Milk and Honey
Faye Kellerman

A Peter Decker/Rina Lazarus Novel

Dedication

To the family—

Jonathan, Mom, and the kids.

And to my breakfast buddies:

Elyse Wolf, Lynn Rohatiner,

Debi Benaron, and Frieda Katz.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About the Author

Also by Faye Kellerman

Predator

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

The flutter of movement was so slight that had Decker not been a pro, he would have missed it. He yanked the wheel to the left and braked. The brown unmarked screeched, bucked, then rebelliously reversed directions in the middle of the empty intersection. Decker began to cruise down the vacant street, hoping for a second look at what had attracted his attention.

The Plymouth’s alignment was off again, this time pulling to the right. If he had a spare minute, he’d check it out himself, haul her onto the lifts and probe her belly. The department mechanics were a joke. Overworked and underpaid, they’d fix one problem, cause another. The guys in the division were always laying odds on what would bust first when the vehicles were returned from service—six-to-one on a leaky radiator, four-to-one on a choked carburetor, three-to-one on the broken air-conditioning system, the odds improving to two-to-one if it was summertime.

Decker ran his fingers through thick ginger hair. The neighborhood was dead. Whatever he’d seen had probably been nothing significant. At one in the morning, the eyes played tricks. In the dark, parked cars looked like giant tortoises, spindly tree boughs became hanging skeletons. Even a well-populated housing development like this one seemed like a ghost town. Rows of tan-colored stucco homes had gelled into a lump of oatmeal, illuminated by moonbeams and blue-white spotlights from corner street lamps.

He slowed the Plymouth to a crawl and threw the headlights on high beam. Perhaps he’d seen nothing more than a cat, the light a reflection in the feline’s eyes. But the radiancy had been less concentrated and more random, a ripple of flashes like silver fingernails running up a piano keyboard. Yet as he peered out the window, he saw nothing unusual.

The planned community was spanking new, the streets still smelling of recent blacktop, the curbside trees nothing more than saplings. It had been one of those compromises between the conservationists and the developers, the construction agreed upon by both parties while satisfying neither. The two groups had been at each other’s throats since the Northeast Valley had been gerrymandered. This project had been hastily erected to smooth ruffled feathers, but the war between the factions was far from over. Too much open land left to fight over.

Decker cranked open the window and repositioned his backside in the seat, trying to stretch. Someday the city would order an unmarked able to accommodate a person of his size, but for now it was knees-to-the-wheel time. The night was mild, the fog had yet to settle in. Visibility was still good.

What the hell had he seen?

If he had to work tomorrow, he would have quit and headed home. But nothing awaited him on his day off except a lunch date with a ghost. His stomach churned at the thought, and he tried to forget about it—him. Better to deal with the past in the light of day.

One more time around the block for good measure. If nothing popped up, he’d go home.

He was a tenacious son of a bitch, part of what made him a good cop. Anyway, he wasn’t tired. He’d taken a catnap earlier in the evening, right before his weekly Bible session with Rabbi Schulman. The old man was in his seventies, yet had more energy than men half his age. The two of them had learned together for three hours straight. At midnight, when the rabbi still showed no signs of tiring, Decker announced he couldn’t take any more.

The old man had smiled and closed his volume of the Talmud. They were studying civil laws of lost and found. After the lesson, they talked a bit, smoked some cigarettes—the first nicotine fix Decker’d had all day. Thirty minutes later, he departed with an armful of papers to study for next week.

But he was too hyped up to go home and sleep. His favorite method of coping with insomnia was to take long drives into the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains—breathe in the beauty of unspoiled lands, knolls of wildflowers and scrub grass, gnarled oaks and honey-colored maples. The peace and solitude nestled him like a warm blanket, and within a short period of time he usually became relaxed enough to sleep. He’d been on his way home when he noticed the flash of light. Though he tried to convince himself it was nothing, something in his gut told him to keep going.

He circled the block, then reluctantly pulled over to the curb and killed the engine. He sat for a moment, smoothing his mustache, then slapped the steering wheel and opened the car door.

What the hell, the walk would do him good. Stretch out his legs. No one was awaiting his arrival at the ranch, anyway. The home fires had been put out a long time ago. Decker thought of his phone conversation with Rina earlier in the evening. She’d sounded really lonely, hinted about coming back to Los Angeles for a visit—just her and not the boys. Man, had he sounded eager—overeager. He’d been so damned excited, she’d probably seen his horns over the telephone wires. Decker wondered if he’d scared her off, and made a mental note to call her in the morning.

He hooked his hand-radio onto his belt, locked the car, and opened the trunk. The trunk light was busted, but he could see enough to rummage through the items—first-aid kit, packet of surgical gloves, evidence bags, rope, blanket, fire extinguisher—where had he put the flashlight? He picked up the blanket. Success! And miracle of miracles, the batteries still had juice in them.

A quick search on foot.

The early morning air felt good on his face. He heard his own footsteps reverberating in the quiet of the night and felt as if he were violating someone’s privacy. Something darted in front of his feet. A small animal—a rat or a lizard. Scores of them roamed the developments, all of the suckers pissed off at being displaced by building foundation. But that wasn’t what he’d seen before. That had been bigger, at least the size of a dog or cat. Yet its gate had been odd—staggering, as if drunk.

He walked a half-block to the north, shining his beam between the nearly identical houses. Not much space to illuminate; the homes almost abutted one another, separated only by a hedge of Eugenia saplings. The houses were cheaply built, the stucco barely dry but already beginning to crack. The front lawns were patches of green sod, and many of them held swing sets and aluminum lawn furniture. Some of the driveways were repositories for toys, bicycles, baby walkers, bats and balls. The uncluttered driveways housed vans and station wagons, and small motorboats as well. Lake Castaic was fifteen minutes away. The developers had advertised that, and had succeeded in their goal of attracting young families. Ten percent down and low-cost financing hadn’t hurt, either.

He strolled to the end of the street—this one was called Pine Road—then crossed over and started back to the unmarked. Then he heard it—a faint whistling in the background. A familiar sound, one that he’d heard many times in the past but couldn’t place at the moment.

He jogged in its direction. The sound grew a little louder, then stopped. He waited a minute.

Nothing.

Frustrated, he decided to head home, then heard the whistling again, farther in the distance. Whatever was making the noise was on the move, and it was a quick little bugger.

He sprinted two blocks down Pine Road and turned onto Ohio Avenue. Loads of imagination the developers had when naming the streets. The north-south roads were trees, east-west were states.

The noise became louder, one that Decker recognized immediately. His heart raced against his chest. The adrenaline surge. The sound was now clear—a high-pitched wail. Goddam wonder it didn’t wake up the entire neighborhood.

He ran in the direction of the shriek, pulling out his radio and calling for backup—screaming heard on Ohio and Sycamore. He pulled out his gun.

“Police!” he shouted. “Freeze!”

His voice echoed in the darkness. The crying continued, softer than before.

“Police!” Decker yelled again.

A door opened.

“What’s going on out there?” asked a deep male voice, heavy with sleep.

“Police,” Decker answered. “Stay inside your house, sir.”

The door slammed shut.

Across the street, a light brightened an upstairs window. A face peeked out between the curtains.

Again, the crying faded to nothing. Silence, then a chorus of crickets singing backup for a mockingbird.

The noise returned again, this time short sobs and gasps for air. Obviously a female, possibly a rape victim.

He would have received the call anyway.

“Police,” Decker shouted in the direction of the crying. “Stay where you are, ma’am. I’m here to help you.”

The sobbing stopped, but he could hear footsteps trudging through the Eugenias, followed by the creak of unoiled metal. Decker felt his fingers grip the butt of his Beretta. The sky held oyster-colored clouds, the smiling face of the man in the moon. Enough illumination to see pretty well even without the flashlight.

Then Decker saw it—the glint of metal!

He jumped out from the Eugenias and yelled, “Freeze!”

The reaction he received was a high-pitched tinkle of startled laughter.

The kid had to be under two, still retaining the chubby cheeks of a baby. It was impossible to tell whether it was a boy or girl, but whatever it was had a head full of ringlets and saucer-shaped eyes. It was swinging on the seesaw on somebody’s front lawn, fragile little hands gripping the handlebars, eyes staring up in wonderment. Decker became aware of the gun in his hand, his finger wrapped around the trigger. Shakily, he returned the automatic to his shoulder harness and called off the backups on his wireless.

“Off,” ordered a tiny voice.

“For heaven’s sakes!” Decker stopped the seesaw. The toddler climbed off.

“Up,” it said, raising its hands in the air.

Decker picked the child up. The toddler lay its head against Decker’s chest. He stroked its silken curls.

“I’m calling the police out there,” yelled a frightened voice from inside the house.

“I am the police,” Decker answered. He walked up to the front door and displayed his badge to a peephole. The door opened a crack, the chain still fastened. Decker could make out unshaven skin, a dark, wary pupil.

Decker said, “I found this child on your front lawn.”

“My God!” said a muffled female voice.

“Do you know who this child belongs to?” Decker asked.

“Know the kid, Jen?” the man asked gruffly.

The door opened all the way.

“You found him outside my house?” Jen said. She looked to be in her early thirties, her hair dark brown, pulled back into a knot. “Why he’s just a baby!”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Decker. “I found him or her on your swing set.”

“I’ve never seen the kid before in my life,” Jen answered.

“The neighborhood’s crawling with rug rats,” the unshaven man said. “All I know is he’s not one of ours.”

“There’re lots of new families in the area,” Jen said. She shrugged apologetically. “It’s hard to keep track of all the kids.”

Decker said, “No sense waking up the entire neighborhood. I’m sure we’ll get a panic call in the morning. The baby will be at the Foothill station. Spread the word, huh?”

“Sure, Officer, we will,” Jen said.

“I’m goin’ upstairs,” said the husband. “Back to sleep!”

“Goodness.” Jen shook her head. “That little cutie was right outside my house?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jen chucked the child’s chin. “Hi there, sweetheart. Can I give you a cookie?”

Decker said, “I don’t think we should feed the child right now. It’s a little late.”

“Oh yes,” Jen said. “Of course, you’re right. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

“Thank you but no, ma’am.”

“What’s a baby doing out in the middle of the night like that?” Jen chucked the child’s chin again.

“I don’t know, ma’am.” Decker gave her his card. “Call me if you hear of anything.”

“Oh, I will, I will. The community’s still pretty manageable. It shouldn’t be too hard to locate his parents.”

“Jennn!” screamed the husband from upstairs. “C’mon! I gotta get up early.”

“What will you do with him?” Jen asked quickly. “Or maybe it’s a her. Looks like a little girl, don’t you think?”

Decker smiled noncommittally.

“What do you do with stray kids like this, poor little thing?”

“He or she will be cared for until we can locate the parents.”

“Will she be put in a foster home?”

“Jennn!”

“That man drives me nuts!” Jen whispered to Decker.

“Thanks for your time, ma’am,” Decker said. The door closed behind him, the chain was refastened to the post.

Decker looked at the toddler and said, “Where the heck did you come from, buddy?”

The child smiled.

“Got some teeth there, huh? How many do you have? Ten maybe?”

The child stared at him, played with a button on his shirt.

“Well, as long as we’re up so late how ’bout you coming to my place for a nightcap, huh?”

The child buried its head in Decker’s shoulder.

“Rather sleep, huh? You must be a girl. It’s the story of my life.”

Decker headed toward the unmarked.

“Lord only knows how you escaped. Your mom is going to have a fit in the morning.”

The toddler tucked its arm under its body.

“Snuggly little thing, aren’t you? How the heck did I notice you in the first place? Must have been the shiny zipper on your PJs.”

“Pee jehs,” said the child.

“Yeah, PJs. What color are they? Red? Pinkish red, kind of. Bet you are a girl.”

“A gull!” mimicked the toddler.

Decker’s smile faded. Something in the air. He smelled it now—the stale odor on its hands, on the front of its pajamas. Clotted blood. He hadn’t noticed it at first because it had blended with the color of the child’s sleepwear.

“Jesus!” he whispered, his hands shaking. He clutched the toddler, ran back to the unmarked, and unlocked the door.

Where the hell was the kid bleeding from!

He placed the baby on the backseat and unzipped its pajama sleeper. He shined the flashlight on the little body, the skin as smooth and pink as a ripe nectarine. Not a scratch on the chest, back, or shoulders. The forearms and wrist were spotted with a small, dry rash, but the rest of the toddler’s skin wasn’t cut, cracked, or punctured. Decker turned the child over. The back was clear as well.

He held his breath, praying that this wasn’t another ugly sexual-abuse case. He undid the diaper. It was soaked, but as far as he could tell, the child was unscathed. It was a she, and no blood was flowing from any of her orifices. He refastened the diaper as best as he could, then checked her throat, her head, her ears, her nose. The kid endured the impromptu examination with stoicism.

No signs of external or internal bleeding.

Decker exhaled forcibly. He swaddled her in a blanket, pulled out an evidence bag, and dropped the pajama sleeper inside. He buckled her in the backseat as tightly as he could, then drove to the station.

2

Marge Dunn hummed out loud as she walked into the detectives’ squad room. Her cheerful mood was immediately silenced by a grunt and a sneer from Paul MacPherson. She frowned and brushed wisps of blond hair from her round, doelike eyes. A big woman, tough when she had to be, she didn’t like crap first thing in the morning.

“What’s eating your ass?” she asked him.

“One doesn’t whistle at seven in the morning,” answered MacPherson. “It’s profane.”

Marge sighed. MacPherson . He was constantly forced to prove himself, and playing supercop got old very fast. Marge could understand that. Being the only woman detective was no picnic, either. MacPherson spent long hours at work. Made him good at the job, but gave him a problem ’tude. He was also constantly on the prowl.

“You been up all night, Paulie?”

“Gang shoot-out, two A.M., with bad-breath Fordebrand in Maui, guess who caught the call? Two DBs and a six-year-old in intensive care with a bullet in her brain—it made the headlines of all the morning papers, Marjorie. Don’t you read?”

“Not if I can help it,” Marge answered. “Paul, my man, you’re so pale you’re starting to look white. Go home and get some sleep.”

“‘To sleep, perchance to dream …’” Paul raised his eyebrows. “I just got my season tickets to the Globe Theater in San Diego. First production’s All’s Well That Ends Well. Come with me, my sweet, and I promise you an extraordinary experience.”

“Pass.”

“Come on, Marjorie,” Paul said. “Expose yourself to culture.”

“I have culture.” She reached inside her desk and pulled out her flute case. “This is culture.”

“Culture is for yogurt,” said Mike Hollander, lumbering in. He settled his meaty buttocks on a chair and pulled out a pile of papers from his desk drawer.

“Good morning, Michael,” said Marge. “Did you get the invitation to my next recital?”

Hollander tugged on the ends of his drooping mustache and gave her a sick smile. “Mary and I will be there.”

Marge gave him a pat atop his bald head. “For that, I’ll serve you coffee.”

Hollander smiled, genuinely this time. “You can toss me that old doughnut, Margie. No one else seems to be eating it.”

“Righto.” She aimed and fired. Hollander caught it in his right hand.

MacPherson said, “You’re actually going to her recital.”

Hollander whispered back, “The sacrifices one makes for friendship.”

“You’re an asshole,” MacPherson said. “You listen to her produce squeaky noises and I ask, what’s the payoff?”

“It makes her happy,” Hollander said.

“Makes her happy?” MacPherson said. “I don’t believe you said that, Michael.”

“I heard that, Paul,” Marge said.

“Mea culpa, madam,” said MacPherson. “I apologize. I don’t pick fights with women who outweigh me by twenty-five pounds.”

“Twenty,” Marge said. “I lost some weight since I broke up with Carroll. God, what an appetite that man had. I never realized how much the two of us ate.” She went over to the urn and poured two rounds of coffee, one in her unadorned mug, another in Hollander’s—a ceramic cup fronted with two 3-D breasts, the nipples painted bright pink.

“Done with the paper work yet, Paulie?” Hollander asked. “Shit, that must have been bad.”

MacPherson said, “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the DBs. Both of the punks were subhuman. It’s the little sister that burns my butt.”

“She get in the way of cross fire?” Marge asked, handing Hollander his cup.

MacPherson shook his head. “Get this. She was trying to protect her older brother—the punk. Such a sweet little thing. What a waste!”

“Where’s Decker?” Hollander asked. “He’s late this morning.”

“He took the day off,” Marge said.

“Oh, that’s right,” Hollander said. “He mentioned he was meeting some old army buddy that got himself in a jam.”

MacPherson said. “Rabbi Pete’s upstairs committing an immoral act with a minor.”

Marge smiled and sipped.

“I shit you not,” MacPherson continued. “He’s in the dorm sleeping with a kid under two. As a matter of fact, Margie, you’d better wake him up. Some dumb social worker’s going to see him and the kid together, and poor Pete’ll be charged with sexual abuse.”

“What happened?” Marge asked.

“The rabbi found the kid wandering the streets in that new development about one this morning. Brought her into the station house.”

“Which development?” Hollander asked. “There’s been a bunch of them lately. Assholes gerrymander the district, and we’ve got all these rich boys coming in and building all over the place.”

