The Midwife Murders Read online

  Even at this early hour a few hundred people are sitting or running on the boardwalk at Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. This area of Coney Island is called Little Odessa because Odessa is where many of the first immigrants hailed from—at least that’s what I was once told. Now the immigrants come from all parts of Russia. It is crowded and busy and very foreign, very, well, Russian.

  I walk along the boardwalk. On my left is the beach, where later in the day the older heavy women will be wearing one-piece black bathing suits with little black skirts attached. Some of these old girls will even wear old-fashioned rubber bathing caps. The shapely younger women will be wearing barely-there bikinis. To my right are the shops and restaurants, most of them now shuttered.

  No, I am not here to look for Nina, and I’m certainly not looking for anyone who might be her hidden accomplices. I am also not looking for men in cheap suits, men who might be members of the Russian mafia.

  I am looking for a fish store, called Seafood King. When I find that fish store, I should also find Irina and Nik, the owners. Irina is a mother whose baby I helped deliver about two years ago. It was a tough birth, almost fifteen hours of labor. When it was time for Troy to relieve me, Irina and Nik pleaded with me to stay. Irina said I was her good luck charm. I agreed to stay. The result? A midwife almost as exhausted as the mother. And a terrific baby boy, Pavel, nine pounds, two ounces. Ouch.

  According to Google Maps, Seafood King is near the water and not far from the New York Aquarium. I see the aquarium ahead. Seafood King should be just off the boardwalk on the right.

  Yes!

  Irina is at the wooden display cases in front of the store. She shovels heaping loads of chopped ice on top of the flounder and bluefish and shrimp. I call to her, and she freezes in place. It’s how I imagine the saints reacted when the Blessed Virgin appeared to them. Her eyes are wide open. Her hands cover her mouth.

  I rush toward her. “Yes, it’s me. It’s Lucy!” I shout.

  “Gospodi pomilui,” she shouts back at me. It means “God have mercy.” Irina taught me this Russian saying when I was yelling “One more big push” during Pavel’s birth.

  We hug each other. Nik joins us. Pavel joins us. We hug. We kiss. And of course there is an immediate offer of food. I hold Pavel.

  “I’ll get us some good smoked belly salmon,” says Nik.

  “No,” I say. “It’s too early for me to eat a thing. Some of that nice strong tea you used to bring in the thermos. Do you have any of that?”

  “We always have that ready,” says Nik. “And I will bring some smoked salmon and black bread in case you change your mind.”

  When he returns with the tea and salmon, we talk. We all agree that, one, Pavel is handsome and strong, two, Pavel looks exactly like Irina’s grandmother (whose photograph Irina wears in a locket on a chain around her neck), and, three, I must have come all the way to Brighton Beach for a specific reason.

  “Yes,” I say. “There is a reason. I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Of course, anything,” Nik says. “I will move the sun and the stars for you.”

  “Well,” I say, “it won’t be quite that challenging.”

  “Let her talk, Nik. Let her talk,” says Irina.

  “It’s a small favor, but it’s important to me,” I say.

  “Like Nik says, anything, anything,” says Irina.

  I take my cell phone from my bag. I explain that they will be hearing a brief conversation on my phone. It’s spoken in Russian.

  “What I need is for you to translate it for me,” I say.

  “For a translation you needed to come all the way out to Brighton Beach?” Nik asks.

  “As a matter of fact, I did. First, you are the only Russian speakers I know, and, second, I want it done, shall we say, discreetly.”

  “We are Russians. We know how to be, like you say, discreet,” says Irina.

  I’m not quite sure what she means, and for a split second I worry that she could somehow be caught in the web of Orlov and Nina and … Ridiculous! I’m here. Nik and Irina are the best people in the world.

  “Ready to listen?” I ask.

  When they nod yes, I press the button, and in a few moments we are all listening to the angry conversation between Nina and Orlov.

  “Play it again,” says Nik. And I play it again. And again. And again.

  “You know,” says Irina, “they are not speaking Russian.”

  My heart drops. I never thought of that possibility.

  “What is it? Polish? Hungarian?” I ask.

