Street Dreams (11 page)

I nodded, but my face must have spelled confusion.

He said, “The union produces one zygote, yes. It splits into two normal cells. Then one of the normal cells splits incorrectly,
making the body have half normal cells and half with trisomy 21—an extra twenty-first chromosome. What it means is the prognosis
for her intellectual capacity is greater. She could be anywhere from retarded to normal.”

“That’s a long range.”

“True, but it’s still good news. This was unexpected, Cindy. Mosaic is very rare.”

My grin was real. “That’s wonderful.” My expression turned sober. “What does it say about her parents?”

“One of them could be Down’s, maybe not. We don’t know. The only thing I can tell you is that she has both white and black
blood in her.” Our drinks came. “Enough of business. You know very much about me, but I know little about you. Tell me about
your father and your religious stepmother and the rest of your family.”

I was momentarily taken aback. I had expected him to ask about me. Not to do so would have been rude. But I thought he’d start
out with the usual: Why did I decide to become a cop? To ask about my family meant he was curious about
me,
not my profession. So I answered his question. I spoke about Rina and my father, about her influence in my father’s religious
development. I segued to my mother and her current husband, Alan. Then I spoke about how I had grown up without any religious
guidance, so it was a big shock when my father married my stepmother.

The service was slow. Normally, I’d be impatient, but I was yapping so much, I barely noticed. When the food finally came,
I hadn’t even thought about the waiting time. The cuisine was piquant, not unlike Indian and Middle Eastern cuisine, but unique
because of a sour taste from the
injera.
I couldn’t say it was love at first taste, but my tongue wasn’t complaining.

“What do you think?” Koby asked after a few moments.

“It’s good.” I tore off some
injera
and used it to eat the lentils. “Something really primal about eating with your fingers. Like when you were five and playing
in the sandbox, getting your hands all dirty.”

“Enjoy.”

“Thank you. You’ve hardly said a word,” I remarked. “You’re a very good listener.”

“You’re very interesting.”

“Now that is bald flattery.” I hid my face behind my water glass. “I think it’s because you’re a nurse. You’re used to listening
to people.”

“Of course. And you too, no?”

“Yes, that’s true. Ninety percent of what I do is listening to people.”

“I as well.”

“Even with kids?”

He thought about that. “With the small children … The small ones don’t talk much. You make games to get them through the procedures.
We have on staff several psychologists who do this. When they are too busy, the nurses do it. The little girls play with dolls,
the boys … They like to hit and punch. Boys always like to hit and punch. When they are sick and angry, they really like to
hit and punch. I spend a lot of time dodging punches from very angry boys.”

“It must be hard being around sick children all the time.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. But it is rewarding. Like your job?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Like my job.”

Koby said, “I change the subject now. The word
‘gursha’
means mouthful, but it’s also a tradition that we Ethiopians do.”

“What’s that?”

“We share our food. That is why everything is served on one plate. If we have
very
good time, we feed each other.”

“What?”

He placed some spiced peas atop the
injera
and made a mini-sandwich. “
Minhag Hamakom.
That is Hebrew for the custom of the house. You must eat from my hands. Otherwise they think you don’t like me.”

“This is for real?”

“Look around.”

I did. There was a twenty-something Ethiopian couple across from us. He wore a T-shirt and jeans and had Rastafarian curls;
she had on a hot pink silk blouse and black stretch pants, and had her hair tied in a ponytail. She was indeed feeding her
lunch companion with her hands.

“Okay,” I said warily. “As long as I get to feed you.”

“Of course. That is the point.”

As soon as his hands touched my mouth, I started laughing and instinctively backed away. But then I ate the proffered morsel,
my tongue grazing his fingertips. I returned the gesture by feeding him
injera
wrapped around collard greens. He had the grace to take the food without being sleazy about it. But it didn’t matter. Feeling
his lips against my skin set off my juices. Apparently, he felt something, too.

We locked eyes. Then I looked down. I knew I was red-faced. “It’s an icebreaker, I’ll say that much.”

His eyes were still focused on me. “I have good reasons for suggesting Ethiopian.”

I wagged a finger at him.

He scooped up some cabbage. “Here. We do it again. Second time is easier.”

He could have been talking about other things.

I took the food without protest, enjoying his fingers on my mouth. Then I fed him a chunk of pumpkin. He chewed, the tip of
his tongue giving a brief swipe at the corner of his mouth, his topaz eyes having dilated so they looked nearly black.

I gave him a half smile. “Is it extra to rent a room in back?”

He burst into laughter. “Eating should be stimulating.”

“Stimulating, yes, not X-rated.”

Again he laughed. We ate a few minutes in silence, letting the air around us cool off. Finally, I sat up in my chair and let
out a whoosh of breath. “I think I’ve had it.”

“It was okay?”

“It was terrific. It was more than lunch, it was fun. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. For me too. Coffee?”

“Sure.” I paused. “You drink your own coffee, right?”

He smiled. “Yes, you drink your own coffee … unless you make your own new tradition.”

“Thank you, I think I’ve had enough adventure for one day.”

Koby signaled the waitress and ordered for us in Amharic.

“You come here often?” I asked him.

“More in the beginning when I feel a little homesick. If I miss anything now, I think I miss
Shabbat.”

I said, “So Friday night is still on, if you want.”

“No, no, no. I didn’t mean it to be a hint.”

“It’s fine, Koby.” A pause. “I insist you come.”

He regarded my face with intensity. “I can be pushy. You feel okay about it?”

“Of course.” I was aiming for low-key confidence. “Since I know the way, I’ll pick you up.”