“Manfred and Associates,” MacPherson said. “You know. The one where all the streets are trees or states.”

“The one above the old lime quarry,” Marge said.

“You got it,” MacPherson answered.

“Decker call IDC yet?” Hollander asked.

“Nah,” MacPherson said. “Too early for that. He just filled out the forms and placed her under protective custody. The kid probably climbed out of her crib and escaped through a doggy door. Pete’s hoping for a frantic call any moment.”

“I’ll go wake him,” Marge said. She placed her mug on her desktop. “Enjoy your coffee, Michael.”

Hollander said, “Thanks. It’s as close as I’ll get to tit this morning.”

She walked out of the squad room into the front reception area. A middle-aged Hispanic was gesticulating to the desk sergeant. He was beanpole-thin, his face etched with deep sun lines. The sergeant looked bored, his chin resting in the palm of his hand, his eyes looking over the head of the Hispanic to Marge.

“Yo, Detective Dunn.”

Marge waved and said, “Sergeant Collins.”

“Is Sergeant Decker around? I need someone who can speak Spanish.”

Marge said, “I’ll go find you someone bilingual, Sarge.”

“Thanks.” Collins turned to the Hispanic. “Down, boy. Over there.” He pointed to a bench against the wall. It was occupied by a biker with bulging arms blued by tattooing, and a diminutive girl with stringy hair. “There, there!”

Marge said, “Sientese aquí, por favor.”

The man began speaking to Marge in rapid Spanish.

“No hablo Español,” Marge said. “Wait. Un momento. Sientese. On the bench.”

The Hispanic nodded his head in comprehension and sat down between the woman and the biker.

Collins said, “These dingdongs speak more Spanish than English over here.”

Marge asked, “Where’d you transfer from, Sarge?”

“Southeast,” Collins answered. “Five years in that shithole. They don’t speak English over there, either. Only fluent jive.”

“Most of the people in this division are hardworking,” Marge said.

“Yeah,” Collins said. “Till they get their papers and apply for welfare. Seems like America is the land of opportunity as long as you aren’t American.”

Marge smiled, made a quick exit. Collins hadn’t been in the division more than a week, and the SOB was already bitching and moaning. He probably hated women, too. Marge shrugged him off, figuring a five-year stint at Southeast could do strange things to anyone.

She climbed up the metal staircase and opened the door to the dorm.

Decker wasn’t sleeping. He was wrestling with the kid on the floor, trying to change her diaper. From the looks of the struggle, the kid had the edge. The big redhead was so involved in the ordeal that he hadn’t even heard the door open.

“C’mon, kiddo,” Decker said. “Just onnnne more second—no. No, don’t do that. Hold still. Shit. Excuse my language. Just hold—”

The kid kicked her legs with all her might.

“Happy? You just ripped the diaper again.”

Decker tickled her ribs. The toddler broke into peals of laughter.

“Ticklish, huh?” Decker tickled her again. She spasmed with guffaws. “Now listen, buddy. I’m talkin’ tough now. I’ve got to get you protected. Let me just get this … this damn tab—this tab over here …”

The little girl ripped the diaper off and gave him a self-satisfied smile.

“God, you’re rambunctious.” He paused, then said, “And you’re a cutey, too. Are you hungry?”

“Hungee,” the kid repeated.

“Then how about we put on the diaper? Then old Pete will get you some milk while I try to wake up with a cup of coffee.”

“Hot,” the toddler said.

“What’s hot?”

“Hot.”

“Is something burning you?” Decker looked around, touched the floor. “I don’t feel anything hot.”

The baby smiled again.

“Yes, if old Pete don’t get some coffee soon, he’s going to drop on the spot.”

“Hot,” the child repeated.

“What’s hot?” Decker asked, frustrated.

“Maybe she means coffee is hot,” Marge suggested.

Decker whipped his head around.

“How long have you been standing there?” he said.

“About a minute.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to help me.”

“You’re handling her very well, Pete.”

“Get me another diaper,” Decker said. “She keeps ripping them off. I think she’s ready to be trained.”

“Tell her mother that when she comes to pick her up,” Marge said, throwing him a new diaper.

Wincing, Decker diapered the toddler, then picked her up. “This is Auntie Margie, pumpkin,” he said. “Say hello.”

“Well, hello there,” Margie said, reaching out for the child. The girl jumped into Marge’s arms. “Well, aren’t you a friendly little thing.” She smiled at the baby, then looked at Decker.

“What’s on your mind, big buddy?” she asked him. “You’ve got a hinky expression on your face.”

“What time is it?” Decker asked.

“Around seven-thirty, I guess.”

Decker asked, “Have we received any phone calls yet about a missing child?”

“Not that I know of … It’s still early, Pete.”

“When Cindy was that age, she was up at six o’clock every morning. I remember it well because I was the one who was up with her. It’s kind of late for a mother not to notice her child missing.”

“Kids differ. My nephew used to sleep till nine. All of my sister’s friends were green with envy.”

“Just proves my point,” Decker said. “Most kids aren’t real late sleepers.”

“But this one could be,” Marge said.

Decker didn’t answer her.

“What else is sticking in your craw?” Marge asked.

Decker said, “I found her in a pajama sleeper, Margie. I had it bagged. It had recent blood on it.”

“A lot?”

“More than a nosebleed’s worth. And none of it looks like it came from the kid. Her body was clean except for a little rash on both her arms.”

“Blood on a pajama sleeper isn’t an everyday occurrence,” Marge admitted. “I don’t like it, either.”

There was a moment of silence. Marge broke it.

“Think her mother was whacked?”

“Maybe a suicide.” Decker shrugged. “The kid’s obviously been well cared for. No superficial signs of abuse. I figure I’ll wait until nine. If no one calls in by then, we’ll do a door-to-door search where I found her last night.”

“MacPherson said she was wandering around the new development over the quarry.”

“Yep. The newest Manfred job—a couple hundred houses. Looks like I got my work cut out for me.”

Marge said, “It’s your day off.”

“Not anymore,” Decker said. “It’s okay. I don’t mind doing my bit for this little thing. All I need is a couple of hours off in the afternoon. Do me a favor, Margie. Get the kid some juice and bread or something. She must be starved.”

“Sure,” Marge said. “Want some help canvassing the area?”

“You’ve read my mind.” Decker reached for his cigarettes, then retracted his hand. “What time is it now? Eight?”

“Quarter to.”

“I’d like to pull another hour of sleep before we begin talking to the good folk, if you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead. Maybe the situation will resolve itself with a frantic phone call.”

“I sure as hell hope so. But I’m not overly optimistic.”

“Want me to punch her description into the computer?” Marge asked.

“That’s a little premature,” Decker said. “Go ahead and snap Polaroids of her for ID purposes. And if you get a chance, print her feet, also. Maybe they will match some hospital newborn file.”

“Want me to call IDC?”

Decker frowned. “Yeah, I guess someone should. If no one claims her, we’re going to have to take her somewhere.”

“I’ll call up Richard Lui at MacClaren Hall. He’s a nice guy with primo connections to the good foster homes. Did I ever tell you I went out with him?”

“Was this before or after Carroll?”

“After Carroll, before Kevin. We didn’t last too long, but we had enough of a good time that he still does favors for me.”

“Well, use the clout, woman. Ask him to call Sophi Rawlings. She’s a great lady and happens to be in the area. I think she’s licensed to handle them this young. If you make yourself unusually charming, maybe we can circumvent MacClaren altogether and take her to Sophi’s directly.”

“No problem. Richard is wild about me.” Marge smiled at the little girl and said, “Let’s get you some grub, honey.”

“Honey!” the child shouted.

Marge laughed. “You’re a honey.”

“Honey!” the toddler echoed.

Decker waited until Marge and the kid were gone then sank into his bunk. He fell asleep with a smile on his lips. He dreamed of Rina—lost, lovely days that he hoped to recapture very soon.

3

Sweet dreams so real, yet like spun sugar, a touch and everything dissolves. The blast of incandescent light. Marge’s voice.

“Wake up, Pete.”

“I’m up,” he grunted.

“Are you up as in paying attention?”

“What time is it?”

“Ten.”

“Ten?” Decker sat up, almost hit his head on the top bunk. He rubbed his eyes. “Why’d you let me sleep so late?”

“Mike and I just came back from a two thirty-four.”

“Need me for anything?”

“Nah,” Marge said. “The woman’s stable. Date rape. Happened last night. She finally got the courage to make the call this morning. Got a shitload of physical evidence—the girl was slapped around. Mike’s filing for the warrant right now.”

Decker yawned. “What’s with the kid?”

“No one called to claim her. She’s with Lucinda Alvarez right now. I just got off the phone with Richard Lui. He said if we fill out the necessary forms ASAP and bring them over to him, we can take the kid directly to Sophi Rawlings and bypass MacClaren. If no one claims her in seventy-two hours, Richard’ll set up an arraignment in Dependency Court.”

“Great,” Decker said. “If you fill out the forms, I’ll take her to Sophi’s.”

“Fine.”

“Still want to do a door-to-door with me afterward?”

“Why not? I’ve got nothing pressing until two in the afternoon.” She started to walk away, then stopped. “Oh. Rina called. She said she’s not working today. Asked for you to call her back when you get a chance.”

“Thanks.”

Marge took another step, then added, “Jan called, too.”

Decker said, “What the hell did she want?”

“I didn’t ask, Peter.”

As soon as he was alone, Decker dialed the New York number. The line was full of static. Rina picked it up on the third ring.

“Hello there,” Decker said.

“I was hoping it was you,” Rina answered.

“Well, it’s me,” Decker answered. Her voice gave him a chill down his spine. He said, “Are you feeling all right?”

“Fine. Why do you ask?”

“You’re not at work.”

“Yes, I guess I’m not.”

There was a pause.

“What’s wrong, Rina?” Decker asked.

“I can’t go into it over the phone. It’ll take up too much of your time. You are calling from the station, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“I can tell. Their phone system is very poor. I love you, Peter.”

“I love you, too,” Decker said. “Are you still thinking about coming out here?”

“How does Wednesday sound?”

Decker grinned. “It sounds terrific. I promise to keep my hands in my pockets when we’re in public.”

Silence on the other end.

Decker said, “Rina, doll, what is it?”

“Do you have time, Peter?”

Decker sighed. “Not a lot right now, unfortunately. How about if I call you back in a couple of hours?”

“Don’t bother. It’s nothing earth-shattering. We’ll talk about it on Wednesday. I’m coming out by myself, leaving the boys here with their grandparents … I need some time alone … to talk to you.”

“I feel terrible cutting you off like this,” Decker said.

“No,” Rina said, “I’m cutting you off. Just have an open ear for me on Wednesday, okay?”

“Sooner,” Decker said. “I’ll call you tonight and we’ll swap tales of woe.”

Rina paused. “That will be difficult with the boys home.”

“Why? Are the kids giving you a hard time?”

“Oh no. Not at all. It’s just that … forget it. We’ll talk about it when I come out. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Decker said. “Maybe a little sleep-deprived. Maybe a little hungry … a little horn—”

“I get the picture,” Rina said. “Your drives need an overhauling. Unfortunately, I can’t do anything on the phone.”

“Promise you’ll make it up to me on Wednesday.”

“It’s a deal.”

“I love you, Rina.”

“Love you, too.”

She hung up.

Decker wondered for a moment what could be bothering her. Whatever had happened took place around a week ago. Since then, Rina had become withdrawn, almost melancholy.

Sudden homesickness?

Decker hoped so.

Now came the call he dreaded. Decker dialed the number by rote. A moment later, his ex-wife’s voice cackled through the receiver.

“Hi, Jan,” Decker said.

“Nice of you to return my call,” she said.

Decker paused. After all this time, he still couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic. He decided to play it innocent.

“No problem,” he said. “Have you heard from Cindy?”

“That’s why I called,” Jan said. “I’m passing along her message. She’s fine.”

“Thank God.”

“You can say that again.”

Another pause.

“Where is she?” Decker asked.

“Portugal.”

“Is she having fun?”

“She seems to be having the time of her life.”

“Good.”

More silence.

Jan said, “This little European jaunt may be great for Cindy’s development, but it’s turning me into a wreck. I can’t wait until she’s home.”

“Neither can I,” Decker said.

“It was your idea.”

“It was Cindy’s idea.”

“But you approved of it.”

“And so did you.”

“Only after you did. What could I do? It was two against one … as usual.”

“Oh for chrissakes, Jan,” he said. “Look, Cindy asked you to give me a message. I got the message. Anything else?”

“No.”

She hung up.

Two women hanging up on him. More than any man should have to take.

He dressed quickly, threw two quarters in the vending machine, and pulled out a cup of black coffee. He sipped away the sour taste in his mouth and walked at the same time, the coffee sloshing over the rim of the paper cup and burning his hands.

They’d placed the kid in the conference room. She seemed to be enjoying herself, scrawling over the morning-watch blackboard with white chalk. The room was littered with scraps of paper, cookie wrappers, and broken pencils and crayons.

“Hello there,” Decker said to the toddler. “Remember me?”

The kid ran around in circles and shrieked with unabashed joy. Someone had dressed her in makeshift clothes—baggy pants and a pullover sweater much too big for her. The cuffs were rolled up to her knees. Decker regarded the tot’s baby-sitter. Officer Lucinda Alvarez was in her twenties—slender but muscular—in the peak of health. At this moment, slumped in a folding chair, she looked as energetic as an overcooked noodle.

Lucinda said, “I didn’t bust my ass in the academy to do this kind of work.”

“Kids take it out of you.”

She stood up and frowned. “What really pisses me off is that they automatically assigned this to me ’cause I’m a woman.”

“I’ll take her now.”

“I mean, why didn’t Sarge assign this to O’Grady or Ramirez?”

“I don’t know, Lucinda.”

“Yeah, well, I’m going to find out.”

“Does she have a bottle or anything like that?”

“Yeah. Somewhere. The kid thought it was great fun throwing it around the room.”

Decker smiled.

Lucinda said, “Sure! Laugh! You haven’t been babysitting.”

“I had her all morning,” Decker said.

Lucinda eyed him with doubt. “So what do you want for that? A medal or something?”

“All I want is the kid.”

“Take her.” Lucinda threw her purse over her shoulder. “Take her with my blessings.”

She stormed out of the room. The kid giggled when she slammed the door.

The foster home was similar to the other houses on the block, built from whitewashed wood planks, the paint peeling around the window sashes, with a tarpaper roof and faded green awnings. The front yard was enclosed by a chain-link fence and held two swing sets and a climbing apparatus shaped like a geodesic dome. Several children, wearing shorts and T-shirts, were playing outside, supervised by a young black girl.

Decker curbed the Plymouth in front of the house, and unbuckled the little girl riding in a car seat. He took her out of the car, walked over and unlatched the gate, and showed his badge to the woman outside. She nodded and sent one of the children—a girl of around seven—into the house.

Sophi Rawlings came out a moment later. She was of indeterminate racial origin and could pass with equal ease as a light-skinned black, a Micronesian, a Hispanic, or a kinky-haired Asian. A bosomy woman, she was in her fifties, with a close-cropped salt-and-pepper Afro, round brown eyes, and a broad nose dappled with dark freckles. Her manner was reassuring, her voice held a soothing lilt. She clucked her tongue when she saw Decker holding the toddler.

“My oh my, Sergeant Decker,” she said. “Where did this little one come from?”

“Believe it or not, I found her wandering the streets last night.”

“Where?”

“In a new development right above the old lime quarry.”

“Any leads?” Sophi asked.

“Not yet.”

Sophi placed her hand on Decker’s shoulder. “If there’s leads to be found, you’ll find them.”

“Thanks.” He handed the child to Sophi.

“Don’t look so glum, Sergeant. She’ll be in good hands.”

“I know she will be, Ms. Rawlings.”

Sophi smiled. Though neither one of them were formal people, for some reason they were always formal with each other.

“Have you taken her to a doctor yet, Sergeant?” Sophi asked.

“No.”

“I’ll take her this afternoon.”

“Personally?”

“This young I take them personally.”

“Thank you, Ms. Rawlings,” Decker said. “And I’ll need a blood sample.”

“May I ask why?”

Decker said, “There was blood on her pajamas when I found her. So far as I could ascertain, her body is free from abuse or injury, so I don’t think the blood is hers. But I want to be certain.”

“Oh boy.” Sophi paused. “Whose blood is it?”

Decker shrugged.

“Something’s happened to her mother,” Sophi stated.

“Maybe.”

“Or father,” Sophi added. “Don’t rule out the possibility that she was abducted by her father and he turned her loose when he saw how much work babies can be.”

“Good point,” Decker said. “’Course, that still doesn’t explain the blood.”

Sophi looked at the child and said, “We’re talking too freely. They understand a lot at this age.”

Decker nodded.

“I’ll take good care of her,” Sophi said.

Decker smiled sadly, then said, “Ms. Rawlings, she has a little rash on both her arms. Have the doc check that out for me.”

“Sure,” Sophi said. “Did you name her, Sergeant Decker?”

“You name her, Ms. Rawlings.”

“How ’bout Sally?”

“Sally,” Decker said. “Sally’s a good name.” He stroked the silky little cheek. “Behave yourself, Sally. You hear?”

