Street Dreams (3 page)

The blood of childbirth—if we were lucky.

If the mother was someone local, it would narrow the search. Maybe knocking on doors wouldn’t be the answer. Maybe my best
bet would be to hunt down the throwaways, to crawl through the underbelly of Hollywood, a city that offered so much but rarely
made good on its promises.

I showed the spot to Greg Van Horn after he did his dog-and-pony show for the nightly news. He regarded the blood while scratching
his abundant nose.

“Homicide?” I asked him.

“Can’t be ruled out.” His jaws were bulging as if chewing on something hard. “My instincts tell me no. The configuration doesn’t
look like a murder.”

“The concentration of blood in one spot as well as the absence of spatter.”

Van Horn nodded. “Yeah, exactly.”

“I was thinking about someone homeless. Who else would squat in a back alley?”

“I’ll buy that.” Eyes still on the pond of blood, he took out his cellular phone. “Time to call in the techs.”

“Want me to walk around the area, sir? See if I can find some street people?”

“Did you finish roping the area?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sure. Go pretend you’re a gold shield, Decker.”

Low blow, Greg.
I said with a smile, “Just testing out my mettle.”

“I thought you already passed that test.”

This time the smile was genuine. “That was nice. Thank you.”

“Get out of here.”

I skipped over the yellow tape, walking about a hundred yards north through the alley and onto Hollywood Boulevard. The sidewalks
weren’t paved with gold, but they were filled with lots of black-stoned stars set into red granite. Each star represented
a different icon of the entertainment media—TV, film, radio, or the recording industry. The good news was that recent gentrification
and climbing real estate prices had preserved some of the older architecture and had cleaned up lots of the seedier aspects
of the area.

The western part of the boulevard was breaking through, probably like Times Square had done a dozen or so years ago. The city
planners were smart enough to face-lift its known quantities, like the famous movie houses—Mann’s Chinese Theatre, Egyptian,
and El Capitan—as well as the sideshow carnival attractions like Ripley’s Believe It or Not and the Hollywood Wax Museum.
In addition, the renovated sector now boasted several eye-catching shopping galleries and a spanking-new gold-and-black-granite
live theater built by Kodak. These landmarks drew lots of tourists, those hoping to be touched by magic or, at the very least,
bask in its afterglow.

It was the night that brought out the predators, individuals who thrived on marginal life. The eastern portion of Hollywood
was the domain of tattoo parlors and bail bondsmen, of cheap retail shops, several no-tell motels and fast-food joints.

The Tango sat on the border between the bright lights of old glamour and the slums of decay. As economic revival crept eastward,
some of the neon spilled over, but not nearly enough to illuminate the hidden cracks and crevices. I didn’t have to walk too
far before I found someone. She sat on the sidewalk, her back against the painted glass window advertising 50 percent off
bargain-basement clothing. Her knees were pressed against her chest, and a thin blanket was thrown over her body and tucked
under her chin. Her age was indeterminate—anywhere from twenty to fifty. Her hair was matted and dirty, her complexion so
pancaked with grime that it could have held membership to any race. Black pupils peered out through vacant red-rimmed orbs,
her mouth a slash mark with skin stretched tightly over a bony framework. By her side were a coin cup, several paper bags,
and a tattered backpack.

I dropped a dollar in the cup. She nodded but didn’t make eye contact. I sat beside her and she stiffened. She stank of sweat
and misery, but right now I didn’t smell too wonderful myself.

“What happened to you?” she pronounced in a raspy voice.

I raised my eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Your clothes need a cleanin’, Officer.”

“Oh … that. I went rooting through the garbage tonight.”

“Then we’s got somethin’ in common.”

I smiled. “I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

She looked down at her covered knees. “You’re Officer Cindy.”

I let out a laugh. “Beg your pardon. The mistake is mine.”

“It was raining. You gave me a ride. … Brang me to a shelter.”

I squinted, taking in her face.
“Alice Anne?”

A hint of a smile appeared on her lips.

I made a face. “You promised me you’d stop hitting the sauce.”

“I kept my promise.”

“For how long? Twenty-four hours?”

“A little longer.”

“Tsk, tsk, girl.”