The waitress brought over the coffee in a small clay pot and poured it into two demitasse cups. It was stronger than espresso,
but not as strong as Turkish coffee. We exchanged smiles as we drank. Awkwardness stood between us because electricity had
gotten in the way of simple platonic conversation. Absently, I glanced at my watch. My eyes widened. “Oh gosh! I’m late.”
I slapped my forehead. “The meter!”

He stood first and helped me with my chair. “You check the meter. I’ll pay—”

“We’ll split it.”

“No, no, I asked you out.”

I didn’t insist. “So I’ll see you on Friday, then.” I pulled out my business card, thought about giving him my phone number,
but gave him my e-mail instead. As attractive as he was, I still had my reservations. I hadn’t Googled him yet or run him
through the network to see if he had a sheet. “This is the best way to reach me. I’ll need your address. You do have e-mail,
right?”

“Absolutely.” He took my card without disappointment, then handed me his. “My home phone, my work phone, my cell phone, and,
at last, my e-mail. You can contact me however you want with the details and I’ll explain how to get to my place. It’s in
the hills. I enjoyed your company very much, Cindy. Go.”

I gave him a slight wave and took off, feeling featherlight, despite a heavy gun weighing down my purse.

J
ust before roll call,
I caught up with Greg Van Horn as he was signing out for his two-week vacation, the field roster marked in green highlighter.
His face was filled with good cheer, and he had a spring in his step. Already, he had loosened his tie. I cornered him while
he was waving his last good-byes. He frowned when he saw me, but too bad. Out there was a girl who needed medical attention.
I gave him the slip of paper and explained myself.

“You did this by yourself?”

“All by my little lonesome.”

“On your own time?”

“Yes, sir, on my own time.”

He was still staring at me.

“Golly, that woman does have a brain in her head—”

“Decker!”

“Sorry, sir.” I stifled a smile.

He tapped his foot. “You’re putting me in conflict, Decker, and right before my vacation. I’m not thrilled about this.”

“Next time, I’ll try to be less effective.”

He glowered at me, but it lacked feeling. “The case belongs to Russ, but he don’t deserve the credit. You do.”

“It may not be anything, sir.”

He handed me back the slip of paper. “So why don’t you check it out first?”

“Then what if it is something?”

“Follow it up.”

“Should I contact Russ?”

“Play it by ear.”

Giving me leeway. He was being very gentlemanly. I thanked him and stowed the slip of paper in my pocket. He noticed the uncertainty
that I felt.

“What?”

“This is a little different from what I’m used to. Talking to a retarded girl about babies and sex.” That sounded fearful.
“I can do it. No problem. Just … any suggestions? I don’t want to blow your case.”

“More like
your
case.” He held out his hands helplessly. “I’m on vacation, Decker. You got contacts in the Department. Use ’em.”

Home had always been Decker’s refuge, but of late, it was his office as well. At the station, there were issues and problems
and details. There were meetings with superiors, meetings with the detectives, meetings with county supervisors or reps from
the city council or congressional districts. There was PR that amounted to a lot of BS. Smiling through all of it gave him
one giant headache. Once he’d been able to handle it, fielding calls as smoothly as a Vegas dealer. Now he constantly felt
distracted, and the sudden images of blood and death didn’t help.

He took off his glasses and set them on the desktop, rubbing his eyes without relief. Rina had set up a comfortable home office
in the guest room/den. In the daytime, the back windows showed a view of the mature fruit trees. At the current hour, the
vista was dark. But because the room was situated next to a pittosporum tree in full bloom, sweet jasmine scents wafted through
the open louver slats. In the peace and quiet of his own sanctuary, he could go through some of the more puzzling case files,
often breathing life into stagnating investigations.

He was able to keep his job and his equilibrium because he was working twice as hard as he should have been. He’d get through
it—he had no choice, his family needed the money—but it would take a while. Rina’s confession had helped, but Decker knew
she wasn’t being completely honest with him. By and by, it would all come out.

“How much longer?”

Decker jerked his head up. Rina was dressed in black sweats. With no makeup and her hair down, she could have passed for her
twenties.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Eleven-thirty.”

“Did I say something about coming in at eleven?”

“You did.”

“Sorry.”

“S’right.” Rina stood behind him and began to massage his neck. “You look tense. Maybe this will help.”

“Oh man, that feels good. What’s the catch?”

“I’ve got another file for you to look at.”

“Now?”

“It’ll take you five minutes.”

“Nothing ever takes five minutes anymore.”

Rina gave his back a slap. “Thank goodness for that. Now I’m going to make some tea while you clear the desk.”

“Yes, ma’am. Do I get tea, too?”

“You do.”

He smiled, watching her sway as she went. By the time she returned from the kitchen, the desktop was visible. She was carrying
a tray with a pot of tea, two mugs, and a Pendaflex folder. She set the tray down and pulled up a chair.

“How about you pour and I explain what I’ve done?”

“Are you ever
not
organized, Rina?”

“It’s part of my job description. I don’t see you pouring.”

Decker took up the steaming teapot dressed in a quilted cozy, held the lid, and poured two cups of steaming, brewed tea. “One
lump or two? Or three if you count me.”

She kissed his cheek. “You are far from a lump. And you know I take my tea plain.” She pulled out three neat stacks of typewritten
pages. “Maybe you’d like to take notes?”

Decker laughed and held up a pen. “I’m ready, Professor.”

“Very funny. This sheet has the names of all the people in the file.”

“Who translated the file for you?”

“Laurie Manheim’s mother-in-law. But we didn’t get through all of it. Do you know Laurie? She’s Rabbi Manheim’s wife.”

“I know neither Laurie nor Rabbi Manheim.”