The toddler smiled at him, then burrowed her brow in Sophi’s inviting bosom.

Decker walked back to the car.

“When are you meeting your scumbag friend?” Marge asked Decker.

“Around three.”

She switched into the left lane of the freeway and floored the accelerator. The 210 was empty today, the mountains flanking the asphalt abloom with flowers and shimmering in the heat. It was already late June; summer had overslept this year, but the high temperatures this week had finally marked its awakening. The mercury was already past 90. Decker turned up the air-conditioning.

“And this scumbag was an army buddy of yours,” Marge said.

“Yep. Stop calling him a scumbag.”

“Hey, that’s what we’ve always called rapists.”

“Alleged rapist.”

“Shit.” Marge passed a big rig and rode the tail wind. “Now you’re playing lawyer on me. What was his excuse? ‘She asked for it,’ or ‘You’ve got the wrong guy’?”

“You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Figures.” Marge shook her head. “He’s a scumbag, Pete. Don’t get sucked up by him because he once saved your life or something.”

“He never saved my life.” Decker took out a cigarette.

“You’re smoking. I hit a nerve.”

“Did you bring a map of the Manfred development?” Decker asked.

“It’s in my purse. About two hundred and fifty houses. Hope you brought a comfortable pair of shoes.”

“I’m starving,” Decker said.

“Want to stop at a Seven-Eleven?”

“Not enough time,” Decker said. “And that’s why I’m smoking. Not because you hit any nerve, lady.”

“Peace, bro.”

Decker laughed.

The car exited at Deep Canyon Road—a main thoroughfare that traversed the mountain-pocket communities of the Foothill Division of the LAPD. The road was narrow and winding, but as it hit the business district, it spread into six lanes. The unmarked passed through the shopping district—discount dress outlets, fast-food drive-ins, a Suzuki dealership, Mexican cantinas, and bars built for drinking, not mating. The retail stores soon yielded to the wholesalers—lumberyards and brickyards, roofing supplies, warehouses. Beyond the warehouses was residential land—small wood-framed houses, and larger ranches. Churches stood like watchtowers every few miles.

Decker had bought empty acreage in the district years ago, right after his divorce. The land had appreciated, but not as much as property in the affluent parts of L.A. But he liked the open space—his ranch was zoned for horses—liked the mountains and the convenience of being fifteen minutes from work.

They passed the turnoff for Yeshivas Ohavei Torah, a religious college for Jewish men—Jewtown, the other cops called it. Women also lived on the premises, with their husbands or fathers. Rina Lazarus had been an anomaly—the sole widow. The first time Decker had ever stepped foot in the place had been two years ago. He’d been the cop assigned to a nasty rape case, Rina had been his star witness.

Two years ago, and such significant change had overtaken his life.

Rina. She was the kind of woman men would murder for. And there she’d been, locked up in that protective, religious environment, oblivious to her bewitching powers. Her lack of guile made her even more appealing to Decker, and he moved in where others had feared to tread. But there were trade-offs. Rina wanted not only a Jewish man, but a religious one.

Baptist-bred Decker, now a frummie—a religious Jew. He’d had lots of second thoughts about becoming Jewish, let alone Orthodox. The extent of his observance had been a major source of conflict between them. How committed was he? Rina had decided to find out. She left the yeshiva—left him—and moved to New York a year ago, claiming he needed to be alone to make his own personal choices.

Six months later, away from her, away from the pressure, Decker arrived at a decision. He liked Judaism—his own modified version. He’d be observant most of the time, but would bend the letter of the law when it seemed right to do so. He explained his convictions to Rina one night in a three-hour phone conversation. She said it was something she could live with.

Now all he needed to do was convince her to move back and pick up where they had left off.

Two days to go.

Decker stared out the window. Marge had turned left, cutting northeast. They passed a pit of huge boulders and sand deposits—rocks stripped of ore, leaving only dusty wasteland. A half-mile north was the Manfred development, two square miles of land cut from mountainside. Fifty yards down, workers were framing a convenience center. Marge parked the car on the first street, and they both got out.

“This is really the boonies, isn’t it?” Marge said.

Decker said, “The land won’t be empty forever. Much to the conservationists’ displeasure.”

“Well, I’ve got to agree with them on one account. These houses certainly don’t blend in with the landscape. Kind of reminds me of the lost colony of Roanoke.”

Decker smiled and said, “How do you want to divide up?”

Marge said, “Maple runs down the middle. I’ll take the houses north of it between Louisiana and Washington.”

“Roger,” Decker said. “Keep a look out for unusual tire marks or tiny footprints. Maybe we can trace little Sally’s late-night trek through the neighborhood.”

“Ground’s dry,” Marge said kicking up dust.

“In the early morning, the air was full of dew. You never can tell.”

“All right,” Marge said. “Here’s one of the sexy Polaroids I took this morning.”

The snapshot showed the blond, curly-haired toddler grinning, her nose wrinkling.

“What a little doll,” Decker said.

“Yeah,” Marge agreed. “Meet you back here … when?”

“Two hours from now?”

“Two hours sounds about right.”

“Good.”

They split up.

Nada.

Two and a quarter hours of searching, and nothing but a pair of sore dogs. Decker radioed to Marge.

“The hour’s getting late,” he said. “How many houses do you have left?”

“About twenty,” she said. “Why don’t we call it quits? I’ll get the ones I missed and pick up the ones that weren’t home tomorrow or the next day.”

“Meet you at the car,” Decker said.

He walked back nursing a giant headache. Maybe it was the lack of food and sleep, but some of it was caused by a sinking feeling that there was a corpse out there collecting flies.

He leaned against the Plymouth, waved to Marge as she approached.

“You’ve got a knowing gleam in your eye,” Decker told her. “What did you find out?”

“That a lady on Pennsylvania is boffing a repairman from ABC Refrigeration.” Marge consulted her notes. “There was this one woman, a Mrs. Patty Bingham on 1605 Oak Street. She denied ever seeing Sally, had no idea who she was, etc., etc. But something about her didn’t feel right. Nothing I can put my finger on, but I suspect she’s holding back.”

Decker asked, “Why wouldn’t she want to help identify a little kid?”

“It might implicate her in something nasty,” Marge said.

Decker nodded. “I don’t know about you, but whatever the story is with Sally, I don’t think the kid lived in this development.”

“I’ll agree with you there,” Marge said. “Too many people denied knowing her. And in a place with this many children, where the kids all play together, some of the neighborhood mothers would have recognized her … unless her parents kept her locked up and segregated.”

“I don’t think so,” Decker said. “Sally’s a sweet little girl—relates well to people, talks a little, smiles a lot. She doesn’t seem like a socially isolated kid to me. Plus, in my interviewing, none of the moms I’d talked to mentioned a weird family on such-and-such street.”

“Yeah,” Marge said. “In a small neighborhood like this, a weird family would stick out.” She furrowed her brow. “So that brings us back to the crucial question. Where the hell did Sally come from?”

“Sophi Rawlings made an interesting point. Maybe she was a pawn in a custody dispute. Maybe Dad kidnapped her, then discovered how much work she was and dropped her off here to be found.”

“Here?”

“A nice family neighborhood,” Decker said. “Someone was bound to notice her.”

“Except no one did,” Marge said.

“I did.”

“But you weren’t from the neighborhood,” Marge answered. “And what about the blood?”

Decker shrugged.

Marge said, “How about this: Dad and Mom live close by. Dad whacks Mom in an argument, panics, and drops the kid here.”

Decker said. “But where do Dad and Mom live if they don’t live here?”

Marge said, “There’re a few isolated ranches around here.” She looked toward the mountains. “Probably more squatters than we’d care to admit in those hills.”

Decker nodded and said, “In the meantime, start up a Missing Person file on Sally. I’ll go to meet my buddy—”

“The rapist.”

“Alleged rapist,” Decker said. “You punch Sally’s description and prints into the computer. Also, contact Barry Delferno.”

Marge stuck out her tongue.

Decker said, “Want me to call him?”

“No, no, no,” Marge insisted. “My past experience with the sleaze shall have no bearing on my professional duties.”

Decker held back a smile and said, “I hear he’s doing very well since he made the switch from bail jumpers to stolen children.”

“His off-duty car is a ’sixty-four metallic-blue Rolls Silver Cloud,” Marge said. “We’re in the wrong field.”

“Yeah, well, we already knew that.”

“What do you want to do with my lady on Oak?”

“You want me to talk to her?”

“Yes, I do. Maybe a big guy like you can intimidate her into baring her soul.”

Decker said, “I can do it now, or I can let her sit on it and come back tomorrow. My personal opinion is to leave her alone for the night. She may see the light in the morning.”

Marge thought, then said, “Okay, let her sit on it. But not too long.”

“You think she’s planning a one-way trip somewhere?”

Marge shook her head. “No indication.”

“Great,” Decker said. “Let’s go. You drive.”

4

Decker stood outside the Los Angeles County Jail. It was a lousy day to dig up bones—three o’clock and the sun was still blasting mercilessly. Sweat ran down his forehead, beaded above his mustache. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face, then sat down on the lone cement bench stranded on an island of scorched lawn. Although large and looming, the gray prison building in front of him cast only a couple feet worth of shadow. No relief there. He took off his suit jacket, and rechecked his watch.

C’mon, you son of a bitch. Let’s get it over with.

He stood up. The bench was hot. Besides, he was too antsy to sit. A Khaki-clad sheriff’s deputy walked past him and nodded. Decker nodded back, pulled out a cigarette from his shirt pocket, and began to peel the paper, letting the tobacco shavings fall to the ground. Thirty-seven out of forty cigarettes he handled per day ended up skinned, but better that than smoking the suckers.

Finally, the glass doors opened and Abel Atwater came out into the afternoon swelter. His former quarterback body had become emaciated—insubstantial under a blousy shirt. The top was faded stripes of orange and green, the weave of the fabric loose and speckled with moth holes. His jeans were frayed at the knees, and on his right foot was a rubbed-out suede Hush Puppy. The left pants leg, Decker knew, housed a Teflon prosthesis. His eyes were more deepset than Decker had remembered, almost sunken. His nose was longer and thinner. Limping along with surprising grace, he twirled his cane, Charlie Chaplin style. The loose-fitting shirt, the rhinestone-studded walking stick, the white bandage around his head, and the dark beard gave him the look of an Arab emir about to hold court.

He saw Decker and broke into a wide smile.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, hobbling over, his arms spread out like two parentheses. “Yo, Doc. How goes it?”

Decker rebuffed the embrace and looked at him.

“We need to talk, Abel.” He rolled up his shirtsleeves.

“Hey, Doc, why the long face? C’mon, what they’re sayin’ is shit.” He got down on his knee—his good one—and imitated Al Jolson. “Don’t you know me? I’m yo’ baby.” He laughed. “You remember me. Ole Honest Abe Atwater with the ten-inch prick.”

“Your prick got you into big trouble, Abel.”

Abel rose. “Lighten up, Pete. You don’t think I really raped her, do you?”

“She was full of your semen.”

Abel drawled out, “I didn’t say I didn’t fuck her. I said I didn’t rape her.”

Decker grabbed Abel’s shirt and pulled the thin face close to his.

“She’s got a five-inch cut running down her cheek with twenty stitches in it, three broken ribs, and a collapsed lung from a stab wound.” He tightened his grip. “And your jism was inside of her. Now I’m going to ask you a question, Honest Abe, and I want the truth! Understand me well, I mean the truth! Did you rape her?”

“No.”

“Did you cut her?” Decker screamed.

“NO!”

“You’d better not be shucking me, buddy, because if you are, you’re gonna look back on our days crapped out in Da Nang as fond memories … catch my drift?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Pete. I’m telling you the God’s honest truth. I didn’t rape her!”

Decker let go of him and stared at the broken face.

“You’re in big trouble, buddy,” he said.

“I know,” Abel said weakly. “I know I am.”

“You can’t pretend that nothing happened, Abe.”

“I know.”

Decker placed his hand on Abe’s shoulder and led him over to the bench.

“Let’s sit down and talk about it.”

Abel dabbed his brow with a tissue. Despite the long, untrimmed beard and the unkempt dress, he smelled freshly scrubbed. He’d always been meticulous about his hygiene, Decker remembered. Used to groom himself like a cat. When the rest of the platoon was covered with caked-on scum, Old Honest Abe Atwater would be spitting into his palm, trying to wash off the grime.

“Thanks, big man,” Abel said. “Thanks for bailing me out.”

“S’all right.”

“I really mean it.”

“I know you do.”

Abel threw him a weak smile. Decker opened his arms, and they gave each other a bear hug.

“Good to see you, Doc.” Abel broke away. “Though I wish the circumstances were a tad better.”

“You have a lawyer?”

“I thought maybe you could help me out.”

“I haven’t practiced law in twelve years.”

“Do you know anyone?”

“Not offhand,” Decker said. “I do most of my work with district attorneys. Who’s your PD?”

“Some incompetent with a perpetual allergy. Nose is running all the time.” Abel pinched off a nostril and sniffed deeply with the other. “Know what I mean?”

“I’ll ask around,” Decker said. “We’ll dig up someone.”

“Appreciate it. Preferably someone without a habit.”

“That’s not so easy.”

“I know. I wasn’t being facetious.” Abel looked at the sky and squinted. “Hot one, ain’t it?”

Decker didn’t answer.

“Not interested in the weather, huh?” Abel said. “Well, how ’bout them Dodgers?”

“Abel, have you eaten anything today?” Decker asked.

“Some swill for breakfast. Amorphous goop that doubles for Elmer’s in a pinch.”

“Let’s get something to eat.”

“I’ll check my finances.” Abel took out his wallet. “Damn. Forgot my platinum card. We’ll have to forego Spago.”

Decker looked at his watch. “Let’s fill our bellies. It’s late and some of us have a long drive home.”

Decker swung the unmarked onto the Santa Monica Freeway west. When he hit the downtown interchange, the traffic coagulated. Vehicles burped noxious fumes into a smoggy sky. At least the air conditioner was working, sucking up stale hot air and turning it to stale cool air. They rode for a half hour in silence. When Decker exited on the Robertson off-ramp, Abel spoke up.

“Where are we going?”

“Does it matter?”

“Nope.”

Ten minutes later, Decker pulled up in front of the Pico Kosher Deli, turned off the motor, and got out. Abel followed.

“You like corned beef?” Decker asked, popping dimes into the meter.

“At the moment, I’ll take anything that’s edible.”

Decker placed a crocheted yarmulke atop his hair and secured it with a bobby pin.

“What’s with the beany cap?” Abel asked.

“I’ve become a little religious in my old age.”

“Religious I can understand,” Abel said. “But since when have you become Jewish?”

“It’s a long story. Best reserved for another time. Let’s go.”

The place was half full. Out of habit, Decker chose a back table that afforded privacy. Off to the left side was a refrigerator case loaded with smoked fish—metal trays piled high with lox, cod, and whitefish chubs. Decker looked at the plastic laminated menu.

“What’s good?” Abel asked.

“Everything,” Decker said. “One of the few haunts left that serves an honest meal.”

A waitress came over. She was very young, wide-hipped, with blond hair tied back in a ponytail. Abel winked at her.

“What’s the story, sugar?”

She smiled uncomfortably.

Decker said, “I’ll have a pastrami on rye with a large orange juice.”

“Make mine a salami and cheese on rye with a Bud. If you can’t find a Bud, I’ll take you.”

Decker rolled his eyes. “You can’t have cheese here, Abel. The place is kosher. They don’t mix meat and dairy products.”

Abel said to the girl, “Then just give me you, honey.”

“Give him a salami on rye and a Heineken,” Decker ordered.

The waitress nodded gratefully and left them. Abel bit his lower lip and drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

“Want to tell me about it?” Decker asked.

Abel rubbed his face with his hands. “She was a hooker, natch. She called herself Plum Pie. I don’t know her real name—”

“Myra Steele,” Decker interrupted. “She’s eighteen, which makes her an adult. Thank God for small favors, otherwise you’d be in the can for statutory rape even if you didn’t coerce her. She’s from Detroit, has three priors for soliciting—two when she was still a juvenile, the last one three months ago. She used to work for a pimp named Letwoine Monroe—he was the one who posted bail for her after her last arrest—but I found out he bit the dust a month ago in a drug deal that went sour. I don’t know who she’s peddling her ass for now.”

There was a brief silence.

Abel said, “Why didn’t my lawyer tell me all of this?”

“He probably didn’t know,” Decker said. “It’s all incidental to your case. I just like details.”

“Incidental? The bitch is a hooker with three priors—”

“For God’s sake. Lower your voice, Abe.” Decker sighed. “What she does to earn a buck is irrelevant. If you forced her to have intercourse, it’s rape.”

“I didn’t force her to do anything. It was a mutually agreed-upon business transaction. And I certainly didn’t beat or slice her.”

“Abe,” Decker said, “if you’ve got to go to hookers, you go to hookers. But why didn’t you wear a condom, for chrissakes? In case you haven’t heard, there are nasty viruses floating around. What, Nam wasn’t enough? You’ve got a death wish?”

“She didn’t have AIDS.”

“And how do you know that?”

“She’s got one of those cards from a laboratory certifying her clean.”

