Midwife Cover

He nodded. “He’s sending me mug shots for the missing women in an email. We should both memorize the pictures.”

“What did the police find when they investigated?”

“No leads.”

“That’s hard to believe. The disappearance of a pregnant woman is usually a high-priority, high-profile case.”

“Not for these women,” Brady said. “They weren’t beloved daughters or wives. They were homeless. Nobody organized a neighborhood search party to find them.”

“But somebody noticed. Somebody reported them missing.”

“Drug addict friends who, needless to say, didn’t do much to cooperate with the authorities. It’s entirely possible that these women took off for a couple of days and then showed up and nobody bothered to tell the police. Or they moved to another city.”

Darkly, she said, “Or they fell into the hands of traffickers who wanted them and their babies.”

“They prey on the homeless, the helpless. Pregnant women are an easy target. They’re already vulnerable and scared. If somebody offered them a place to stay until they deliver their babies—a place like Lost Lamb Ranch—they’d jump at it.”

“Tell me about the Lost Lamb.”

“It’s run by Francine Kelso, a woman in her forties who has a record as a hooker and was suspected of being a madam. She doesn’t hide her past. Instead, she points to it with pride and claims to have turned over a new leaf.”

Petra nodded. “She’s operating out of the same playbook that we’re using.”

“How so?”

“You just told me to use parts of my real past to establish my undercover identity.” She toyed with the pink crystal that hung from a silver chain around her neck. “That’s what Francine is doing, using her real past to disguise what she’s doing in the present.”

He appreciated how perceptive Petra was. Her insights seemed to come from an intuitive sense. “You’re good at reading people.”

“In my line of work, it helps to understand where somebody is coming from.”

“How so?”

“When a woman goes into labor, all her defenses are down. The same goes for the husband. While some people respond to a firm tone of voice and detailed instructions, others need gentle coaxing. Everybody’s different. One time, I delivered a baby for a couple who started in a pastel room doing deep breathing and playing soft classical music. By the time the mother was ready to push, they’d changed the tape to ‘Welcome to Hell.’ Both of them cursed like gangsters.”

“What did you do?”

“I sang along.” She laughed. “It was one of those times when I was glad to be doing a home birth. We were so loud that we would have freaked out the entire wing of a hospital. After the baby was born, the mom and dad went back to mellow.”

The behavior sounded psychotic to him. “Did those parents often exhibit excessive rage?”

“Who talks like that? Exhibit excessive rage?” She took off her sunglasses so he could see her roll her eyes. “Never try to psychoanalyze a woman in labor. It’s way too primal. And, by the way, these two are kind, loving, wonderful parents.”

Brady was glad they had a long drive ahead of them. It was going to take him a while to get a handle on his partner. “Let’s get back to Francine Kelso. Assuming the Lost Lamb Ranch is a kind of holding pen for these pregnant women, Francine is the warden. She keeps tabs on what’s going on.”

“How many people are at the ranch?”

“Francine’s assistant is Margaret Woods, twenty-three years old, the mother of a three-year-old boy named Wesley. She does most of the housekeeping and shopping. There are four or five men, supposedly ranch hands who take care of the livestock.”

“Hold on,” she said. “Is this a working ranch?”

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