyonna to a hospital, the place where they’re doing the stealing.”

  Okay, my mother was right. Once you tell a lie you end up drowning in it. And, sweet Lord, I am twenty feet underwater.

  “Okay, okay. I was wrong.”

  No response from Sabryna. But I’m coming up for air.

  “In any case, I’m sorry. But tell me. How did Willie and Devan do?” I ask.

  “They did just fine. Willie is up in your place sleeping. Don’t worry. I checked up on him thirty minutes ago. He’s fine. Unlike some people, I’m a very reliable caregiver.”

  Sabryna could not have said that last sentence any more emphatically.

  “And where’s Devan?” I ask.

  “He’s out with his friends, Warren and Kwame. They’re older boys. I wouldn’t let Willie go with them. Because I’m—”

  I cut her off and say the line for her. “I know … because you’re a very reliable caregiver.”

  She ignores that. No laughing. No smiling. No comment.

  “When did this baby eat last?” Sabryna asks.

  “I fed her just before I left GUH. Her belly’s full.”

  “Yeah,” says Sabryna. “She fell asleep the second she was in my arms. She must be real tired … after her day with all that traveling.”

  I’m not going for the bait. Then suddenly Sabryna speaks fairly loudly, a note of alarm in her voice. “Sweet Jesus! What’s this red mark on her poor little foot?”

  I look. I know exactly what Sabryna has seen. It’s a minuscule dot where the GUH nurse took a drop of blood for testing.

  “I don’t see anything,” I say.

  I’ve got to get out of here. I cannot keep up this lying any longer. This is not my talent. I’m going to crack.

  I suddenly remember that there’s a small bandage on the back of my neck from the bad fall I took at the playground sprinkler. I check with my hand to make sure my hair is covering it.

  “Anyway,” I say, “I’m going to go upstairs, see how Willie’s doing. Then I need to get some sleep. I’m exhausted.”

  “And I’ll put this little one down,” says Sabryna.

  “Listen,” I say. “I’m sorry I caused you so much worry.”

  “And I’m sorry that I went off at you,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I say, and I give Sabryna and Tyonna each a gentle kiss.

  “But just so you know,” Sabryna says, “I know there’s more to today’s story than what you’re telling me. I’ll get it out of you.”

  “I’m sure you will.” And I really am sure she will.

  CHAPTER 58

  I CLIMB THE STAIRS to my apartment, where The Duke barely opens his eyes to greet me. Of course the first thing I do is check on Willie.

  All is well. He has fallen asleep with his Nintendo Switch console. I once told him that he should just have that damned thing surgically attached to his hand. He actually said that was a “great idea.” I think he was joking.

  I take a shower and wash my hair. I think about putting moisturizer on my face. I think about emptying the dishwasher. I think about … Who the hell am I kidding? I’m just too damned exhausted to do anything but go to bed.

  I glance at the open sleeper sofa. All I’ve got to do is clear away a few piles of clothing, a half empty container of chicken lo mein, a laptop, one television remote control, one Roku control, and assorted snail mail. Instead of trying to find the energy to clear an actual space for myself on the bed I fall onto a small pile of sweatshirts (clean sweatshirts, by the way).

  And of course all of a sudden, precisely when I close my eyes, I feel wide-awake. And of course I can think of nothing but the kidnapping and mugging at the park. I see Orlov, his white-blond hair, his firm grip on Tyonna. I see Nina’s fashionably unfashionable shoes. I can almost feel the sprinkler water on my face. I see Tyonna’s happy little face. Then the knife, I see Orlov’s knife.

  I’ve got to stop. I’ve got to sleep.

  Instead I see the black Mercedes pulling away. I watch Blumenthal’s cold, unmoving face as he icily orders me around. I worry about Sabryna and our friendship. I haven’t had a friend as close as Sabryna since grammar school.

  I consider popping an Ambien. I consider popping a Xanax. I consider pouring myself a small glass of special-occasion Chivas. Then a brainstorm, what the shrinks call a breakthrough.

  I realize what might really put me at peace: knowing what Orlov and Nina said to each other
in that recorded conversation.

  I grab my cell phone and call Leon Blumenthal.

  “Lucy, what are you calling for?”

  No hello. Just that.

  “This is important,” I say. “Did you get that Russian conversation between Orlov and Nina translated?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “So what were they saying?”

  There is a pause.

  “What were they saying?” I repeat.

  There is a shorter pause. Then Blumenthal speaks. His voice is quick and quiet. “I can’t tell you. It’s classified.”

  “I can’t believe you said that. You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “No, I’m not kidding.”

  “Well, just give me a general idea of the conversation.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t,” he says.

  “You’re not sorry,” I say. “You’re just an asshole.”

  “Lucy, listen … this is official NYPD info. This—”

  “‘Official NYPD info’ … Bullshit. And even if it is ‘official,’ it’s NYPD info that I supplied,” I shout.

  I’m furious. I call him an asshole once more. I stammer a bit and say, “This was my information.”

  My voice is so loud that I’ve woken Willie. He and his game console are standing at the bedroom door. I click off my phone and take Willie into my arms. We hug.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” I say. “Mom was having an argument.”

  “Yeah, I sorta thought so.”

  “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “I’m not,” he says.

  Then I walk him back to his room.

  As I tuck Willie under the sheet, I get an idea, a very smart idea.

  CHAPTER 59

  AFTER I FINALLY MANAGE some sleep, at 5 a.m. I text Sabryna.

  Please keep an eye on Willie. I’ve got something really important I must do.

  Of course Sabryna’s already awake, down in the shop. She texts back.

  No problem. Go solve your problems, lady.

  At 7 a.m., I’m getting off the Q train. The air is warm, misty, yet strangely refreshing. I’m only a few blocks from the Atlantic Ocean.