“Abel—”

“Yeah, cards can be forged,” Abel broke in. “I’m well aware of that, Doc. But we believe what we want to believe. And condoms don’t fit my fantasies.”

“You’re a first-class ass.”

“Tell me something we both don’t already know.”

“Where’d you find this babe?” Decker asked.

“Strutting up the boulevard. My nest isn’t too far from the garden spot.”

“Go on.”

“We made arrangements, and she took me up to her place. Jesus, what a sty! Place was redolent with foot odor and other rancid—”

“Get to the point, Abe.”

“Okay, okay. We fucked. She was good, and I wanted more. So I paid for another round.” His eyes narrowed as he concentrated on bringing back the memory. “I was feeling really virile. I hadn’t felt like that in a long time, Pete. This one … I don’t know … she was really good. I paid for a third time—”

“Where’d you get all this bread?”

“From good old red, white, and blue Uncle Sam. I’m part of the national debt, Pete. Sammy owes me forever for my leg.” He wiped his forehead with his napkin. “Also, I pick up spare change from odd jobs. My needs are simple, and sex is cheap.”

“All right. Go on.”

“By the end of the third time, I was pretty wasted.”

“Were you doping?”

“No. She was, but I wasn’t. By wasted, I meant tired. I asked her if I could crash out at her place, and she agreed.”

“For a fee.”

“It’s America,” Abel said. “Everything has a price.”

“Around what time was that?” Decker asked.

“About one, two in the morning. She told me she was through for the evening anyway. She’d made her quota, and her main man would be happy.”

The waitress brought the sandwiches.

“I’ll be right back,” Decker said.

He got up and walked back toward the restaurant’s kitchen, over to an industrial sink. Hanging over the lave was a two-handled brass stein and a roll of paper towels. Decker took the chalice off the hook, filled it with water, and poured it over his hands twice. Shaking off the excess water, he dried his hands and said the blessing for the ritual washing. He walked back to the table, mumbled another blessing over bread, then chomped on his pastrami on rye.

Abel stared at him. “You’re real serious about this.”

Decker chewed, swallowed, and gulped down half his orange juice. He said, “My woman is religious.”

“Your wife?”

“Not yet,” Decker said. “But I hope to change that very soon.”

“We’re talking about marriage number two, right? Or is it more?”

“Only two.”

“When did you divorce the first one? What was her name? Jean … no, Jan.”

“Yeah. Jan. I don’t want to talk about her.”

“Didn’t you two have a kid?”

“Still do. A daughter—”

“Cynthia.”

Decker nodded. “She’s going to be a freshman at Columbia this fall. The marriage was worth it for her.”

“So she’s what? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

“Seventeen.”

“About the same age we were when we met,” Abel said.

“Frightening,” Decker said.

“Damn frightening,” Abel said. “Did I ever tell you I got married?”

“No.”

“I did. About seven years ago.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. We’re still married, so far as I know. We don’t live together. No one can live with me.”

“Kids?”

“Not mine,” Abel said. “She’s got three from previous liaisons, none of them married her. I took pity—seventeen-year-old girl and three kids. Nice chicklet, cute, but stupid as shit. Just can’t say no. So I got her fixed up with an IUD. I send her a little cash, see her when I go back home for Christmas. She’s happy, I’m happy.”

“It’s great to be happy.” Decker raised his eyebrows. “Let’s get back to the rape.”

“Where was I?”

“You paid to sleep over at her house.”

Abel nodded. “That was the last thing I remember. Next thing I knew, I woke up—handcuffed. My skull is cracked open, and the bitch is screaming bloody murder …”

“She said you held a shiv across her throat while you raped her. Then you went nuts. She knocked you out by cracking a lamp over your head, then called the police.”

“I don’t even own a shiv.”

“You still get those blackouts?”

“Yeah. But not this time. I was sleeping, Doc. I heard someone screaming, woke up and saw blood.” He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “I thought I was having another routine nightmare. Man, I never stopped getting nightmares, you know. But this one seemed ordinary enough. So I said to myself, ‘Abe, go back to sleep. It’s just another nightmare.’ Only it was real. God, was it real.”

His eyes became pensive and moist. “I don’t know what happened, Pete. All I know is, when I went to sleep, the girl was whole.”

“Is it possible that you had a blackout, did something to her, and woke up without any memory of it?”

Abel swallowed hard.

“I swear to God I didn’t rape or beat her.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “I believe you.” He finished his sandwich and orange juice. “You didn’t beat her up. But someone did. The report said there was no break-in or forced entry, but Myra often slept with the windows open. She could have known the assailant—a john who got rough or her pimp—tried to cover for him, and you were a convenient scapegoat.”

“I don’t know how they can pinpoint my semen in her,” Abel said. “The broad was a hooker. She must have been swimming in a sea of cum.”

“She claims you were the only john who sodomized her last night. That’s how the lab made the positive ID.”

Abel looked down.

“I didn’t rape her,” he said tensely. “I paid for everything I took. And I didn’t get rough with the lady, Pete. Goddammit, you know me! I don’t do things like that. And it was never for lack of opportunity.”

Decker knew that was true. They’d both seen their share of grunts on the rampage. An M-16 strapped to your back, you never had to pay for it—just went into the hooches and took whatever you wanted. Women, girls, even boys, it didn’t matter. Screw them in front of Papa-san, it’s only a gook. Came back to the squad a double vet—fucked ’em and wasted ’em. Abel had never signed up for that club.

Decker, more than anyone, had known him as a gentle and compassionate human being. Always the one sneaking orphans onto the base, only to have them kicked out by some shitfaced captain who said it was against the rules. Honest Abe Atwater, putting on puppet shows with empty IV bottles wearing grease-pencil smiles. Stealing rations to feed the homeless left in the gutted villages ripped apart by cross fire. Always trying to make nice. His downfall: He lost his leg because of his heart. Everything they’d been warned against. A friendly that had been VC. A fluke Decker had found him. Even flukier that Abel had lived.

“You’ll get me out of this mess, won’t you, Doc?”

“I’ll do what I can. But it may take a while. You need a good lawyer who can buy you time.”

“I don’t have a hell of a lot of loot.” Abel shrugged. “Matter of fact, I’m busted.”

Decker frowned.

“Don’t worry about it, Pete. I’ll figure out something. And I intend to pay you back the bail money. Just as soon as I get my disability check.”

“Forget it,” Decker said. He glanced at the wall clock. “I’ve got to get home. But first I have to say grace after meals, so be quiet for about five minutes.”

Decker prayed, then rose and slipped Abel a twenty. “This should get you back home by taxi. I’ll call as soon as I have something to tell you.”

Abel looked at him, a hound-dog expression on his face. “I’m really sorry about this, Pete. Seems I only call you when I’m fucked.”

Decker said, “What else are friends for?”

5

Marge picked up the printout and frowned. Sally’s description and footprints hadn’t matched anything stored in the mainframe’s data banks. Though it wasn’t unusual for the computer to turn up a blank, because the kid was so young, she’d hoped for a break.

She looked up Barry Delferno’s number. The first time she’d met the bounty hunter, she’d expected someone fat and swarthy with a bucket’s worth of grease plastered on his hair. Instead, she found a tall, sandy-haired muscle man with dancing eyes. He’d asked her out and she’d accepted, only to find out a week later that he was married.

Bounty hunters. No matter what they looked like, they were all sleazeballs.

She punched Delferno’s number into the phone, and a moment later a deep voice resonated inside the earpiece.

“It’s Marge Dunn, Barry,” she said.

“Detective Dunn,” Delferno crooned. “How’s the LAPD’s finest?”

“Not bad.”

“You know, I was gonna call you.”

“Were you now?”

“No shit. I’m divorced, Margie. For real this time. Free and clear. You can check it out, if you don’t believe me.”

“I called for professional reasons, Barry. Got your current caseload in front of you?”

“Margie, Margie, Margie. What is the rush?”

“I don’t chat when I’m on duty.”

“So how ’bout if we chat over drinks?”

Marge ignored him. “We picked up a little girl—around two, curly blond hair, brown eyes, height thirty-two inches, weight twenty-six pounds. I’ve got Polaroids and footprints I’d like to fax over to you. See if we come up with a match.”

“As long as the match is a love match between you and me, my Greek goddess.”

“Knock it off.”

Delferno said, “I love a woman who talks tough. It turns me on. Gets my blood boiling and my—”

“You’re wasting your breath.”

“All right. Be surly. I’ll get you anyway. In the meantime, send me the pics and the prints.”

Marge placed the information into the machine. She said, “Call me back when you’ve got them.”

“How about dinner? Tonight, even. Wait, tonight’s not good. How about tomor—”

“I’m hanging up now, Barry.”

“It’s not nice to alienate the hired help.”

Marge laughed and placed the receiver in its cradle. She poured herself a cup of coffee and waited for Delferno to call back. A few minutes later, her phone rang.

“Dunn,” she answered.

“Nothing,” Delferno said.

“Sure?”

“Positive. Never seen the little tyke. Was she abused?”

“Nope. She seemed to be very well cared for.”

“Foul play with the parents?”

“Could be,” Marge said. “We found blood on her pajamas. Ask around for me, Barry.”

“What do I get in return?”

“What do you want?”

“How about a weekend in Cabo San Lucas? We’ll four-wheel it down to Baja, dip our toes in the gentle warm oceano, and fish for yellowtail.”

“I don’t fish.”

“Then we can sunbathe on the white-sand beaches … no tan lines, Margie.”

“I’m involved with someone else, Barry,” Marge said.

Delferno paused. “I heard you broke up with Carroll.”

“Well, you heard wrong,” Marge lied. “You remember Carroll—six-six, two-sixty, hands as big as catchers’ mitts.”

“For chrissakes, why didn’t you tell me in the first place, Margie?”

“It slipped my mind. Kinda like your wife slipped yours a while back.”

Delferno paused, then said, “Was this whole thing a setup for revenge?”

Marge smiled. “Well, let me put it this way. If I’m ever interested, I’ll give you a call. Until then, give me and the kid a break and pass on the photo to your buddies. Maybe they’ve seen her.”

“If it means another chance at your body, Detective Dunn, I will do that. I like my women like my tales—long and tall.”

“I like my men like my good-byes—short.” She laughed and hung up the phone. Decker walked into the squad room.

“What’s so amusing?” he asked. “I could use a few giggles.”

“Delferno,” she said. “Same old lech.”

“Any luck with Sally?” inquired Decker.

“Zip. I told Barry to pass the picture along to his colleagues. I also tried the Missing Children Hotline. No one matching Sally’s description has been reported recently.”

Decker sighed. “Poor little kid. This has turned into a rotten day.”

“Worse than most?”

“Yeah, when it involves a two-year-old, it’s worse than most.”

Marge turned and faced him. “Lunch with your rape-o friend didn’t go so good?”

“Par for the course.”

“Did he do it?”

“He says no.”

“And you believe him?”

Decker paused, then nodded yes.

Marge said, “The friend in you says innocent, but the cop decrees guilty.”

“No,” Decker said. “I really don’t believe he did it.”

“Jesus,” Marge said. “What’s between you and that scumbag that’s turning your brain to mush? Did he save your life?”

“I told you no.”

“Then how do you owe him?”

“I’m not paying off a debt, Marge. I happen to think he’s innocent—”

“Oh, give me a break, Pete,” Marge said. “Fess up. Was he your illicit lover or something when all you men were dogged out in the combat zone?”

Decker laughed. “No.”

“What are you going to do for him? Bribe the judge? Burn the files?”

Decker sat down at his desk and peeled another cigarette. “I’m going to find the man who raped and cut up the hooker.”

“You already bailed the guilty party out of jail, my friend.”

“Well, I don’t think so.”

Marge leaned back in her chair, shook her head. “A seasoned guy like yourself, falling for his shit … Let me look into it. At least I’m objective.”

“Nope,” Decker said. “I’ve got my eyes wide open, Marge. I can handle it.”

“Sure you can.”

Decker rubbed his eyes and said, “We can keep bickering like this, honey, or I can do something productive like go home and get some sleep.”

“Pete!” Marge said. “You called me honey!”

“That’s ’cause you’re acting like a broad, Margie.”

Marge grinned. “No, Decker, you’re acting like a civilian.”

Decker said, “I’m going home. Beep me if something comes up with Sally. I’m going down to Hollywood Division tonight and review the case files. Try to get a handle on this hooker. You can call me there if anything comes up.”

Marge leaned back in her chair. “Colonel Dunn says that the attachments he made with his war buddies ran deeper than blood. That true with you?”

“Nope.”

“Yeah, Colonel Dunn has been known to spout a lot of shit.”

Decker smiled.

“You didn’t get together with any of your buddies when you came back to civilian life?” Marge asked.

“Only once,” Decker said. “Somewhere between the second and third hour, after we rehashed all the old nightmares, I discovered I didn’t have a thing in common with any of them.”

“And that was it?”

“That was it. You know, Margie, I worked damn hard at putting it all behind me. And it’s especially hard because America has had a sudden change of heart and decided we weren’t all baby-killers. Nam vets have become the darlings of Hollywood. Indochina has great box-office appeal—all those shirtless sweaty bodies crawling through the jungle. Leeches! Gooks! Grunts going nuts! Makes for exotic drama. And the producers? They’re former hippies who now drive Mercedes instead of VW bugs. They want to talk to us, make nice. Except I remember how they treated me when I came back to the world. It don’t wash, babe.”

“Colonel Dunn was once asked to be a consultant on a Nam film.”

“What did your dad do?”

Marge blushed.

Decker said, “That bad?”

“Let’s put it this way. The screenplay was long, and Mom didn’t have to buy toilet paper for a month.”

Decker burst into laughter.

Marge asked, “So who’s this guy who you’re going the distance for?”

“Abel Atwater,” Decker said. “A hillbilly boy from the Blue Ridge Mountains of Kentucky.” Decker’s voice had taken on a nasal twang. “One of eleven chillun. His father could barely read and write, his mother was completely illiterate. Abel learned to read by sifting through mail-order catalogs. He used to entertain us by reciting Sears, Roebuck copy. Bright guy. The war messed him up.”

“A lot of rape-os are intelligent.”

“He doesn’t fit the profile. He’s not manipulative, he’s got great impulse control. He’s not the kind of person who goes around beating up hookers.”

Marge didn’t answer him.

Decker said, “All right. If I’d be brutally honest with myself, I’d say there was an off-chance that he freaked and did it. But we were in combat together for a while. I never saw him explode. Abel had a rep for being coolheaded. Type of guy the COs chose for pointman—lead-off guy in foot patrol—because he was careful and didn’t panic when things got hot.”

“Ever see him kill anybody?”

“You saw smoke, you busted some caps. Simple as that. When everything cooled off and you went in for cleanup, you’d see all these fucking bodies. Well, they didn’t drop dead from birdshit. You were shooting to kill, you killed. In answer to your question, I never saw him waste anyone for the sake of killing, and there was plenty of that going around!”

Decker stopped, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“Abel could have been something if the war hadn’t left him paralyzed. Matter of fact, he wanted to be a cop, but Charlie blew off his leg and ended that dream.”

He snapped a pencil in half.

“I’m his dream, Marge. Maybe I feel guilty because Abel had all the fantasies, and I wound up with his dream.”

The phone was ringing when Decker opened the door. He raced over to the kitchen wall, his Irish setter, Ginger, nipping at his heels, and picked up the receiver.

“Did you just walk in?” Rina asked.

“Yeah,” Decker said. “I didn’t even close the front door. Hang on a sec.”

“Sure.”

He walked through his living room, Ginger following him, barking for attention. The room was comfortable, full of furniture made in his size—an overstuffed sofa, two buckskin chairs, and a leather recliner that sat in front of a picture window. In the heat, the room seemed alive, seemed to sweat. Decker quieted the dog and shut the front door. He drew open the front-window curtains, and a white square of sinking sun fell upon his Navajo rug.

He picked up the receiver and pulled out a kitchen chair with his foot. He sat down and petted Ginger’s head.

“I’ve got all the time in the world for you now. Speak.”

“That’s why I called.” She dropped her voice a notch. “The kids are home. I can’t really talk. We’ve got to leave any moment for my brother-in-law’s birthday party.”

“You sound thrilled.”

“I’m nearly faint with excitement.”

“Don’t go, if you don’t want to.”

“I can’t get out of it. At least not without lying.”

“Then be honest. Just say, ‘I find all this family stuff boring—’”

“Boring is the least of it.”

“Troubles with the family?”

“Something like that.”

“They’re giving you a hard time because they don’t approve of me.”

“Much more than that. Hold on.”

Decker heard her quiet her younger son, Jacob. When she returned on the line, he said, “Boys want to talk to me?”

“Very much,” Rina answered. “Look, can I call you back tonight?”

Decker paused.

“You’re working?” Rina asked.

“Just tying up odds and ends. I’ll put it off.”

“Don’t bother. I bought my ticket this afternoon, so I’ll see you in two days. Want to take down all the flight information?”

“Yeah, let me get a pen.” He rummaged through a junk drawer and came up with a red pen and the back of an old electric bill. He placed the paper on the wall and said, “Go ahead.”

Rina stated all the pertinent data, then gave Jacob the telephone.