This time, she took in my face. “What happened to you?”

“Funny you should ask. I found a baby at the bottom of a Dumpster.”

“Ugh!” Alice Anne exclaimed. “That be terrible! Is it okay?”

“The baby is fine.”

“Hard enough bein’ an a-dult out here.” She spat. “Ain’t no place for a baby.”

“Any ideas, Alice Anne?”

“Me?” She sounded surprised. “It ain’t mine, sister.”

“I’m not pointing a finger. But do you have any clue who it
might
belong to?”

She was quiet.

“Come on, Alice Anne. We need to find her.”

“Don’t know nothin’.”

Maybe yes, maybe no. “Could be you’ve seen someone out here who was pregnant—”

“Maybe like a hunnerd out here is pregnant. That’s why they’s out here. ’Cause they’s pregnant and got nowhere else to go.”

“Where would I find these hundred girls?”

She threw me a disgusted look. “How long you work here?”

“Alice—”

“It ain’t that hard, sister. You just be looking on the wrong street.”

“Sunset?”

Alice Anne nodded.

Sunset was the next major street south. It was where the female prostitutes did their business. The boy toys were out on Santa
Monica Boulevard, the next major street over from Sunset. Most of the men bartered in West Hollywood Sheriff area, but sometimes
they strayed into LAPD territory—my territory. All these discarded lives. It could make a girl blue sometimes. Of course,
Alice Anne was right. What else could an underage, pregnant runaway do to keep her stomach filled?

I checked my watch. “I’ll drive by tonight. You wouldn’t have any names, would you?”

“Names,
pshhh …
” She bundled up. “Can’t be gettin’ close to people. Here today, gone tomorrow.”

I went inside my wallet and took out another buck. “Buy yourself some hot chocolate. And if you hear about anyone dumping
a baby, you’ll give me a ring.”

This time, I offered her my card. To my surprise, she took it.

“Pass the word,” I told her. “If the girl goes to the police within three days, nothing will happen to her.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s true, Alice Anne. It’s the law.”

“Yeah, I know what the law’s worth.” Again she spat.

“Well, if you hear about anyth—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

I forced her to make eye contact with me. “You wouldn’t be holding back on me now, would you?”

Alice Anne appeared to be horrified. “Lookie here, Officer Cindy. I may be a crazy, ole bag lady. I may have fallen on some
hard times. And I may take too many sips of rotgut ’cause I gots lots of pain in this ole body. But I ain’t no raging alcoholic,
and I don’t like baby killers.”

Elegantly stated. I sighed, then said, “Do you want me to arrest you?”

Alice Anne stared at my face.

“Three squares and a hot shower,” I told her.

“No.” She drew herself tighter under her cover. “No, but thanks. You can give me mo’ money if you be feeling charitylike.”

I took out a five and showed it to her. “Don’t spend it all in one liquor store.”

She laughed, then closed her eyes.

Having nothing more to say, I got up and left her to what were hopefully more pleasant thoughts.

B
y twelve-thirty,
I had showered and was in civilian clothes en route to home. The U-turn happened by remote control, because I didn’t even
realize I had changed directions until I was headed the opposite way.

To the hospital, naturally. Haunted by the image of that frail bundle left behind for Monday-morning garbage pickup, I knew
I had to see her in a different environment: safe and blanketed, warm and fed.

Mid-City Pediatric was about two miles east of where the infant had been discarded. It was a Medicaid hospital, meaning that
most of the patients were poor. Despite its location, it had a world-renowned reputation. When my baby sister, Hannah, needed
some minor surgery, Rina insisted that she be taken to Mid-City instead of one of the bigger, more moneyed behemoth hospitals
on the affluent west side of town.

It was a five-story building, modern and functional. The interior made stabs at being bright and cheerful—a mural of painted
balloons, a gigantic stuffed teddy bear holding an armful of candy canes—but it couldn’t rid itself of that antiseptic smell.
One whiff and I knew where I was.

It was relatively quiet—the lateness of the hour and the luck of the draw. The uniformed guard at the door looked bored. There
were about a dozen people milling around the lobby, mostly Hispanic mothers with small children. There was one Asian family—
a mother and three little girls—sitting on orange plastic chairs, no one talking, hands folded in their laps.

