The Midwife Murders Read Online Free PDF Page B

disappeared after she gave birth.
    Funny how arrogant people always think they’re smart people.
    By lunchtime, I realize how hungry I am. I had no breakfast. I should eat an apple, a few whole-grain crackers, and a salad with just a disgusting, unsatisfying dash of red wine vinegar.
    “Never balsamic vinegar,”
Tracy Anne always reminds me.
“That has a ton of sugar in it.”
    I think it over carefully and then decide I will go down to the cafeteria and pick up a frosted doughnut, a bag of Fritos, and a special Lucy Ryuan dipping sauce: mayo, ketchup, mustard, and extra salt. As I’m convincing myself that I’ve worked hard enough to have such a deliciously stupid lunch, there is a knock on the door. Before I can say
“Come in,”
the door opens.
    It’s Sarkar, of course. I had actually forgotten that he said he might come by.
    He smiles. He speaks. “Is this the right office for my internal exam?”
    “No,” I say. “We’re only doing bleeding hemorrhoids today. Come in and bend over.”
    He laughs. I think I’ve used that joke only a thousand times.
    “I am here to beg for my favor,” he says.
    For this favor-asking visit, Sarkar has ditched his white coat. He’s spruced up quite a bit. He wears a blue linen blazer with slightly pegged gray khakis. Okay, there’s no point in lying to myself: he looks pretty good. Not hot, just pretty good.
    “Hit me with the favor request,” I say.
    “I have a patient who is near-term. You may have heard of her. Greta Moss.”
    Heard of her? After Melania Trump, Greta Moss is quite simply the most famous model in the world. As a mainstream celebrity, she ranks somewhere between Beyoncé and Jennifer Lawrence on sites like TMZ, Dlisted, and People.com. Greta has fifteen million followers on Twitter, because, after all, what woman doesn’t want to know what kind of two-hundred-dollar seaweed-based cleansing cream should be used to remove your three-hundred-dollar Provençal organic avocado foundation?
    “Yes, I think I’ve heard of her,” I say casually. Then, as if I wasn’t sure, I casually ask, “She’s married to that football player guy, right? Plays for the Bears.”
    “Hank Waldren. He’s a wide receiver for the Giants.”
    Not only is Waldren the male equivalent of his wife in the ridiculously good looks department, but also those hands … only Michelangelo could have sculpted them. Well, he is a wide receiver.
    “Anyway,” Sarkar says. “Here comes the favor request. Greta Moss has suddenly decided that she wants to deliver with a midwife, not an ob-gyn. She told me that she wants her baby to be born the way she herself was born: on a kitchen table in Copenhagen.”
    “We’re all out of kitchen tables,” I say. “And look out the window. It sure isn’t Copenhagen out there.”
    “Come on, Lucy. Please. Greta really wants this,” he says. “And I think the publicity for the hospital, for you, for the midwives, would be great.”
    “Well, yeah, maybe, but it would not be good for
my
schedule or
Troy’s
schedule or
Tracy Anne’s
schedule. We are booked solid. When is Greta Moss due?”
    “Any moment,” he says.
    “As in
any
moment, even this very moment?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “Forget it,” I say. “It can’t be done.” I’m also thinking,
Damn it, this guy thinks he can waltz in here, ask for a favor, and I’ll do it. He thinks that just because he’s charming and just because I’m a midwife that—
    A knock on the door. Tracy Anne’s head appears.
    “Katra Kovac has gone into labor. Birthing room 3,” she says.
    Rudi Sarkar squints his eyes in a fake-funny evil pose. “Did you have your colleague poised to come in here to show me just how busy you are?”
    “Sure. Tracy Anne was listening at the door. There’s really no Katra Kovac. There’s really no scared, unmarried seventeen-year-old girl who’s going to give birth. No, there are only big shots like Greta Moss and Hank Waldren. Sorry, Rudi.”
    “Oh, come on,