  “No,” says Irina. “It is Ukrainian. But not to worry. They are very similar languages.”

  “Don’t scare me like that,” I say. They listen to the conversation one more time.

  Irina explains: “The woman is saying, ‘This is stupid and crazy. If we get caught we will be dead, finished.’ Then the man says, ‘I am in charge here. You will do as I say.’ Then there is a moaning sound. I do not think it is the moaning of the woman.”

  “No, it’s not,” I tell her. It is at this point that Orlov or Nina must have pushed me to the ground.

  Irina continues: “The woman is saying now ‘I cannot be a part of this. The baby belongs to this woman.’”

  Nik says, “Then the man says for her to ‘shut the hell up so we can get this baby and get out of here. Our customers need a baby right away. Now!’”

  There is background noise. Children shouting. I think I hear the two kidnappers walking off. But who can tell in all the chaos, with all the people.

  But what does it all mean? Not much, I think. We already know Orlov is the boss. I always suspected Nina has some maternal sympathy for the mothers she’s stealing from. And finally, the only interesting thing to emerge from this translation is this, the use of the word customers. “Our customers need a baby right away. Now!”

  CHAPTER 60

  IT’S AN EASY GUESS and a good guess that Blumenthal is still at the precinct where Orlov is being held. Needless to say, that’s precisely where I want to be. But, as is usually the case, where I absolutely need to be is at Gramatan University Hospital to be available to my pregnant mothers.

  GUH is a mess: Tracy Anne has not shown up as yet that morning, and no one knows where she is. Troy has worked for thirteen straight hours, through the night. So he’s having a catch-up nap in the sleep room. Two quite dependable trainees are working with two very young mothers who have gone into early labor. I look in on both. So far, so good. I’ll check in with them every fifteen minutes.

  What about me? Well, my list shows that I have three women who could be delivering at any moment or, at the very least, in the next few hours.

  Meanwhile, my waiting room is full, very full, eleven women full. Four are there for the prenatal diet and exercise class. We do it. There’s a lot of moaning and quite a few bathroom breaks, but eventually the one-hour class ends.

  Damn it, there’s still no word from Tracy Anne. I’ve called her. HR has called her. So I email my favorite backup midwife over at NYU Langone. Her name is Lizzie Witten, and she’s the best in the business. Great news: Lizzie Witten’s available, and she’ll be at GUH in twenty minutes. The moment Witten arrives, I run down to the temporary NYPD/ FBI investigation room on the second floor, where I’m told Blumenthal is right now back at the NYPD Major Case Squad offices downtown.

  I am, as I have often been, pissed off at Blumenthal. His long silences come across as smugness. His voice usually has a bored or impatient tone to it, as if it’s nothing but a painful chore to speak to me, to answer my questions. And his lack of gratitude for my help in this case so far makes me want to punch him in the face every time I see him.

  The more I think about Blumenthal, the angrier I become. After my encounter in the cemetery, after my mugging in the park, after my trip out to Brighton, the volcano inside me feels like it’s about to explode.

  So I take the subway down to One Police Plaza. Hell. I just can’t control myself.

  “Welcome,
Ms. Ryuan,” Blumenthal says when, without knocking, I walk into the office I’ve been led to by another detective in the squad. “Always a pleasure.”

  “I’m warning you, Detective. Don’t start up with me,” I say.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I wanted to tell you in person that I had my cell phone recording translated.”

  “I’m not at all surprised. I suspected you would do that.”

  My hands are practically vibrating with anger. My mouth is going dry. Then it happens. I explode.

  “You self-satisfied son of a bitch. I’ve done more to move this case forward than you or anyone else in this department. And I’m not even part of this goddamn department.”

  “Lucy, listen—” he begins.

  “‘Listen’? ‘Lucy, listen’? Don’t you dare start with that ‘Lucy, listen’ phrase,” I shout. “Don’t fucking condescend to me. I’m the one who spotted the shoes on Nina. I’m the one who played decoy in the cemetery and met with two criminals, two killers. I’m the one who got my head smashed open in the park.”