“Hi, Yonkel,” Decker said. “How’s it going?”

“Fine.”

“How’s school?”

“Fine.”

“How’s basketball?”

“Fine.”

“How many lay-ups did you do yesterday?”

“Four.”

“Terrific.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you taking good care of your eema for me?”

“Yes.”

“Being good to your grandparents?”

“Yes.”

“Great,” Decker said. “I miss you, kiddo.”

“Peter?”

“What, Jakie?”

“When can we come back to your ranch?”

Decker sighed, hesitated. The kid was a sweetie. Decker pictured him talking on the phone, big blue eyes wide with innocence. He said, “Honey, you’re welcome here anytime your eema says it’s okay.”

“I miss the horses.”

“They miss you, too.”

“Okay, ’bye. Here’s Shmuli.”

Rina’s elder son came on the line.

“I’m upset,” Sammy said.

“What’s wrong?” Decker asked.

“Why can’t we come to L.A. with Eema? It’s not fair!”

“Sammy, I’d love for you guys to come out here—”

“So why can’t we come with Eema on Wednesday?”

“Because there’re things that your eema and I have to discuss privately.”

“So we’ll wait in the other room while you guys talk.”

“It’s not that simple, honey.”

“Eema just doesn’t want us around.”

“No, honey, that’s not true.”

“It is true. You’re just defending her.”

Decker paused a moment. The boy had to be handled carefully.

“Sammy, honey, try to understand this. I haven’t seen your eema in six months. We’re kind of like strangers, and it’s going to take us a while to get to know each other again. Now, I want to know your eema real well before you and your brother and I get reacquainted. That way I can pay attention to you guys and not have to worry about your mother. Does that make sense to you?”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

“Are you and Eema fighting?” Sammy asked.

“No, Sam, not at all.”

“I mean, you’re not breaking up, are you?”

“No.”

“Because if you are and you’re just trying to protect me …”

“We’re not breaking up.”

“Well okay … Peter, can you talk her into taking us?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea now.”

“Then when can we come out?”

“Before baseball season’s over.”

“Baseball season! That could take three more months.”

“One thing at a time, Sammy,” Decker said. “Let me talk to your eema first.”

“You sure you’re not hiding some bad news from me?”

“Sammy, I promise you, I’ll see you before the summer’s over,” Decker said.

“Okay,” Sammy answered sullenly. “Here’s Eema again.”

Decker felt tense. The kid always wore him out. Sammy was a typical firstborn—precocious, sharp as a tack. He’d been the light of his father’s eye, Rina had told him. His father’s death had hit him very hard, made him very suspicious of losing people he loved.

Rina came back on the line.

“They’re angry I’m not bringing them home with me,” she said. “Especially Shmuli.”

“I heard,” Decker said.

“They miss Los Angeles. They miss you. I miss you, too.”

“Then come home!”

The line went quiet.

“You still with me?” Decker asked.

“I’m still here,” she said. “We’ve got a lot to talk about. How are your studies with Rav Schulman?”

“Fine.”

“What are you learning—oh darn! The doorbell’s ringing. It’s probably my sister-in-law. I’m not wearing a shaytel, and Esther’s going to yell at me for answering the door with my hair uncovered.”

“Tell her to shove it up—”

“Peter.”

“She doesn’t approve of me, I don’t have to approve of her.”

“Esther’s not the problem, although she has problems. Dear God, I never realized the extent of her problems. Unfortunately, now they’ve become my problems and—now, she’s banging at the door. Any moment one of my neighbors is going to stick a head out and ask what’s wrong. Tiny apartments they have here. I feel like a laboratory rat. Things are really a mess. I’ve got to go.”

“Wait. Don’t send me off like that.”

“Love you,” she said.

“Love you, too.”

Head pounding, Decker stretched, then filled the dog bowl with food. He opened the kitchen drawer and took out a vial of aspirin. He washed down two pills with a cold Dos Equis and looked at his watch. Six-fifteen—still plenty of daylight left to work out the horses. The temperature had dropped to a comfortable 82 degrees. An hour with the animals, another hour of study, a couple of hours of sleep, then a date with gumshoes from six over the mountains.

Hooray for Hollywood.

6

The Hollywood substation was a brick building—square and windowless—landscaped with three Monterey pines sprouting from a rectangular patch of dirt. Across the street were the requisite cheap motel—a place to spend the night when your man was in jail—and two bailbonds’ store-fronts whose doors never closed.

Decker climbed the front steps and entered the reception area. The room was walled with redbrick and yellow plaster, the front desk colored Day-Glo orange. The flooring was ancient yellow tile, the grout permanently blackened. In the center of the room, inlaid in the tile, was a red-and-black granite “Hollywood Boulevard” pavement star, the words LAPD HOLLYWOOD STATION #6 inlaid in brass. A hype was leaning against a coke machine, swaying on his feet to keep his balance. A fat man stood against the side wall, sipping coffee, checking his watch against the station’s clock. Two teenage black girls, wearing shorts and tank tops, sat on the attached bench at the back of the room, their fingers twirling the cornrows of their hair, lips slightly parted, eyes fixed upon the star as if it represented a myriad of fallen dreams.

Decker showed his gold badge to the desk sergeant and went inside the detectives’ reception room. The detective manning the phones had an amoebic ink stain on the pocket of his shirt. He was balding and needed a shave.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Decker from Foothill,” Decker said. “I’m looking for George Andrick.” He showed the detective his badge.

“I’m Rados,” he said. He regarded the chalkboard duty roster. “Andrick’s on Robbery. He’s in the field. Should be back soon.”

“Then I’ll grab myself some coffee and wait at his desk.”

Rados handed Decker an unused Styrofoam cup. “Help yourself to the swill in the back.”

“Thanks.”

Cup in hand, Decker entered the squad room. It was bigger than Foothill’s, carpeted, and had metal desks instead of tables. Each unit was indicated by burnt-wood signs hanging from the ceiling. Robbery was in the back, left side, sandwiched between the lockers and CAPS—crimes against persons. Andrick’s place of honor was in the middle-left of a capital I-shaped arrangement of desks. A supervising detective sat at the head of the I, reading a memo, his lips curled into a sneer. He looked to be in his late forties, his face scored with wrinkles, his shoulders packed with muscle. He noticed Decker’s badge and stood. They were about the same height.

“Medino,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Decker. I called earlier. I understand Andrick was the field investigator for a rape case couple of days ago. Perp was booked here, transferred downtown. His name was Abel Atwater.”

Medino said. “The gimp.”

“That’s him.”

“Scrawny thing.”

“I’d like to look over the file.”

“Andrick has it locked, and I don’t have the key.”

“I’ll wait.”

Medino shrugged. “Suit yourself. Coffeepot’s over to the right.”

“Thanks.”

Decker poured himself a cup—black mud. He sipped as he walked back to the desk. “You guys have gotten carpets and new desks.”

“No thanks to the city. Some civilian donated them. Only thing the city’s given us this past year was a few push-button phones. Their idea of state-of-the-art equipment.”

“At least you got the phones.”

“Yeah,” Medino said. “But only one per unit. City doesn’t want us to become too spoiled. The individual dicks still have rotaries. Just look at the crappy colors they give us—pinks and blues and reds. Now how can you have a professional image with a pink phone? Place looks like a nursery school.”

“I noticed the playpen back there.”

Medino nodded. “We get our share of kids dumped at the doorstep.”

“I just got one of those,” Decker said. “She wasn’t dumped at the station. I found her wandering the streets. No one’s claimed her.”

“How old?”

“Two.”

“Black?”

“White.”

Medino shrugged.

Decker said, “Her pajamas had blood on them.”

“That’s unusual,” Medino said. “Kid okay?”

“Appears to be fine,” Decker said. “Can’t say I’m feeling too optimistic about her mama, though.”

“Another one bites the dust,” Medino said. “What’s your connection to the gimp? He wanted for something out there?”

“He’s an old buddy of mine,” Decker said.

Medino whistled. “You should start hunting for some new friends.”

“How deep is his shit?”

“From what I remember, neck high and still rising.”

“What do you know about the victim?” Decker said. “Besides the fact that she was a whore.”

“Not much more than that,” Medino said.

“Do you know if she had a rep for tricking with rough johns?”

“No idea,” Medino said. “Why don’t you go upstairs and try Vice?”

Decker asked, “Chris Beauchamps still work Vice here?”

“Baby-faced Beau?” Medino said. “You bet. One of our best undercover men. Looks so fucking sincere. I think he came in about an hour ago. Go up and talk to him. I’ll buzz you when Andrick is back on my nifty new push-button intercom. LAPD goes high tech.”

“Myra Steele,” Beauchamps said. “Yeah, I’ve got a file on her somewhere.”

Decker stared at the Vice detective, finding it hard to take the kid seriously. Surfer-blond hair, deep blue eyes, Malibu tan—the kind of looks that screamed party hardy, let’s shoot the curl.

Beauchamps pulled out a folder and said, “Here we go. Old Myra Steele, aka Plum Pie, Cherry Pie, Brown Sugar—a lot of them use that moniker.” He handed Decker a file. “The only thing I have on her was a bust three months ago.”

“That bust happened when Letwoine Monroe was still her pimp,” Decker said, scanning the papers. “Before he was whacked.”

“Right,” Beauchamps said.

Decker asked, “Was he whacked in Hollywood?”

“I don’t know where he was whacked, but we found him here, stuffed in the trunk of a black Caddy stolen from North Hollywood.”

Decker said. “Myra Steele doesn’t look eighteen to me. She barely looks pubescent.”

“Her birth certificate says eighteen,” Beauchamps said. “And she’s pubescent, believe me. I’ve seen her on the streets couple of times since, her tits are more than ample for the halters she wears. Those photos knock a couple of years off of her.”

“Who’s Myra’s old man now?” Decker asked.

“Letwoine’s ladies were divided by the other pimps in the area,” Beauchamps said. “Some went to a Mideastern prick named Yusef Sabib, some went to Willy Black, a couple went to Clementine—”

Decker groaned.

“I thought he was your buddy,” Beauchamps said, smiling.

Straight white teeth. Guy should be selling toothpaste instead of busting whores.

Decker said, “Everyone needs a pet maggot. Do you know who Steele went with?”

“No,” Beauchamps said. “And she didn’t volunteer his name when Andrick asked her. I know that ’cause Andrick asked me if I knew the name of her man. I put the word out, but so far have come up blank. There’s some new dudes in town—Cubans. Marielitos. Meanest sons of bitches I’ve ever had the pleasure of dealing with. Into weird cult things—”

“Santeria?”

“You got it.”

“I worked with Miami PD for two years,” Decker said. “We had our fair share of Castro’s rejects.”

“So you know about the dudes,” Beauchamps said. “They threaten grave bodily harm to women with loose lips. Might be one of them owns Myra.”

“They have names?”

“I’ve crossed paths with only two. They actually weren’t so bad, because they were really young. But their older brothers and father …” Beauchamps waved his hand in the air and pursed his lips into a whistle. “One called himself Conquistador, the other was El Cid.”

Decker laughed.

“Yeah, real imaginative tags.” Beauchamps paused, then said, “Why are you so interested in Ms. Steele’s pimp?”

“I just want to know who he is,” Decker said. “A friend of mine was accused of raping ole Plum Pie, and before I pass sentence on the sucker, I’d like to make sure he’s really guilty of the crime.”

“The hillbilly gimp,” Beauchamps said.

Decker looked up. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“I was here when they booked him,” Beauchamps said. “They say he fucked her up pretty bad.”

“Well, he screwed her,” Decker said. “No doubt about that. But I don’t think he cut her.”

“You’re saying the pimp slashed her and she laid it on your friend?”

“It’s a possibility,” Decker said.

“Anything’s a possibility. Just a matter of how much you want to play ostrich.” Beauchamps paused. “I busted your buddy a while back.”

Decker winced. “When?”

“A year, maybe two years ago.”

“What for?”

“Soliciting an undercover police officer.”

“Female officer?”

“Yeah,” Beauchamps said, grinning. “She was female. I worked the van. He was hobbling around the mean streets, saw our lady, and took the bait. Didn’t seem the least bit upset when he was arrested.”

Decker said, “Know if he was ever arrested for anything else?”

“You haven’t checked to see if he had priors?”

Decker shook his head. “I’d better stop acting like a dick and start acting like a dick.”

Beauchamps burst into laughter. “Loser friends can take it out of you. I had this old high school buddy, a real rotten SOB, but at sixteen, I thought he was great fun. He’s at Folsom now, and he keeps telling all his washed-out mutant relatives to contact me if they get into trouble. I don’t think a week’s gone by where one of those nut cases hasn’t called me up and asked for a favor or free advice. God, that jerk has caused me nothing but grief.”

“Did he give you a hard time?” Decker asked.

“Who? My loser buddy? Constantly.”

“No,” Decker said. “My loser buddy.”

“Not while he was here,” Beauchamps said. “Very cooperative. Served his time down here and that was it. He was a weird guy, Decker. Used to wash his hands about six times a day.”

“An LB,” Decker said.

“What?”

“A Lady Macbether,” Decker said. “Some of the guys in the platoon had a hard time washing away the blood and guts.”

“He was an army buddy of yours?”

“I hate that term—army buddy.”

Beauchamps shrugged. “Want me to get his rap sheet?”

“Yeah.”

Beauchamps punched Abel Atwater into the computer. A few minutes later, he handed the printout to Decker.

“Three priors,” Beauchamps said. “All for trying to buy undercover pussy. Horny little bugger.”

“It ain’t nice, but not exactly sexual assault,” Decker said.

“Maybe Myra made him real mad.”

Decker said, “Why would Myra Steele keep quiet about her pimp if he didn’t have anything to do with the assault? You’d think she’d get in touch with him first thing.”

“I don’t know what was inside the lady’s head, but I’ll tell you this. Some of the ass-peddlers get real pissed at their ladies for getting beat up—treat them like damaged goods. Hers probably has a vile temper, and maybe she doesn’t want any more pain.”

“She still in the hospital?”

“For sure. Likely to be there a while.”

“Where?”

Beauchamps shrugged ignorance.

“Know who’s paying the bill?” Decker asked.

“Nope. But I suspect she’s at County, and the city’s footing the expenses.” Beauchamps’s phone rang. He answered the call and said, “Andrick’s back.”

“Super.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“Torres and Hoersch were the first unit to respond to the four-fifteen hotshot,” Andrick said. He was in his late fifties, overweight, with a florid complexion. “There was a lot of commotion, a lot of blood, and they immediately called it in as an ambulance cutting. I got there about fifteen minutes later. The girl was being loaded onto the stretcher, your friend was cuffed, crying and bleeding from a huge gash across his head.”

Andrick unlocked his file cabinet and loosened his tie. Decker noticed he was breathing heavily, sweat stained his armpits.

“You okay?” Decker asked.

Andrick said, “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“You don’t look so hot.”

“I said I’m okay,” Andrick answered tightly.

“Fine,” Decker said. “You’re okay. Can I see the file?”

Andrick tossed him the folder. Decker read a moment, then said, “The ambulance took the girl. Who took Atwater to the hospital?”

“I don’t remember,” Andrick said. “Someone must have called another, because they didn’t put the two of them in the same wagon.”

“Nobody was tending to Atwater’s head wound all this time?” Decker asked.

“Look,” Andrick said, unbuttoning his shirt, “you got a victim, you got a perp. One ambulance. You’re gonna lose some sleep because some rape-o asshole bled to death?”

“No.” Decker scanned the file. “You heard him say this? Or is this what the uniforms reported that he said?”

“Nope,” Andrick said. “Everything I wrote down in my notes, I heard with my own ears … What exactly did I write?”

Decker read, “‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Fuck, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.’”

Andrick said, “Yeah, I heard him say that. Those kind of statements don’t do much to clear your good name. Is it hot in here?”

“A little,” Decker said absently. Lost in thought, he remembered Abel uttering similar words before. One particular memory suddenly flooded Decker’s consciousness. Heavy fire. A gutted village. A little girl around six, her belly blown away. Abel standing over her, his eyes watering from all the smoke. He had whispered it:

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt anybody, honest to God, I didn’t.

Ugly recollections. He pushed them away and looked up at Andrick. His coloring had become pale, his skin pasty, dripping with sweat.

“Jesus!” Decker whispered. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“A minute.” Andrick looked around. Medino had gone to the john. It was safe. He yanked open his desk drawer, and with shaking hands opened a vial of tablets. He placed a pill underneath his tongue.

A minute later, Decker said, “How long do you think you can hide your condition from the department?”

“What condition?” Andrick said. “I’m sucking on a peppermint.”

“A peppermint?”

“Yeah, a fucking peppermint,” Andrick said. “Keeps my breath fresh … Look, Detective, I’ve got two more years before I cash in twenty-five big ones and a nice-size pension. We’ve got the condo in Murietta Hot Springs, two daughters in college, I need that extra ten percent to make ends meet, you know what I’m saying? So if you want to talk about the case, that’s all right by me. If not, find the door.”

Medino came back to his desk. Andrick cleared his throat. Decker understood the hint. He said, “Where’s Myra Steele now?”

“Originally, they took her to Hollywood Pres, but her mom moved her to County because she didn’t have any insurance.”