I went up to a glass-partitioned counter. A middle-aged intake secretary smiled at me, her eyes enlarged behind magnifying
corrective lenses. I pointed to the family. “Have they been helped?”

“The Parks?”

“I guess.”

“Yes, they’ve been helped. They’re waiting for the father to bring over the Medicaid card. He works alone in an all-night
liquor store, so he had to lock it up before coming over here.”

“Is one of the kids sick?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking so many questions?”

I got out my billfold and showed her my badge. “Just wanted to make sure they were taken care of. Sometimes people are reticent
to ask for help when they need it.”

“That’s true. What can I do for you, Officer?”

She was suspicious and I didn’t blame her.

“Two EMTs—Crumack and Hanover—brought in a newborn a little over two hours ago. I was the police officer who found her. I’d
like to see her, if possible. Just to see that she’s safe.”

“Can I see that ID again?”

Again I pulled out the badge. Even after I showed it to her, she was leery. She told me to wait.

I waited.

Finally, a twenty-something pixie named Marnie Sears, R.N., M.N., took over. She asked me to follow her and smiled when she
spoke to me. Perhaps she liked me because we both had flaming red hair. But that was where the similarity ended. She was small
and slight and cute—everything that I wasn’t. What did I expect having been sired by a six-four, 220-pound-plus father. I
had lost weight the past year—a lot of it, and not because I was dieting. The appetite suppressant came in the form of recurring
nightmares of renegade cops chasing me off a cliff. My therapist kept telling me that it takes time for the psyche to knit
the holes. I was still waiting, but I didn’t expect much.

If I were honest, I’d say things were looking up. Certainly, my appetite had returned. Not in full force, but I didn’t look
gaunt anymore. Frankly, I didn’t mind the underfed model look—pronounced cheekbones, full lips, white teeth, and tight chin—but
it bothered my parents something fierce. The couple extra pounds I now carried had softened my face. The main thing was I
could digest a cheese sandwich without the sour stomach.

Marnie and I rode the elevator up to the neonatal unit. She told me that the baby was doing well, that her temperature was
back up to normal.

“That’s very good.”

“You just want to see her, huh?”

I nodded. The elevator stopped and the doors opened. We walked the hushed halls of the hospital. The lighting was bright,
bordering on harsh.

“She’s over here.”

Marnie had stopped in front of a picture window. As I stared through the glass, my heart stopped. Fifteen tiny creatures poked
and prodded with tubes and needles. I had eaten steaks that weighed more than the smallest of them. The teeniest looked just
over a pound. I could have held her in my palm.

“She’s third from the right.”

Sandwiched between two little blips of life hooked up to oxygen masks and IVs, my little girl looked enormous and hearty.
No tubes, no oxygen mask, just a lump of pink blanket with a hood on her head. “My goodness, she looks so big.”

“She’s probably full term.”

I wanted to pick her up. To rock her and kiss that little forehead. I turned to Marnie. “Is it possible for me to hold her?”

“The baby?”

“Yes.”

Marnie sighed. “I shouldn’t let you … but human contact is very good for her right now. You’ll have to suit up.”

“That’s fine.”

Marnie took me into an office and gave me disposable blue scrubs. By the time I had finished, I was covered head to toe—suit,
mask, head cap, gloves, even paper casings over my shoes. Finally, she led me into the nursery and picked up Baby Girl Doe—weight
six pounds seven ounces, length nineteen inches. She had me sit down and then placed the sleeping infant in my arms.

Her face looked like a ball of brown butter—tiny lips, onion-skin eyelids, and a nose no bigger than a button. My eyes got
moist, but I couldn’t wipe the tears because my hands were housed in latex. I just let them run down my cheek. Marnie stared
at me. I shrugged.

“It’s camp, but it’s true. What a miracle.”

The redheaded pixie smiled. “Why, Officer, you’re an old softy.”

“Don’t tell anyone, all right?”

The symphony of cries was music at its most primal. My eyes swept over all the tiny preemies. All the little lives hanging
in the balance … all those worried parents out there. I wondered how people like Marnie worked in a pediatric hospital and
kept their sanity.