The Midwife Murders by James Patterson, Richard Dilallo Page A

clearly trying to evaluate what the deal is—personal, professional, friendly, romantic—between the two of us.
    Sarkar must sense it, too. The doctor brings the conversation right back to business. “With the exception of the uterine-wall damage, it is all very typical—muscle damage, arterial damage, blood loss.” Sarkar is starting to sound as if he is bored. It is clear to me that he just wants the interrogation to be over. All he wants is an icy martini and a nice long nap.
    Blumenthal, however, is not yet finished. “Going back to the operation itself for a moment. Was there anyone’s behavior that you would call unusual? For example, did anyone excuse herself, or himself—in other words, did anyone leave the room?”
    I decide once again to jump in. I guess
butt in
is the right expression. “Well, of course. People often leave the room, rescrub, and then come back. People have to use the bathroomor they don’t feel good or they’re tired and need a short break—”
    “Thanks for the clarification, Ms. Ryuan, and, yes, that’s what I mean by unusual. Now maybe you can allow Dr. Sarkar to answer.”
    “My answer is no,” Sarkar says. “One of the nurses became fatigued. So she left, and a few minutes later a sub came in for her. A few minutes after that a sub came in for the gas man.”
    Blumenthal looks up from his laptop. “The gas man?”
    “The anesthesiologist,” I explain.
    Blumenthal gives a minuscule smile, then says, “Is there anything else? Even the tiniest thing. Someone made a passing comment. Someone had something to say about the victim. Someone had something that, damn it, we could honestly call a clue.”
    The devil in me surfaces for a second. This might be an opportunity to implicate Nurse Franklin, but that’s just my own petty irritation. And making up lies is not my biggest talent.
    “Please think, Dr. Sarkar,” Blumenthal says.
    Sarkar is starting to show some of his annoyance at the constant prodding.
    So of course I speak. To no one in particular I say, “What about Helen Whall?”
    “Helen Whall?” Sarkar asks.
    “Yes, the plastic surgeon,” I say.
    With a speck of anger in his voice, Sarkar says, “I
know
who Helen Whall is, Lucy. What about her?”
    Blumenthal reads from his computer screen. “Helen Whall, respected surgeon, GUH staff member, enters 4:17. Says Sarkar and team guardedly optimistic. Adds—”
    Rudi perks up considerably. He says, “I don’t recall Dr. Whall leaving the OR, and I certainly don’t recall asking her to update anybody on my patient’s condition.”
    “Rudi,” I say, “Helen Whall implied that you asked her to let us know what was going on, that she was out there because you wanted her to tell us how Katra was doing.”
    “Possibly you simply don’t remember doing this, Doctor?” asks Blumenthal. “You were under a great deal of stress.”
    “No,” he says, and he is firm in his answer. “I would have remembered asking Dr. Whall to do that. She was standing by primarily for the wrap, the suturing. As it turns out, we didn’t need her. But I’m still glad I brought her in.”
    “We’ll talk to Dr. Whall,” says Blumenthal. Then he adds, “And my guys are also doing follow-up investigations of everyone who was involved with the surgery.”
    Sarkar barely nods, and then Blumenthal says, “So I guess that’s it for now.”
    I can’t help it. I say very loudly, “That’s it? You’ve got to be kidding, Detective.”
    “Lucy, please don’t start,” says Sarkar.
    If I had a dollar for every time a man said to me,
“Lucy, please don’t start,”
I’d be the richest woman in New York.
    But Blumenthal’s casual attitude is, in fact, making me crazy-angry, and I just can’t hold it inside me. I raise my voice. “A baby is missing, stolen, kidnapped, maybe murdered, Detective Blumenthal. A woman is practically murdered, left for dead. And you say, ‘that’s it for now.’”
    “Thanks for your opinion, Ms.