Decker said, “Mind if I have a word with Myra?”

“Be my guest,” Andrick said. “She should be there at least another week. Why all the interest in this case?”

Decker explained his involvement.

“And you think your scuzzbag friend is innocent?”

“I’m withholding judgment.”

Andrick sat back in his chair and wiped his damp forehead with a handkerchief. He felt much better, was breathing easier. “So what are you gonna do with Myra Steele? Grill her until she retracts what she said?”

Decker said, “Hell no! If the sucker did it, I’ll kill him for doing that to her and making an ass out of me. But for starters, I’d like to know who’s pimping her.”

“You won’t get the name from her.”

“I can try.”

“Sure,” Andrick said. “Try.” He gave Decker a wary half-smile. “And if you get it from her, you’ll give it to me, right?”

“Absolutely,” Decker said. “I’m not playing hot dog.”

“Just so you and I understand each other.”

“It’s your collar, Detective,” Decker said. “I don’t dance with anyone else’s woman,’ cause I get pissed when someone dances with mine. I’d like to copy the file.”

“Go ahead,” Andrick said.

When Decker returned, Andrick said, “Your partner’s on the line.”

Decker picked up the phone and said, “What’s up?”

“I got a call from Delferno,” Marge said. “One of his pals says Sally looks like one of his kids. Mother’s from Sacramento. She should be down maybe one, two in the morning. Kid was grabbed by Dad about six months ago.”

“How old would her kid be?”

“About two and a half.”

“Sally’s not two and a half.”

“Delferno faxed me the picture of the missing kid—kid’s name is Heather Miller. She’s supposed to be small for her age, and there’s a strong resemblance.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “I just hope Mama doesn’t go into a major depression if it’s not hers.”

“Well, that’s a chance she’s willing to take.”

“I’ll be at the station in a couple of hours,” Decker said. “Would you call Sophi Rawlings for me?”

“Already did, Pete. Where’re you going now?”

“Gonna cruise for sugar.”

Marge said, “Wear gloves.”

It was nearly midnight, but Sunset Boulevard was still teeming with bugs. Decker found three streetwalkers idling at a corner gas station next to a Mideastern vender selling huge stuffed animals at ridiculously low prices. The toys were imports, and no doubt didn’t meet American safety standards. A month ago a batch had been seized at Foothill, all the teddy bears and doggies stuffed with flammable rags that combusted spontaneously in hot weather.

Decker parked on a side street and approached the streetwalkers. The first whore might have been a plump, freckled-faced farm girl, except she was wearing fake leopard-skin hot pants, a matching halter, and knee-high black boots. The other two were black. One had dyed her hair platinum blond and painted her clawish fingernails high-gloss black. The other girl had a short Afro, a fur choker around her neck, and seven earrings in each ear. As Decker neared, the one with the earrings nudged the one with the claws, and the trio began to disperse. Decker sprinted to them and yelled, “Wait!” The girls stopped. Fingernails spoke up:

“We’re goin’.”

“I suppose you ladies have some ID on you.”

The girls began to reach into their purses.

Decker said, “Don’t bother. I believe you. I’m a very trusting fellow.”

The girls eyed each other. A black-and-white pulled up at the corner. Decker showed his badge and waved the cruiser away.

“Say what, Detective,” said Fingernails. She was gazing at her feet. Her spiked heels gave her at least six inches of height. A wonder she didn’t need a balancing rod to walk.

“What’s your name, honey?” Decker asked.

“Anything you want,” Fingernails answered. The other hookers laughed.

Decker’s eyes bore into hers. “What’s your name?” he asked again.

“Amanda.”

Decker stared at her for another minute. He asked, “And how long have you and your girlfriends worked the area?”

“You gonna bust us, or what?” asked the plump white girl.

Decker said, “That all depends.”

“On what?” asked Amanda.

Decker said, “On if you cooperate.”

“Watchu want?” Amanda asked.

Decker smiled.

Amanda said, “C’mon. I’ll do you in the back alley.”

“Do what?”

“Do what you want,” Amanda said.

“What do I want?” Decker said.

Amanda’s eyes clouded. “I ain’t saying no more.”

“I’m not here for badge pussy, Amanda,” Decker said.

“Then what do you want?” asked the white one.

“A little help.”

The girls were silent.

Decker said, “Question number one: Any of you know a lady named Myra Steele?”

More silence.

“Aw, c’mon, girls,” Decker said. “Where’s your sense of civic duty? Besides, the longer I hang around, the more I drive away your business.”

“Why you hassling us?” said the one with the earrings.

“’Cause you guys are the first streetwalkers I saw,” Decker said. “And I love leopard skin.” He eyed the white girl. “What’s your name?”

“Chrissie,” she said.

“Chrissie,” Decker repeated. “Glad to know you, Chrissie. You know Myra Steele?”

“I might.”

“You know she was beat up pretty badly?” Decker asked.

“I mighta heard something like that.”

“Oh, and what else might you have heard?” Decker said.

“Don’t say no more,” Amanda whispered.

“You have something to share with us, Amanda?” Decker said.

“I didn’t say nothing,” Amanda answered.

“You know, Amanda, I hang around, it’s your pockets that are goin’ empty. Your man gets pissed off at you, not me. See, I’ve got time. I’m paid to do this.”

“Bully for you,” said Amanda.

Decker asked the girl with the earrings, “What’s your name?”

“Maynona,” she said.

“Maynona’s a nice name. Can I call you May for short?” Decker asked.

“I don’t give a shit.”

“Good,” Decker said. “I’ll call you May. Did you know Myra Steele, May?”

“Maybe.”

“And maybe you know she’s still in the hospital?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe you also know who her pimp might be?”

“Maybe I don’t.”

“But maybe you do.”

Maynona looked off to her right, stared at stuffed pink elephants and black-and-white pandas.

Chrissie said, “I think she was an independent since Letwoine got blowed away.”

“Nice try,” Decker said. “But you know and I know that no one is an independent here.”

“Well, maybe she wasn’t no independent,” Chrissie said. She unknotted her halter strap and tied it tighter. The increased pressure flattened her round breasts and made them pop out of the sides of the garment. She gave Decker a sultry smile.

He remained stone-faced and said, “So if Myra Steele wasn’t an independent, who was she working for?”

The girls were silent.

Decker took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to each girl. He lit their smokes, then lit one for himself.

“There some new foreign businessmen around here that scare you gals?” he inquired.

“Maybe,” Amanda said.

“Do they have names?”

“You ain’t getting them from me,” Amanda said.

Decker opened his jacket. He said, “See that gun?”

The girls didn’t answer.

“It’s a nine-millimeter automatic,” he said. “We dicks are finally beginning to get real, you know what I’m talking about. Mr. Foreign Businessman starts hassling you, you tell me. Mr. Beretta and I will take him out to lunch.”

“Shit, that’s puny against a sawed-off,” Amanda said.

“You know, we can carry shotguns, too,” Decker said. “But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Who’s Myra’s man?”

“I ain’t’ tellin’ you nothin’, ’cause I happen to know that the dude’s crazier than shit,” Amanda said.

Decker smiled, wondering, How crazy is shit? He said, “Mr. Foreign Businessman of the Hispanic persuasion?”

A faint flicker passed through Amanda’s eyes. Decker went on.

“Happen to be spookin’ you with some weirdo hexes?”

“My man’s not Myra’s,” Amanda said defiantly.

“Sure about that?” Decker said.

“Yes.”

“Does the name Conquistador ring a bell?”

Amanda sneered. “He’s a wimp.”

“El Cid?”

“Wimpo dos,” Amanda replied.

“What can you tell me about Myra’s man?”

The whore drew her finger across her lips.

“Think about it, honey,” Decker said. “Give me something, or maybe your man will hear things you don’t want him to hear.”

“I’m real scared,” Amanda said. But it was false bravado.

“Myra’s man is suppose to have a tattoo on the back of his hand,” Maynona volunteered. “Between his thumb and forefinger.”

Chrissie spoke up. “A heart with a ribbon on it.”

Decker nodded. A Mariel tattoo—traditionally, it meant an executioner. The guy was bad news. “Anything else?” he said.

“Swear to God, that’s all I know,” May said. “We keep away from them.”

Decker believed her eyes if not her words.

“This is all stupid,” Amanda said. “They said it was her john that cut her, not her pimp.” She bit her lip, then said, “You know something different than that?”

Decker said, “Yeah, what about this bad-assed john? Any of you know him?”

The girls didn’t answer, but exchanged knowing looks.

“Anyone of you ever service him?” Decker asked.

“Why you so interested in Myra Steele?” Chrissie asked. She scratched her cheek, still pocked with acne. “And her john?”

“Because rumor has it that this mean ole trick has been bailed out,” Decker said. “Now we’ve got a pissed-off pimp and a psycho john running the streets. Shit, ladies, I’d hate to see one of you end up like Myra.”

Maynona raised her eyebrows. Decker caught it.

“Ever service the man, May?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Boy, you gals are kind of quiet tonight,” Decker said. “You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna fill in the blanks. I’m gonna say that all three of you have serviced him, ’cause this trick likes ladies of the evening, and he’s been cruising the area for years.”

“You can think what you want,” said Amanda. Her eyes had returned to the ground.

“You ever see to his needs?” Decker asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Did he ever get freaky with you?”

She stayed silent.

“Well, if you’re going to be like that, just maybe I’ll drop the word that you gals dig servicing John Q. Psycho.”

“You don’t scare me, Mr. Hot Shit Detective,” said Amanda.

“I’m not trying to, Amanda.”

“Yes, you are, and it ain’t working,” Amanda said. “I ain’t afraid of Myra’s john. Dude’s a lame-o.”

“A lame-o?” Decker said. “You mean he’s stupid?”

“No,” Maynona said. “He limps. That’s ’cause he only got one leg.”

Amanda said, “He tries anything, I’ll bust his head open … like Myra did.”

“That so?” Decker said.

“Yeah,” Amanda said. “That’s so. Besides, Mr. Lame-o Big Dick never done nothin’ bad to me.”

“Big Dick?” Decker asked.

“The dude is hung,” Amanda said. “I mean to say he packs a wallop.” She laughed. “But he always paid for what he took.”

Decker said, “Was Big Dick kinky?”

“Not with me,” Amanda answered.

“Sadistic?”

“Nope. Not once. I don’t take shit from no one.”

“I heard the guy’s a vet,” Decker said. “Knows how to shoot, knows how to handle knives.”

There was a moment of silence. Amanda broke it.

“Don’t bother me none,” she said, her voice less convincing. “My old man takes good care of me.”

Decker said, “I bet he does, as long as you make your quota. But when things get a little slow, I bet he’s not too understanding.”

Amanda didn’t answer.

Decker paused, then said, “So the gimp never tossed you, eh?”

“Not even a little bit.” Amanda smiled. “I was surprised when I heard it was Lame-o Big Dick. He never seemed like the type.” She sighed and added, “But I been wrong before.”

7

The woman looked composed from afar, but as Hollander got close, he noticed a spasm in her right lower eyelid. Her face was long, her complexion mottled with two pronounced bags under washed-out blue eyes. Her lips seemed almost bloodless, her tawny hair hung limply to her shoulders. At her side was a man in his fifties, medium build with gray wavy hair and brown eyes. Stubble was sprinkled over his fleshy cheeks and large chin. Must be the bounty hunter, Hollander thought. He escorted them into the squad room.

“Charlie Benko,” the man said, holding out his hand.

Hollander shook hands and smiled at the woman. She had tears in her eyes. Hollander said, “You people want some coffee? You must be tired after flying in so late.”

“Not for me, thanks,” said Benko. “I’m already tanked up with caffeine. Dotty?”

The woman shook her head.

“Tea? Hot cocoa, maybe, Mrs. Miller?” Hollander offered.

“Nothing, thank you,” she whispered.

“Have a seat,” Hollander said.

“By the way, Detective,” Benko said, “her name isn’t Miller. She remarried. It’s Palmer.”

“Sorry about that,” Hollander said. “Uh, you explained her the procedure—”

“Yeah, she knows she can’t just waltz in there and take the kid. Paperwork right, Dotty?” Benko patted her hand. “We’re hopeful on this one. The bastard ex was spotted in the area a couple of times before. Unfortunately, I still can’t find him, but it doesn’t mean the sunnabitch isn’t hiding out somewhere.”

“What’s his name?” Hollander asked.

“Douglas Miller,” Benko said. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a picture. “Appreciate it if you’d pass it around. Bastard’s wanted for back alimony on their other three kids.”

Hollander stared at the picture and said, “He just took one of the kids?”

“Yeah, the other kids are older and wouldn’t go near the sunnabitch,” Benko said. He threw his arm around Dotty. “Thank God for small favors, huh?”

Dotty started to smile, but her face crumpled. She buried her face in her hands.

“C’mon, Dotty.” Benko hugged her. “Everything’ll be all right, honey, just take my word for it.”

Dotty continued to cry. Benko looked up at Hollander and shrugged. He said, “When can we see the kid?”

“I’m waiting for Detective Dunn. She’s the one who’ll accompany you to the foster home.”

Dotty dried her eyes on the back of her sleeve and asked, “Is she okay?”

“The kid? Oh yeah,” said Hollander. “Just fine.”

“I mean she wasn’t beaten up?” Dotty asked.

“No. Not at all.”

“Doug drinks,” Dotty said. “Don’t have no control when he’s drunk. That’s why I left him.”

“Smart move, Dotty,” Benko said. “Smart move.”

Dotty said, “Oh God, I want my little girl back!” She broke into sobs. “He did it on purpose. He don’t love her, he just did it to spite me, the bastard.”

“We’ll get him,” Benko said. “I’ll find him, Dotty. I always do. Something’ll come up.”

Hollander said, “How’d he snatch her?”

Benko said, “Just never returned with her on visiting day. Some asshole judge demanded the sunnabitch have parental visiting rights. Well, like I said, the other three wouldn’t go with him. But a little two-year-old, what does she know? Friggin’ judge. Letting a sunnabitch like him have visiting rights. Dotty tried to tell her about Doug, but the bitch wouldn’t listen.”

Hollander continued to stare at the photo. He asked, “How recent is this picture?”

Benko said, “Why? You know the sunnabitch?” He smiled at Dotty. “See? I told you something would come up. These guys are sharp. Where you know him from, Detective?”

“I don’t know him under the name Doug Miller,” Hollander said. “But the sucker looks familiar. Let me stew on it.”

“Sure, take your time, take your time!” Benko checked his watch, then began to pace. “I got loads of pictures. I’ll start showing them around here again, since you say he looks familiar. When’s the girl coming?”

“Who?” asked Hollander.

“The girl who’s taking us to the foster home.”

Hollander smiled. “Detective Dunn is five-eleven, one-sixty. She’s female, but she ain’t no girl. She should be along any moment.” Still focused on the picture, Hollander shook his head.

“Keep looking, Detective,” Benko said. “It’ll come to you.”

“What did your ex do for a living, Mrs. Palmer?”

Benko said, “I don’t know what he’s doing now, but he was a roofer when Dotty was married to him, right?”

Dotty nodded yes.

“Well, we’ve got lots of laborers living in this area,” Hollander said. “He’d blend in without a second glance. Ah, the detective cometh.”

Marge gave a wave. They stood as Hollander made all the necessary introductions. Marge held Dotty’s hand and said, “I’m sorry for all the pain you’ve suffered. I really hope we’ve found your little girl. But I’ll tell you again what I told you over the phone, the child we found looks younger than two and a half.”

“Heather’s little. She looks young,” Dotty managed to say. She brushed her hair away from her face.

“I hope she is your Heather,” Marge said. “Has Sergeant Decker arrived yet?”

Hollander said, “He was called in on an emergency code seven. You can buzz him if you need him.”

Marge shook her head no and smiled inwardly. Code seven meant a meal break, but when they used it in front of civilians, it meant getting tied up with something personal. In Pete’s case, he’d probably gone home to catch up on sleep. No matter. Let the guy rest.

Hollander said, “Detective Dunn, take a look at this photo for me.”

Marge studied Douglas Miller.

“He look familiar?” Hollander asked.

“Yeah, let me think, let me think,” Marge said. She examined the picture, then handed it back to Hollander. “I’m blocking. It’ll probably come to me when I’m showering.” Marge turned to Dotty. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she answered.

It was nearly three in the morning when they reached Sophi Rawlings’s home. Sophi was dressed in a short-sleeved white cotton shift and a lightweight shawl. She was standing outside the door as Marge pulled the unmarked up to the curve. A thin layer of mist lay suspended in the early morning air. As they came out of the car, Dotty’s breathing became audible.

“I’m Detective Dunn, Ms. Rawlings,” Marge said. “I spoke to you on the phone. This is Mrs. Palmer, the possible mother of Baby Sally, and this is Mr. Benko. He accompanied her down from the Bay area.”

“Come on in,” Sophi said. “The girl’s asleep, but I left a night-light on next to the crib.”

“Let’s go,” Marge said.

Dotty grabbed Benko’s shoulder for support.

“Can you walk okay, Dotty?” Marge asked.

Dotty tried to answer yes, but the word wouldn’t come. She nodded instead. Marge took her hand anyway. Flanked by Marge and Benko, Dotty slowly made her way to the nursery, the walk seemingly interminable.

