The Midwife Murders by James Patterson, Richard Dilallo Read Free Book Online Page A

don’t think you want to be smoking in here, Doctor,” I say to him. He looks at me with silent displeasure. This look of displeasure is followed by an unquestionable look of disgust. Katz is looking and acting like a spoiled little brat.Further proof, he then draws on his cigarette and lets out the smoke with a big satisfied-sounding exhale.
    Let’s not even discuss the idea of a medical person smoking! In a group! In a hospital! Should you still doubt that Katz is a nutcase.
    “I didn’t know they even made Tareytons anymore,” I say. “When my friends in high school smoked, they always smoked Marlboro Lights. I don’t really remember Tareytons.”
    “It’s hard to find Tareytons in New York these days,” says Katz as he emits a big puff of smoke. “I’m lucky enough to have a supplier in London who sends them to me by the case.”
    Color me impressed. The asshole is known for his finicky tastes—a framed collection of presidential autographs in his office, custom-made shirts with “exclusive” patterns (whatever that means; they all look light blue to me), English flannel driving caps, which, despite their quality, still make Katz look like a London cabby.
’Op on in, guv-nor.
    I say to Katz, “In any case … you should put the cigarette out.”
    “In any case,” Katz says, “I’m the CEO in this room, and I want to smoke.”
    Blumenthal is seated on the one uncomfortable-looking steel folding chair in the room. I think he’s oblivious to the scene around him. But I turn out to be wrong about that. The detective suddenly looks up—suspiciously perhaps—from his laptop.
    “And I’m the cop in this room,” Blumenthal says as he stands up. “Put out the cigarette, Doc.”
    There is an unpleasant pause. Then Katz drops the cigarette onto the linoleum floor and begins furiously grinding it out.
    Almost immediately the door to the OR opens. A womandressed in full surgical garb—head covering, surgical mask, protective eyeglasses, gloves, green scrubs—comes into our waiting area. She pushes the eyeglasses to her forehead and unsnaps her mask, then removes it.
    I recognize her immediately: she’s a GUH surgeon, one of the best.
    She addresses us. “I’m Helen Whall.”
    She is as modest as she is talented, so I tell everyone else in the room that Helen Whall is the finest plastic surgeon at GUH, possibly in all of New York City. When a seven-year-old boy in the Bronx had his ear almost severed by a stray bullet, Whall reattached it perfectly. When the mayor had a melanoma on his shiny bald head, Whall was called in to remove and patch it. There really is no one remotely like her.
    “Helen, what the hell is happening in there?” Katz asks.
    “Please, stay calm, sir. That’s why I’m here. I’ve got an update.”
    Why do I feel that things are not going well?
    Helen reports, “The patient’s condition is dangerous. Very dangerous. We all suspected that. Turns out that Katra has a small rupture in the uterine wall. Dr. Sarkar is working on that. And, as you no doubt noticed, there’s been a significant loss of blood.”
    Katz is growing impatient. “Yes, as we ‘no doubt noticed,’ she’s lost a lot of blood. But is this patient going to live? I’m the one who will have to face the goddamn media.”
    Dr. Whall doesn’t answer.
    “I asked you a question, Doctor,” Katz says.
    Helen Whall looks at Katz with a face that clearly registers restrained anger. Then she returns to her update. “They’re draining the amniotic fluid. They’ve got the placenta out.They need to evaluate the extent of the liver damage. But one thing is clear …” Then she pauses.
    “For Chrissake, what the hell is that?” Katz yells.
    “The incision they used to take the baby out … is neat and elegant, a traditional bikini-cut C-section.”
    “And that means what?” Blumenthal asks.
    I decide that I’ll answer the question. “It means the C-section was probably done by a professional.”
    “A