Czytaj książkę: «Milk and Honey»

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.”