The toddler roomed with three other children. The first was a black girl of four. She was sleeping atop her covers, dressed in Snoopy babydolls. Opposite her were two steel cots. Two girls, four and six, slept in undershirts and under-pants. They both had long, thick hair that covered most of their backs. The crib was in the far end of the room. Benko led Dotty over to it. Building up courage, Dotty finally peered inside. Her eyes immediately watered, her fingertips brushed the curls off of the sleeping toddler’s forehead.

Dotty stared at the baby for a long time. Benko cleared his throat, but Dotty didn’t respond.

After a few minutes of silence, Sophi whispered, “It’s not your daughter, is it Mrs. Palmer?”

Dotty paused, then shook her head no.

“Take your time,” Benko said. “Don’t rush it. Take another look—”

“It’s not her, Charlie,” Dotty said. “Oh, Charlie, she’s missing Heather’s dimples, and Heather had a little mole at the tip of her left ear. And Heather has thinner eyebrows … and longer lashes … and—oh, Charlie, what am I going to do!”

Dotty’s eyelids fluttered, and she pitched forward. Marge caught her by the shoulders, and she and Benko carried her limp body into the living room and placed her on an old plaid sofa.

Sophi said, “I’ll go get some water.”

“And a towel, too, please,” Marge said. She muttered “shit” under her breath. “Where do you go from here?” she said to Benko.

“I’m gonna keep searching.” He poked his finger in Marge’s shoulder. “You keep thinking who that sunnabitch looks like, lady.”

Marge knocked his finger away. “Don’t get in my face, kiddo.”

Benko held his hands up. “Jesus! Sorry.”

Marge sighed. “S’right. It’s been a long night.”

Sophi came back with the water, salts, and a moist towel. She broke open the capsule and held it under Dotty’s nose. Dotty stirred, then opened her eyes.

“You’re fine, baby,” Sophi said. “Just fine.” Gently, she dabbed Dotty’s forehead.

“Hi, Dotty,” Benko said. “You did just great, honey.”

“It wasn’t her,” Dotty moaned.

“I’m sorry, Dotty,” Benko said. “I’m truly sorry. I thought maybe we had a chance … I’m sorry. This is just a little setback. We’ll find the sunnabitch and your Heather.”

“Oh, God,” Dotty wailed.

“Take it easy, honey,” Sophi said. “Drink this.” She raised the cup of water to her lips. Dotty sipped slowly at first, then gulped the water down.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” Dotty whispered.

Benko said, “You gotta rest a minute, Dotty.”

“Please, Charlie,” she begged. “Please get me out of here!”

“Okay, okay,” Benko said. “I just don’t want you to overexert yourself, you know? C’mon, Dot. I’ll help you stand up.”

“Thank you very much, Ms. Rawlings,” Marge said. “I appreciate your help.”

“You tell Detective Decker that I’m taking Baby Sally to the doctor’s tomorrow,” Sophi said. “And I’ll get what he asked for.”

“I’ll do that,” Marge said. “Let me help you, Mrs. Palmer. Lean on me.”

Benko whispered into Marge’s ear, “Please, Detective. Please! Find me that sunnabitch!”

Decker woke up at six, let the dog out, showered, shaved, dressed, then said an abbreviated version of Shacharit—the morning prayers. He’d once recited the entire service and had even wore phylacteries, but lately that seemed like an awful lot of bother for very little spiritual enhancement. So he settled on saying the Shema—the essence of Judaism—and eighteen verses of silent devotion. When he finished, he put down his siddur, then studied himself in the mirror. He patted his flat stomach, flexed his biceps. The body wasn’t the problem, it was the face. Those bags! It made him look like the big four-oh had stepped on his face years before. A pisser, since he just entered his fifth decade of life a year ago.

What would Rina think?

Shit.

Gorgeous Rina. Gorgeous young Rina. Not yet thirty, she could still pass for a high school student if she dressed simply. As Decker stared at his face, he knew he looked old enough to be her father.

“Fuck it,” he said.

He went to the kitchen, slipped four pieces of bread into the toaster, and pulled out a quart of milk. The kitchen window faced his back acreage—flat dirt fields that disappeared into mountainside. The morning summer sun was strong, pouring its thick honey into the crags and rocky crevices. The window was open, the air was dry and dusty. As he drank from the carton, he heard Ginger yapping excitedly. The barking was followed by the steady blows of a hammer, and the noise was coming from his property. From his barn.

“What the hell?” Decker said. He went out the back door and stopped short at the entrance to the barn. Abel was in the middle of the room, kneeling on his prosthesis, ripping up a rotted plank of flooring. At his side were a tool chest and a box of nails.

Ginger barked at the sight of a stranger. Decker quieted the dog and said, “Abel, what are you doing?”

“Your barn and stable are a stack of cards, Doc,” Abel said. “Floorboards warped, the stalls are coming apart at the seams. The beams weren’t fit properly. Y’all put ’em up yourself?”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Decker said.

“Getting sloppy, Doc.”

“Abel—”

“And your barn wall is Swiss cheese,” Abel said. “Full of bullet holes. Shoot-out time at the O.K. Corral, Pete?”

Decker ignored the remark. “How’d you even get here?”

Abel pointed to a motorcycle leaning against the wall.

“You biked here?”

“No, Doc. I carried it on my shoulders.”

“Don’t be cute,” Decker said. He petted Ginger and walked over to Abel, stood over him. “Let me see your driver’s license.”

Abel looked up. “What?”

“Let me see your driver’s license.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“The license?”

Abel hesitated, then reached in his pocket and threw the license on the floor. Decker picked it up, looked at it, and handed it back to him. Abel pocketed the card.

He said, “You know, I once had a good friend, but he turned into a cop.”

“Yeah, well, yesterday, you didn’t call the friend, you called the cop.”

“Well, maybe it was my mistake to call him at all.”

Neither one spoke for a moment. Abel continued tugging up on the floorboard.

“Your ceiling don’t look that hot, either,” he said. “You can see daylight through the rafters.”

“You’re going to roof my barn, Abe?”

“All I have to do is screw my leg into a scaffold jack, and a tornado couldn’t dislodge me.”

“Abe, you don’t have to do this …”

“Yes, I do, Doc. Yes, I do indeed have to do this. It serves a right fine purpose for me.”

“I never expected you to pay me back.”

“Well, you see, Pete,” Abel said, “that’s where you and I differ. I always intended on payin’ you back in one fashion or another. Ain’t got no money on me. But I sure as hell have time.”

“Let me ask you this, Abe,” Decker said. “What if I find proof-positive evidence that you did what you’re accused of doing?”

“What if?”

Decker chewed the corner of his mustache. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and kneaded it. He said, “I’ll nail you, buddy. I swear to God, I’ll nail you.”

“You find any evidence that I hurt that lady, and I’ll give you the hammer. So do your job. It don’t worry me any.”

Ginger jumped onto Decker’s chest again and panted.

“I think the critter’s hungry,” Abel said.

“Yeah,” Decker said. “C’mon, girl. Let’s eat breakfast. Are you hungry, Abe?”

“Nope.”

“Look, don’t be shy—”

“I ain’t hungry.”

“You want some coffee? I always make extra.”

Abel said, “If you come back out, you can bring me a cup.” He looked at Decker’s cigarettes. “You gonna smoke them, or just giving the cellophane a massage?”

“Take the whole fucking pack,” Decker said, tossing them over.

“No need for profanities,” Abel said. “Got some matches, or should I eat them raw?”

Decker gave him a book. “Don’t burn the place down.”

“Depends how much it’s insured for.”

“Not enough,” Decker said. He went inside and fed the dog. He fixed two more pieces of toast and brought them along with two cups of black coffee. “Just in case you changed your mind about being hungry.”

“I said I wasn’t,” Abel said, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Fine.” Decker sipped his coffee. “I’ll toss ’em.”

“I’ll take ’em,” Abel said. “You shouldn’t be wasting good food.” He stubbed out his smoke and devoured the first piece of toast in three bites.

Decker asked, “So what do you aim to do for me, Abe?”

“I figure I’ll rebuild everything from the ground up. When I’m done with the barn, I’ll move on to the stable. The whole thing shouldn’t be costing more than a couple hundred worth of lumber, maybe another hundred for the hardware.”

“I’ll pay for the supplies,” Decker said.

“All right,” Abel said. “I’ll feed and exercise your animals, if you want.”

“Sure. That’ll save me about an hour a day. If you want to take a pleasure ride, go ahead. Just do it in the morning or late afternoon. It’s too hot otherwise.”

“I hear you.”

“Abe,” Decker said, “how about if you start the job a week from now? I’ve got someone coming in from out of town this afternoon. I’m going to need some privacy.”

“I’ll be discreet.”

“No offense, but I don’t want you around,” Decker said. “I don’t want anyone around. The barn can wait.”

Abel bit his lip and nodded.

Decker said, “It’s nothing personal …”

“I know.”

“Call it quits around noon. It starts getting pretty hot out here anyway.”

“I’ll be gone.”

Decker sighed and gave Abel a firm pat on his shoulder. “Be talking to you. Hey, you want a beer or anything for later on?”

“Only if it’s dark and imported,” Abel said. “I’m picky about my brews.”

“I’ve got some Dos Equis. I’ll bring you out a bottle.”

“Thanks.”

Decker waited a moment, wishing he could think of something to say. Once conversation with Abel had been as natural as a draw of breath. But that was many moons ago.

He went inside the house to fetch the beer.

Marge showed the picture of Douglas Miller to MacPherson.

“Know this one, Paulie?”

MacPherson glanced over his shoulder. “No. What’s the piss-bucket done?”

“Kidnapped his daughter,” Marge said. “Doesn’t look familiar to you? He looked familiar to Mike and me.”

“Never seen him,” MacPherson said.

Marge rapped her knuckles on her head. “The mug books! Shit, my brain was mud last night. I should have made an appointment for the bounty hunter to come in and take a look. I hope he’s still in town.” She pocketed the picture and dialed the phone. Decker walked into the squad room.

“Ah, the man’s big day,” MacPherson said, with a leer on his face.

“You talking to me?” Decker asked.

“I believe I am, Rabbi. Correct me if I’m wrong, but is not this indeed the day that the fair Rina arrives?”

Decker stared at him. “You been listening in on my phone conversations, Paul?”

MacPherson shrugged. “I can’t help it if you tie up the party line.”

Decker said, “You amaze me, Paul. Every day you reach new heights of assholism.”

“Admit it, Pete,” MacPherson said. “We’re all voyeurs and eavesdroppers. That’s our field. Probing.”

“You eavesdropped on my personal phone conversation. Paul, that’s so … juvenile.”

“I hope you find out what’s troubling your lass.”

Decker gave him a murderous look. MacPherson winked and went back to his paperwork.

Marge hung up the phone and said, “This scumbag look familiar to you?” She tossed Decker the photo. Decker studied it for a moment, then shook his head. “Who is he?”

“He’s the asshole husband of the lady last night.”

“Oh.” Decker concentrated on the picture for a long time. “No. I don’t know him. How’s the lady doing? When you called last night, you said she was pretty upset.”

“I just got off the phone with her bounty hunter. He said she’d calmed down. He sent her back this morning. He’s still in L.A. and is going to look through our mug books. I know this joker lives in our area.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” Decker said.

“What are you doing this morning?” Marge asked.

“I’ve got a court appearance at one-thirty. I have to go downtown, can you believe that noise? The Lessing case.”

“Why aren’t they arraigning him at Van Nuys?”

“’Cause they’ve got him booked downtown. He was out on bail, and raped a girl in Wilshire Division. Shit, what is the matter with these judges? I think Lessing’s bail was only ten grand.”

“Probably the same bail as your buddy’s,” Marge said.

“Dunn, don’t start with me,” Decker said.

“Just pointing out a certain irony.”

Decker said, “Thank you, Detective Dunn, for that little lesson. I think I’ll be useful and go back up to the Manfred development right now. Talk to Patty Bingham—the one you thought was hiding something. Maybe contact a few of the neighbors we missed yesterday. Want to come with me?”

“I’ve got a date with a twelve-year-old charged with vehicular manslaughter,” Marge said.

“Tut, tut,” MacPherson said, looking up from his paperwork. “What is this world coming to?”

“See you later,” Decker said to Marge.

“Have a splendid time tonight, Peter,” MacPherson said.

“Eat your heart out, Paulie.”

A peroxide blonde opened the door until the chain stopped its advance. Her complexion was sallow, her eyes a strange shade of seawater green. Kids were screaming in the background.

“Yes?” she said.

“Police, Mrs. Bingham.” Decker showed her his badge. “I’d like a few minutes of your time.”

The green orbs began to dart in their sockets.

“What do you want?”

“It concerns a missing child.” Decker took out the photo of Baby Sally and slipped it through the door. “We’re trying to locate this little girl’s parents—”

“I already talked to the police yesterday,” the woman said. “I don’t know who this kid is.”

“Mommy …” said a tiny wail.

“Wait a minute!” the woman snapped.

Decker said, “If you’ll just take your time …”

“I said I don’t know who she is!”

Decker lied, “But I was told by a neighbor down the street that you might know—”

“Who told you that?”

“One of your neighbors.”

“Which one?”

“Uh, let me look at my notes,” Decker said, flipping through an empty notepad.

“Was it Jane?” she fired out. “Did Jane tell you I know this kid?”

Another kid screamed, “Mommy, Andrea hit me!”

“I said wait a minute!”

Decker squinted, trying to get a better look at Patty Bingham. They were still talking through the chain.

“Yeah, it was Jane,” Decker said.

“Well, Jane is a liar!”

The door slammed in Decker’s face. He thought the interview was over, until he heard the chain unlatch and the door opened all the way. Patty Bingham was wearing cutoff shorts and a T-shirt. She was a decent-looking woman and was tight in all the right places, but looked as if she’d traveled more than a few miles in her life. She seemed to be an angry woman, but her eyes gave Decker a quick once-over and her expression softened. She cocked her hip.

“Look, sir …” She let out a small laugh. “I don’t know what Jane Hickey told you, but I don’t know who that kid is. And I’ve got five of my own—”

“Five?”

“Well, three are from my husband’s first marriage. They’re visiting him for the summer. Ain’t that a riot! What did you say your name was?”

The phone rang.

“Want me to get that, Patty?” yelled another voice.

“Yeah.” She faced Decker. “Your name?”

Decker showed her his badge again.

“Jane has a kind of big mouth,” Patty said. “Know what I mean?”

“But why would Jane say you knew this kid if you didn’t?” Decker asked. “Please Mrs. Bingham, the kid’s in a foster home, and we don’t know who her parents are. If her parents don’t want her—”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Patty said. She turned red.

“Why?” Decker asked.

“I mean … who wouldn’t want such a cute kid like that?”

“Some parents are very strange.”

“Ain’t that the truth. Want some coffee? We could drink in the backyard. Ain’t so noisy back there.”

“No thank you, Mrs. Bingham. So you have no idea who she belongs to?”

“No idea.”

“Does she look like anyone you know around the neighborhood?”

“Nope. Sure you don’t want to come in for a cup of coffee?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass,” Decker said. “I still have quite a few more doors to knock on. Take one more look.”

“It won’t do any good.”

“Humor me,” Decker said.

Patty gave a cursory glance at the photo, then shook her head.

Decker said, “I just hate to see such a cute little kid like her in a foster home.”

“I’m sure her parents will turn up,” Patty said.

“I don’t think so,” Decker said.

Patty bit her thumbnail. “Well, it’s not my problem if they don’t. I’m not the savior of the world, you know.”

Decker said. “Maybe you want to keep the photo, just in case—”

“Waste of time.”

“Please. Just show it to your neighbors.”

Patty bit her thumbnail again. “You’re a stubborn man.” She took the photo, looked at it, and stuck it in her hip pocket.

Decker said, “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Bingham.”

“Sure. And don’t listen to Jane. She’s got a big mouth.”

Decker smiled and walked away. Once inside the unmarked, he radioed in a request for the address of a Mrs. Jane Hickey. She lived a block and a half away, one of the houses where no one had been home yesterday. This morning she was outside, watering her small patch of front lawn, wearing a sunsuit. Her hair was wrapped in a kerchief, her face was deeply tanned.

“Mrs. Hickey?” Decker said. “I’m Sergeant Peter Decker, LAPD. I was wondering if I could have a couple of words with you.”

Jane looked at the badge. “What do you want?”

“I just spoke with one of your neighbors, Patty Bingham,” Decker said. He pulled out another picture of Baby Sally. “I’m trying to identify this little girl and locate her parents. I showed the picture to Mrs. Bingham, and she said it looked familiar to her, but she couldn’t place it. Do you have any idea who this child might be?”

Jane eyed the picture and laughed.

“What is it?” Decker asked.

“She looks a little like Patty’s youngest,” Jane said.

Decker’s eyes widened.

Jane said, “Of course, it isn’t Andrea.”

“Do they look a lot alike?”

“Just a little around the eyes … and the hair.” Jane handed the picture back to Decker. “All kids that age kinda look alike. Chubby little faces … you know. I don’t know who this one is, though.”