  “Stop it,” he says. Loudly. Very loudly. Then he says, “And I’m the one who appreciates it all. You’re the one who needs to be petted and kissed and thanked a thousand times. I absolutely appreciate all you’ve done … and all you can still do to help.”

  I have to interrupt. “Then why did I have to schlep out to the bowels of Brooklyn because you wouldn’t give me the translation?”

  “That’s because it was classified, and we can’t transmit classified information over the phone or by email. If you had just waited, if you had just trusted me. And anyway, now that we both know what Orlov and Nina were saying to each other, let me ask you: does it make any difference?”

  The conversation goes silent. Finally, I break that silence.

  “No,” I say. “It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.”

  Silence once again. Blumenthal looks down at the floor. Then we both look through a glass panel of his office wall. We look out at the men and women in the office who are pretending not to look at us.

  Now I speak quietly. I almost want to hold him by the shoulders so that he’ll listen. “Detective, please, please pay attention to what I say. If you do, then you’ll understand why I am the way I am.” Then I say, “This is all about babies. This isn’t a jewel theft on Fifth Avenue. This isn’t a druggie who cuts his skeevy dealer in the belly. This isn’t a robbery in a bodega or a husband who skipped out on his wife with the savings account money. This is babies! I’m not a very good Catholic. There’s a lot I don’t believe in. But I do believe that babies are miracles. They’re gifts from God. This is the biggest tragedy I’ve ever been close to. This means everything to me.”

  There is no pause. Blumenthal looks straight at me and says, “Lucy, I feel exactly the same way.”

  And suddenly I believe that he does.

  When he speaks next, he is all business, but it’s important business. “I want to tell you that I think I’m on to something—actually, someone—who can help us,” he says.

  “Did Orlov start talking?” I ask.

  “No. He’s still closed tight. But like I said, I’ve got something else—someone else.”

  “Okay,” I say. “What is it? Who is it?”

  Blumenthal picks up his cell phone and drops it into his shirt pocket. He walks to the office door.

  “Just follow me.”

  CHAPTER 61

  I WALK WITH LEON Blumenthal down some flights of stairs to a parking garage, then we take a sweaty drive in an unmarked police car north to West 35th Street and the Midtown Precinct South. It dawns on me that I was quite recently here. After the mugging at Penn Station.

  When we enter, I immediately get the impression that Blumenthal is a pretty respected guy here. He walks the wide, gray corridors while handing out a lot of friendly nods. He takes me well past the room Willie and I sat in that evening, and deeper into the building.

  “Go left here,” Blumenthal says. A stenciled plastic sign on a glass door is meant to spell out the words INTERROGATION ROOMS. Instead some clever asshole has blacked out the first seven letters of the sign and inked in SEGRA. So now it says SEGRAGATION ROOMS.

  “Very classy signage,” I say. Then I add, “Ignore the fact that the word’s misspelled. What the hell does that mean?”

  Blumenthal shrugs. “Who the hell knows?” he says. “A lot of angry, crazy people pass through every precinct in this city.”

  We arrive at a door marked ROOM 1. Next to that door is another door. This second door is marked OBSERVATION ROOM 1.

  “You wait out here for a minute, Lucy. I’m going in to clear you with the interviewer and, even more important, with the guy we’re interviewing.”

  So it’s a guy.

  Blumenthal knocks and enters. I immediately recognize Bobby Cilia’s voice coming from inside the room.

  “Detective Leon Blumenthal enters the room at ten seventeen. Good morning—”

  The door closes, and I’m left standing alone in the hall. Not many people are walking this hallway. One officer with one weeping woman in cuffs. Two officers walking together while both are looking at the screen of a cell phone.

  I’m about to check my phone, but before I can punch in my code, a young and quite pretty woman appears next to me. The woman is blond and unnecessarily skinny. She is wearing a sundress—light, cotton, sleeveless, big red floral print on a white background—and carrying a chic brown Birkin bag. She speaks to me.

  “Forget it.” She points to a sign: NO CELL PHONES IN INTERROGATION ROOMS.

  “Wow,” I say. “I should read more. That sign is bigger than my car.”

