Rudi Sarkar and I step into the birthing room. The bed has been stripped; the floor is still damp from mopping. The bathroom is empty; it smells of disinfectant. Instinctively Sarkar and I walk quickly to the nurses’ station. I am curious, confused, but I am not yet anxious. Dr. Sarkar simply looks concerned.

“Has Greta Moss been moved?” I ask the male nurse at the desk.

“I don’t think so,” says the nurse. “Let me check.” He goes to his computer screen. He looks, he scrolls, he squints. It’s taking too long, so I immediately think that something evil is going on. He continues to scroll. I’m about to scream. Then he finally speaks, “No. She’s still in birthing room 4.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. Yes, he’s sure.

Then Sarkar speaks. “Try looking for a patient named G. Leonard.”

The nurse scrolls the screen for a moment. “No one listed here with that name,” says the nurse.

“Let’s check the nursery,” I say.

Sarkar and I head toward the magical room at the opposite end of the corridor where the newborns are cared for and displayed.

When we arrive, one of the baby nurses—everyone in maternity knows Rudra Sarkar—immediately opens the security door to the nursery.

“Dr. Sarkar, welcome.”

“Is the Moss and Waldren baby in here?” he asks.

“No, but he should be here soon. We received an update only twenty minutes ago. Good delivery. Healthy baby. Scored a nine on the Apgar test.”

Nine is as close to the perfect score of ten as most babies achieve.

“We’re ready for the kid when he’s ready for us,” says the baby nurse. Then she adds, “I hear the mother is something of—”

“Never mind. Thank you,” Sarkar says. Then he turns to me directly and says, “Let’s go.”

We rush back out to the corridor. I shout to the desk nurse to call Security immediately. “And call that dumb-ass detective, too. His name is Blumenthal, Leon Blumenthal,” I say.

“If this is another missing baby, the Waldren kid…” Sarkar says, “I don’t even want to think about it.”

We begin opening and closing patients’ doors. Babies wail. Weary-eyed dads and beaming grandparents walk the halls. A few bassinets are being wheeled. A few baskets of flowers are being delivered.

“Lucy!” I hear as we open yet another patient’s room door. The voice is loud, urgent, and familiar. Of course I recognize the voice. It’s Tracy Anne.

I turn toward the sound of the voice.

I thought that Tracy Anne would not be in until much later today, but here she is. She’s running toward Sarkar and myself.

“If you’re looking for the Moss baby, he’s not here,” Tracy Anne says. If she is aware of an emergency, she sure doesn’t show it. She’s as calm and perky as ever.