“Never saw her around the neighborhood?”

“No,” Jane said.

“You’re sure?”

“There’s a lot of kids around here,” Jane said. “I’m not positive that I’ve never seen her, but I don’t know the kid personally.”

Decker said, “Thank you for your time.”

He drove back to the Bingham residence.

“You again?” Patty said, when she saw him at the door. But she was smiling.

“I think I will have that cup of coffee,” Decker said.

Patty’s smile turned to a grin. “Why don’t you come around through the side? I’ll meet you at the back.”

“I don’t mind drinking with all the noise,” Decker said. “I like kids.” He walked inside before Patty could object.

The house was center-hall plan—living room on the left, dining area to the right. The living room was sparsely furnished and sterile—a white velvet sofa and matching love seat, a glass coffee table, and a fireplace that had never been used. The dining area held a fake wood-grain Formica table and eight chairs. Through the dining room was a kitchen stocked with all the latest appliances, the countertops white Formica, one section already marred by a burn mark. The cabinets were new, but the finish was cheap and full of varnish bubbles. Right off the kitchen was the family room. It was piled high with kids and mess—laundry, toys, scraps of food. The TV was blaring. Three older children were slouched on a brown-and-white plaid sofa accented with Naugahyde straps. A four-year-old was sitting cross-legged on the wall-to-wall brown shag carpet.

“Sure you want to drink coffee with all this noise going on?”

“Where’s the fifth?” Decker asked.

“Huh?”

“The fifth kid,” Decker said. “I only count four.”

“Oh,” Patty looked around. “Brian, go find the baby.”

“I’m watchin’—”

“I said, find the baby,” Patty demanded. “Shit. I’m always looking for one of ’em.”

A boy of around ten slipped off the couch, a perpetual sulk plastered on his face.

“Who’s he?” asked one of the older girls. Her hair was cut short, and she had braces on her teeth.

“A cop,” Patty said. “I’m giving him some coffee. You take cream?”

“Black.”

“Cops can drink when they’re on duty?” the girl asked skeptically.

“If it’s coffee,” Decker said.

“Mind your own business, Karen,” Patty said.

“I was just asking,” Karen whined. “Geez.”

Brian walked in, carrying a two-year-old. She was wearing nothing but a diaper. Decker stared at the face. Old Jane had a good eye. There was a resemblance. It wasn’t unusually strong, it wasn’t uncanny, but both little girls shared a certain look.

“That’s the little one?” Decker asked.

“My bundle of trouble,” Patty said. “Here’s your coffee.”

“Thanks.” Decker kept glancing at the baby as he drank. Maybe it was the playful look in the baby’s eyes. Sally had playful eyes.

“So,” Patty said. “How long have you been a cop?”

Decker gulped the coffee as fast as he could. “Too long.”

“Seen it all, haven’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So have I,” Patty said.

“Give me a break,” Brian muttered.

“Keep your damn thoughts to yourself,” Patty said.

Decker put the mug on the countertop. “Thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Bingham. I’ve got to go now.”

“You’re a fast drinker.” Patty nudged him in the ribs. “Hope you don’t do everything that fast.”

Decker groaned inwardly.

“How ’bout a refill?” Patty said.

“No thanks.”

The air conditioner suddenly blasted cold air atop his head.

“Gotta go,” Decker said.

Patty said, “Hey, maybe I’ll see you around, huh?”

Karen rolled her eyes.

Decker said, “Maybe.”

He left as quickly as he could.

8

“How was Patty Bingham?” Marge asked.

Decker loosened his tie and said, “Patty has strong, unfulfilled sexual needs.”

“What?” Hollander looked up from his paperwork. “What’s this about unfulfilled sexual needs?”

Marge said, “Go back to sleep, Mike.”

“A crime-lab report came in for you, Pete,” Hollander said. “It’s on your desk.”

“Thanks,” Decker said. He sat down, opened a bottle of aspirin, and swallowed a couple of tablets without water.

“Unfulfilled needs, huh?” said Marge.

“Can I get this woman’s phone number?” Hollander asked.

“You wouldn’t want it,” Decker said. “She’s a piece of work.” To Marge, he said, “Her youngest kid looks a little like Sally.”

“Is that significant?” Marge asked.

“No, not really,” Decker said. “Just a point of observation. As far as Patty goes, maybe she does know who Sally is, maybe she doesn’t. I had a hard time reading her, because she was coming on to me so strongly.”

“Is she listed in the book?” Hollander said.

Decker said, “I talked to some more neighbors. No one knows Baby Sally by name.”

Marge shrugged. Decker broke the seal on the manila envelope. He pulled out several sheets of paper and began to scan them.

“What did you order?” Marge asked.

“Lab report from the scene of my friend’s crime.”

“Still delusional,” Marge said.

“A little delusion never hurt anyone.” He read on. “They didn’t lift any prints off the shiv. It was cleaned.”

“Your friend wiped it,” Marge said.

“Why would he wipe the shiv?” Decker said. “Supposedly it was his shiv, not hers. Of course it would have his prints on it. Seems to me he’d just stick it back in its sheath and leave.”

“Decker,” Marge said. “Watch TV. Criminals clean their weapons.”

Decker said, “Let’s reenact this. My friend rapes and cuts this girl. He wipes the shiv and puts it on the table. Now, presumably, he’s getting ready to go and intends to take the shiv with him.”

“Okay,” Marge said.

“Now if you were cut like she was, you’d scream, right? You couldn’t help yourself.”

“I would think so.”

“So say she screamed when he sliced her. Are you going to wipe your shiv calmly and lay it on the table, or are you going to get the hell out of there, figuring her screaming may have alerted someone?”

“He was cocky. Or he was a psycho who enjoyed watching her suffer.”

“I can’t buy that,” Decker said. “Margie, he’s seen it all—arms and legs and shit blasted all over the place, moaning lumps that used to be people. Some guys got off on torturing anything with slanted eyes. Blood lust or they just went nuts. Not Abel … not Abel.”

Decker covered his mouth, felt himself breathing through his hands.

“You all right?” Marge said.

“Yeah,” Decker said quietly. He wiped his forehead with his jacket sleeve. “Logic tells me that a true rape-o would leave as soon as he was done and worry about cleaning the knife another time. And consider this. His prints were found elsewhere—all over the apartment, as a matter of fact. But not on the weapon.”

Marge said, “Maybe he intended to wipe the apartment clean, but she stopped him by clobbering him with the lamp.”

“Yeah, that’s another thing. The gal’s dripping blood and has a collapsed lung, but she has enough strength to hit him with a lamp. And what’s he doing while she’s crawling on the floor and retrieving a lamp?”

“In the john?”

“She didn’t bong him as he exited the john. If I were him, I would have noticed her and stopped her.”

“He was too busy cleaning the shiv to notice.”

“Which brings us back to the first point, do you calmly clean your weapon after all this commotion took place?”

“Maybe he had her terrified.”

“Not too terrified. She bopped him with a lamp.” Decker thought a moment. “I wonder who called the incident in?”

“The PR would be on the tape. Look up the incident number and give Hollywood a call.”

Decker read further. He said, “There are gross inconsistencies here—the clean shiv, the statement of the whore, the time frame … Hey, we’ve got a bloody footprint lifted from the kitchen floor that didn’t match the shoe Abel was wearing. It was a size-nine left-foot, rubber-sole number.”

“Maybe he changed shoes.”

“Marge …”

“It’s possible.”

“Abel doesn’t have a left foot,” Decker said. “And he rarely wears a shoe on his prosthesis. Someone else was in the room.”

She didn’t answer.

Decker said, “Sixty-forty a good lawyer could get him off right now, without any further investigation.”

“Is that what you want?” Marge asked.

“No. What I want is to find the mother who did this and clear Abel’s name altogether. But that may not be possible.” Decker checked his watch, then locked the file in his desk. “I’ll go over it later. Gotta go to court now.”

His phone rang.

“Sergeant Decker? It’s Ms. Rawlings.”

“Hello, Ms. Rawlings,” Decker said. “How’s my baby Sally?”

“Fine, Sergeant. I just want to tell you that I’m taking her to the doctor’s this afternoon. Would you like to come pick up the report around four o’clock?”

“Unfortunately, I’ll be at the airport,” Decker said. “How about if I come pick it up first thing tomorrow morning?”

“That would be fine, Sergeant.”

“Thanks for phoning, Ms. Rawlings,” Decker said. “Take good care of my baby girl.”

Rina slipped her arms under Peter’s jacket and hugged him tightly. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so happy, so relieved. Strong arms, something to lean on. She could feel her muscles loosen, her shoulders and jaw go wonderfully slack. Peter bent down and kissed her gently on the lips. She knew they had to move, that they were blocking the path of people deplaning, but she couldn’t bring herself to break the embrace. Peter finally did it for her.

He looked at her at arms’ length. Metallic blue eyes, creamy, smooth skin, pronounced cheekbones highlighted by a windswept stroke of blush. Her hair was long and loose—a beautiful ebony wave sheathing her back. She wore a navy shirtdress gathered at the waist, bisected by a white belt.

“You look gorgeous,” Decker said.

“You do, too.”

Decker laughed. “That’s not true, but it’s nice of you to say it.” He picked up her carry-on and her wardrobe. “Did you bring a suitcase?”

Rina shook her head.

“Then let’s get out of here.”

The freeway was jammed rush-hour traffic in the afternoon heat. The unmarked’s air conditioner tried desperately to cool off the sticky upholstery, but the temperature gauge’s needle was grazing the red zone. Horns blasted, the sun reflected blindingly off chrome fenders, side mirrors, and rear windows. Decker shut off the air conditioner and cranked open the window.

“Car’s going to overheat, honey,” he explained.

Rina nodded, rolled down her window. A gust of exhaust fumes from a bus assaulted her nostrils.

“Welcome back,” Decker said with a smile.

“This would be welcome weather in New York. I left one-hundred-degree heat and ninety-percent humidity. At least it’s dry out here.”

Decker took her hand. “Your hair’s uncovered.”

“You noticed.”

“Is that a statement?”

“Sort of.”

Decker took his suit jacket off, inched the car forward. “You want to talk about it?”

“First tell me how you’ve been,” Rina said.

“Nothing changes around here. God, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” She took a tissue out of her purse and dabbed his forehead. “It’s so good to see you, Peter. Sometimes I wonder why I left.”

“I’ve been wondering about that, too.”

“I think I wanted you to find God … or my concept of God … I don’t know. How are you and God doing?”

“I can’t speak for the Big Man, but I’m doing okay.”

“How’s Rav Schulman and the yeshiva?”

“Rav Schulman’s fine.”

“Did you spend Shabbos with him last week?”

“No, I changed my mind,” Decker said. “I have a hard time staying in someone else’s house. I’m better off spending Shabbos at home, davening by myself. I’m just not a group person, Rina.”

She nodded. “How’s Cindy’s vacation coming?”

Decker grinned. “She’s having a wonderful time. Jan’s having problems with it. I think she’s going to have a hard time letting go, and is going to dump on anyone who’ll let her. I pity Allen.”

“Is she giving you a hard time?”

“Nah. Not too bad considering that in four months my child-support payments will stop and Jan’ll lose her last little leash on my life. Now, when my daughter needs me for money, I can send it to her directly.”

“Is that an improvement?”

“I’m going to find out.” He kissed her hand. “You’re stalling.”

“Oh, nothing’s wrong with me, Peter,” Rina said. “It seemed like a big deal over there. Now, it seems … silly. I just had to get out of New York.”

“Are you planning on going back there?”

“That all depends.”

“On what?”

“On if I have a home here.” She faced him. “Do I?”

“As far as I’m concerned, you do.”

“Then I guess I’m moving back.”

Decker grinned.

“Great,” he said.

Rina stepped out of the car and inhaled deeply. “Soil!” she said. “Land. Look at your citrus grove! The trees grow out of the ground instead of pots. It’s so beautiful.”

“Never thought of it quite like that,” Decker said.

“Everything looks so green,” Rina said.

“Actually, everything has been fried by the heat,” Decker said. “Come on inside, I’ll get you something to drink. I’ve even stocked my refrigerator for you.”

“Peter, take me for a ride.”

“We just got out of the car.”

She threw her arms around his neck. “On horseback.”

“Horseback? You?”

“Yes, me. You’ve always wanted to take me riding. Now, I’m giving you a chance.”

“Right now?”

“Yes. Right now.”

“You’re not too tired?” he asked.

She shook her head no.

“It must be ninety-five degrees out here,” Decker said.

“It’ll cool off soon.”

“I’m thirsty,” Decker said. “Can I get a beer first?”

“Okay.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Rina brought his mouth onto hers. She felt his hot breath, smelled his sweat, rubbed her fingers into his damp hair. He pulled her closer, undid the top button of her dress, and slipped his hand down the front. Her skin was warm and moist.

“Sure you want to go riding now?” he said.

She didn’t answer, kissed him again. Sweet, long kisses.

“It stays light out for a long time,” Decker said. He unsnapped the next button, she unknotted his tie. She kissed him again.

“Why don’t we go inside?” Decker suggested.

Rina didn’t move. She stroked his chin, traced his jawline with her fingertip.

“It’s cool inside,” Decker said.

Rina laced her arms around his waist.

“You know, I’m trying to be subtle here,” Decker said.

“I can see that,” Rina said. “You’re doing a fine job.”

“Yeah, but it isn’t working,” Decker said. “Well, since Mr. Sensitivity ain’t making any hay, I’m reverting back to caveman style.” He picked her up, unlocked the kitchen door, and headed for the bedroom.

The early evening temperature settled in the mid-80’s, the sky was polished silver lined with rust and lavender. The sun was a fiery disk of orange, sinking quickly behind mammary swells of mountain. Decker pulled a brown stallion named Bear to the Left and followed the foothills, trampling through gray-green shrubbery, hay-colored grass and scrub brush. Wild flowers carpeted the rolling land—orange California poppies, white and blue alyssum, tiny white spring daisies.

Decker knew the trail by heart, but had taken a flashlight for Rina’s benefit. She sat, nestled in his arms, her dress flowing down the sides of the saddle, eyes half-shut, lips parted. She’d been more wonderful than he remembered—soft and sensual—but distant, troubled. Decker knew that she’d never let go completely until after they were married. Rina could never shake her religious belief that sex outside of marriage was wrong. Still, she had come to him willingly …

They rode for a half hour without speaking, rode until the crickets began their foot-rubbing, and low-pitched hoots from woodland animals echoed in the air. A sliver of bleached-white moon peeked over the hilltop.

“This is beautiful,” Rina said.

“I should take more time off,” Decker said. “You’re good for me. You slow me down. If you weren’t here, I’d be working.”

“I can’t believe I was battling the subway yesterday,” Rina said.

“Are you ever going to tell me what’s bothering you?” Decker asked.

“Don’t spoil the moment.”

“Stop stalling,” Decker said.

Rina sighed. “It’s my brother-in-law.”

“Which one?”

“Pessy. Esther’s husband. The one who owns the fur factory.”

“The one you do the books for,” Decker said.

“Yes.”

“He came on to you,” Decker said.

Rina sat up in the saddle. “How’d you know?”

“And you’re shocked. Especially because he’s frum.”

She slumped back against him. “Obviously, you’re not surprised.”

“What’d he do to you?”

“Oh God …”

“What’d he do?”

“He backed me up into a corner a couple of weeks ago.”

“And …”

“He was inappropriate,” Rina groaned.

“How? Details.”

“Stop acting like a detective.”

Decker laughed. “Did he kiss you?”

“Yes.”

“What’d you do?”

“I was so shocked, I didn’t do anything.”

“Nice move, Lazarus. Did he feel you up?”

“Peter, could you cool the blow-by-blow?”

Decker grew serious. “Did he get rough with you?”

“No,” Rina said. “No, he didn’t. As soon as I recovered from my shock, I got out of there, and he didn’t try to stop me. Oh, Peter, how could he have done that? Betrayed his wife as well as me. What gets into people like him?”

“He’s horny with low impulse control.”

“He wears a gartel for God’s sake!”

“What’s a gartel?”

“It’s a sash that Hasidim wear to separate the clean from the unclean parts of their body. This is the man who always leads Kol Nidre on Yom Kippur, can you believe such hypocrisy?”

“Obviously, he has a lot to repent for,” Decker said. “Is he still harassing you sexually?”

Rina sighed. “Well, he hasn’t backed me into any more corners, but he’s done other things.”

“Like what?”

“Peter, he frequents massage parlors.”

“How do you know that?”

“He gives me the receipts for the books and tells me to take them off as business expenses.”

Decker burst into laughter.

Rina said, “What’s so funny?”

“Forgive me, but only a Jew would be so brazen,” Decker said.

“That is such an anti-Semitic thing to say!” Rina exclaimed. “Whose side are you on?”

Decker said, “No goy on earth would have the hutzpah to try something like that.”

“Chutzpah,” Rina said, correcting his pronunciation. “Ch, ch. The sound is guttural. At least say the word right. And I don’t believe that goyim are any less chutzpahdic than Jews.”

“Maybe we Gentiles just don’t think as creatively.”

“We?” Rina said. “You’re Jewish, remember?”

Decker hugged her. “Yes, I remember.”

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