  Then she says, “Have you by any chance seen Leon Blumenthal slithering around here?”

  “Yeah, he slithered into this room right here,” I say, pointing to the interrogation room.

  “I’d better not interrupt. Leon hates that,” she says. At first it seems as if the woman is going to walk away with her sunny little sundress, in her heels with red soles, but then she stops.

  “Hey,” she says. “I have to ask you something: are you Lucy Ryuan?”

  “How’d you know that?” I ask.

  “I only figured it out because you’re here, and he’s there, and whenever I see Leon, he talks about you. By the way, I’m Barbara Holt.”

  I should introduce myself, of course, but what I end up saying is this: “Blumenthal talks about me?”

  “Yeah, he refers to you as ‘his unofficial special assistant.’”

  It takes me a few moments to process this info. I wonder if he says it sarcastically or respectfully. Probably both ways, depending on his mood and our relationship of the moment.

  But before I can respond, my new friend suddenly says, “Damn. I was supposed to be in a meeting downtown at my office ten minutes ago. I should quit my job and spend all my time keeping track of Leon. I hope I see you again, Ms. Ryuan.”

  “Yes, me too,” I say.

  And Barbara Holt’s fancy red-soled shoes take her quickly down the corridor toward the EXIT sign. One thing I know is this: I’m really not hoping to see her again.

  I am, however, considering the information that Blumenthal has told people, even just one person, even as a joke, that I’m his special assistant. I’m also wondering, of course, who exactly is Barbara Holt, and what exactly is her role in Blumenthal’s life?

  Then the door opens. Blumenthal comes out, and I hear Bobby’s voice begin: “Detective Leon Blumenthal is leaving the—” Blumenthal closes the door behind himself. I’m suddenly looking at Blumenthal in a whole new way.

  “We’re going into the viewing room. Two-way mirror.”

  We enter a small, dark, stale-smelling room. High-schoolstudent-type desks.

  A light-brown curtain covers what I assume is one side of the two-way mirror. I sit down, and Blumenthal says, “Okay. I’m going to pull the curtain open and turn on the speaker.”

  Opposite Cilia, facing the mirror, fa
cing us, is … I stand up to get a better look. My hand flies to my mouth. I yell.

  “Holy shit. It’s Troy!”

  CHAPTER 62

  I RUSH TO THE door of the viewing room.

  Blumenthal shouts, “Lucy, wait. You cannot go in there.”

  “The hell I can’t.”

  Blumenthal has joined me and blocks the door. “We’re just questioning him,” he says.

  “Is he under arrest? Is he a person of interest?” I ask, wondering if I need to punch Blumenthal in the stomach (or somewhere close to the stomach).

  “No, he’s not under arrest. He’s not under suspicion. He’s not anything. He’s here to help.”

  “Great news. Then I’m going in,” I say.

  Turns out I do not have to punch Blumenthal anywhere. He moves away from the door, and as I enter the interrogation room, Troy rises from his seat and hugs me.

  “What the hell’s the story? Why are you here?” I yell. I have about a thousand more questions, but Blumenthal jumps in.

  Blumenthal says that he’ll explain. Bobby Cilia says that he should explain. And seizing one of the rare moments when I have a bit of control over the situation, I suggest that Troy can do his own explaining. So Troy starts.

  “First of all, I’m sorry, Lucy. I’m sorry as hell. You finding out this way. I shoulda come to you right away. I shoulda—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say. “Just tell me what happened. How’d you end up here?”

  “I’m gonna tell you. But first you gotta promise you’ll forgive me for not going to see you sooner. It’s just that things were getting crazy rough, and I couldn’t get hold of you. So I went to the detective. I’m so sorry. I’m—”

  “Jesus Christ, Troy! Just tell me what happened. Tell me the goddamn story!”

  And he does.

  “Last week Tracy Anne comes in to see me all teary and shaky and nervous. She sits me down and closes the doors, and she makes me promise not to tell anyone anything about what she’s going to tell me. So I swear on a stack of make-believe Bibles, and she tells me that she’s been … that she’s been freelancing.”