I don’t know why I spoke the name “Rudi,” but as soon as I say the word, Blumenthal’s eyes widen, for a split second. He looks back and forth once between Dr. Sarkar and myself, 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 bathroom or 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. Ryuan,” Blumenthal says. “But I don’t think you’re precisely qualified to advise on a New York City crime.”
“Yeah, I think I am,” I say. “My uncle was a policeman, a damned good policeman. He brought energy and courage to his work—”
Blumenthal interrupts. “Your uncle, was he with the NYPD?”
“No, my family is from West Virginia,” I say.
With a touch of mild sarcasm, Blumenthal says, “I see … West Virginia.”
“Yeah, that’s right. West Virginia has more opioid problems than any place in America.” As I say the words, I realize that, even though it’s true, it has nothing to do with the case at hand, in this hospital, in this city.
Am I turning into a crazy lady? I’m as tired as Sarkar looks. And Sarkar performed dangerous surgery. All I did was fail at doing the Daily News jumble. I give myself some advice. Shut up, Lucy, I think. Just shut up. But it doesn’t matter. Blumenthal puts a definite end to the conversation. He simply nods and says, “Okay, we’ll stay in touch. And I’ve already texted two of my people to follow up immediately with Helen Whall.”
Sarkar rubs his face and then says, “Thank you, Detective.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” says Blumenthal.
Next thing you know these two will be going out dancing.
Blumenthal has one final good-bye line: “And really, I appreciate your help, both of you. Like I said, we’ll stay in touch. My cafeteria door is always open.”
The three of us laugh softly, then exchange another quiet round of thank-yous.
As we walk to the exit of the cafeteria-office, Sarkar asks, “Are you going home now?”
“Yeah. If I don’t go home, I may just fall asleep standing up right here.”
“Let me give you a ride to your house,” he says.
“No way. You live all the way on the Upper East Side, and I’m out in Brooklyn,” I say. “Plus, you look like a guy who’s just completed a marathon.”
The fact is I just want to be alone, to get one of those end seats on the train, to listen to my music mix.
“I insist,” Sarkar says.
A series of “No, really,” followed by a series of “I insist, really,” eventually ends with Sarkar saying, “Okay, meet you in ten minutes in the doctors’ parking lot. Look for a handsome man driving a blue Lexus.”
“I’ll just look for a blue Lexus. That’ll be enough,” I say.
CHAPTER 18
HERE’S THE THING ABOUT modern luxury cars: When you see the commercials, the cars look really stupid and cheesy. And the commercials themselves are really annoying. They all look like they could have been shown on television in 1970. But once you get inside one of those luxury cars—the big seats, the complicated control system, the absolute quiet—you wonder how you can ever get back inside your 2008 Hyundai again.
Sarkar’s Lexus has something called an ignition fob. To me it looks like a small remote control for a television, but as soon as he touches that fob, the big blue Lexus starts purring like … well, like a big blue Lexus is supposed to purr.