Street Dreams (7 page)

“It’s not light yet.”

“I’m meeting Cindy for breakfast.” He stretched lethargy from his aching bones. “I might as well get an early jump. I’ll take
Hannah to school.”

“Are you sure …” Her voice was already in dreamland.

“I’m sure.”

“And later on, you’ll help me with Omah?”

“What?”

“My grandmother?”

Oh,
that
. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Anything you want.”

“I didn’t die. Stop being so nice.”

He felt himself chuckle. It was a legitimate expression of joy. Though still burdened by his abject failure—that wasn’t going
to disappear overnight—he felt lighter than he had in months. In an instant, a searing holocaust of hatred was reduced to
… well, maybe a bonfire, burning hot and bright, but controllable. Her confession had opened a pressure valve, and for the
first time in weeks, he could see again with impartial eyes.

He took a bullet for me.

Potent words. They gave him a whole new perspective on things. Now, maybe,
maybe,
he could concentrate enough to do his friggin’ job.

I
was running late,
going over the canyon and into the Valley: poor form because Dad had made a special effort to meet me. By the time I got
to the deli, it was past nine, and Dad was already sitting in a booth, sipping coffee, reading the Calendar section of the
Times.
My father was a handsome guy with a full head of hair, although there was lots of white where once it had been orange. His
mustache still had color. It was full and bushy and made him look like the macho guy he was. His cheeks were smooth and without
shadow as in a recent shave. He had on a white shirt and a dark blue tie. His brown eyes went from his watch, then over the
top of the newspaper. When he saw me, he put down the paper and smiled. But there was irritation in his expression.

I slid in on the opposite side, gasping for breath. “Sorry I’m late.”

Dad took off his glasses. “No problem. Bad traffic?”

“Not really. Just a late start.”

At least, I was honest. I picked up a menu and buried myself in the process of selection. “How’re you doing, Lieutenant?”

“Fine. I heard you had quite a night.”

“What do you mean?”

Dad looked at me with skeptical eyes. “The baby?”

“Who tells you these things?” I snapped. “Do you have spies planted in each station house?”

He checked his watch. “We’ve been together eighty-three seconds and already you’re sniping at me.”

I felt my face go hot and covered it with a laugh. He was right. “I’m sorry. Let’s start again.” I leaned over and pecked
a kiss on his forehead. “Thanks for taking time to meet me. You’re very busy and I appreciate it. And I’m sorry I’m late.
How are you?”

This time, Dad’s smile was genuine. “I’m fine, thank you very much. You look nice.”

“This old thing?” I was wearing a dark blue blouse over blue trousers and a camel jacket.

“Well, you put it together with panache.”

“Thank you, Daddy. I’m sorry I grumped at you.”

“S’right. I only found out about the baby because I went into work early today. The police grapevine was in full force because
babies in Dumpsters are always big news. How’s she doing?”

“As of one last night, very well. Now all we have to do is find the mother.”

“We?” Lieutenant Decker’s eyes twinkled. “You don’t trust the gold shields?”

“Last night, I talked to the detective in charge—Greg Van Horn. You know him, right?”

“Greg’s a good guy.”

“A bit past his prime,” I said. “His words, not mine.”

“He must be close to retirement.”

“I think he dreams of golf clubs. Anyway, he said he didn’t mind if I did a little door-to-door searching on my off-hours.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t mind at all. But even if you find out something, he’ll take the credit. What are you getting out of it?”

“Goodwill from a seasoned detective who admires you, and satisfaction of a job well done. Also I care about the baby. I’m
the reverse mallard duck. I’ve imprinted on the kid.”

Dad gave me the courtesy of a laugh.

“I really hope we find the mother soon. She’s probably not in a wonderful state herself.”

“You mean medically?”

“Medically, emotionally. Any ideas, Decker?”

I always called him Decker when we spoke the trade. Still, he smiled at the address.

“First tell me what you know.”

“We think it’s someone local without a car because we found a pool of blood where we think she gave birth.”

“How much blood?”

“I didn’t quantify it, but Greg didn’t think it was enough to be a homicide, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Decker shrugged.

“I agree with him, Loo. I mean, why kill the mother but not the baby?”

“Sadistic killer? A botched abortion? A bleed-out like Rina had with Hannah? She almost died on the operating table. A girl
in an alley wouldn’t stand a chance. It all depends on how much blood you found.”

“It didn’t look like
that
much blood. Like a little puddle.”

“Splatter marks around the puddle?”

“No … just an amoebic blob.”

“Drip marks to the Dumpster?”

Eureka. I had an answer for that one. “Yes, I noticed them. I showed them to Detective Van Horn.”

“Good job.”

I bit my lower lip, holding back a smile. “Still have a ways to go, but I’m trying to keep up with the experts.”

“Good Lord, I hope you don’t mean me,” Decker retorted. “Saving a baby’s life is quite an impressive feat. I’m just throwing
out a few observations because you like when I do that.”

“You’re right. I do like it. Your questions hone my brain, when they’re not driving me crazy.”

“Too bad. I’m a complete package. You can’t pick and choose.”

I chuckled. A twenty-something waitress came to our table. Judging from the shadows under her washed-out eyes, she, like me,
didn’t get much sleep. Neither Dad nor I was particularly hungry. The Loo ordered a half cantaloupe and asked for a refill
of his coffee. I settled on coffee, a large orange juice, and rye toast
with butter and jam,
if you please. I may like the underfed look, but dieting was for chumps.

Decker said, “I bet you could tell if the blood was from a birthing mother. Because the puddle might contain some of the baby’s
blood as well. The hospital lab could help you out with that one. Now tell me your line of reasoning … why you think it was
someone local.”

Anticipating this discussion, I had organized my thinking. “Why would someone choose to have a baby in that
particular
back alley? So this tells me a couple of things. One, she was scared and wanted to get rid of the kid ASAP without anyone
seeing. Second, if she had any kind of resources—like a car—she wouldn’t have delivered in an alley. So maybe the girl is
below driving age, or doesn’t have a car. So she walked to the spot. Meaning I’m looking for a postpartum girl who lives within
walking distance to the alley.”

“Or … ,” Decker prompted.

“Or possibly a homeless person.”

“There you go,” Decker answered. “What’s the skin tone of the baby?”

“Medium brown. From the looks of her, she could be just about any race except for maybe Nordic. My district is a real polyglot
of races.”

The sullen waitress with the baggy eyes brought over our meager order. Her disposition would improve when the meal was over.
Today was my treat and I was a big tipper.

After she left, Decker said, “The blood work might help you out with the baby’s race, too. If I were on the case, I’d call
up the hospital lab.”

“Don’t I need some kind of court order to do that?”

“Probably. But sometimes, if you just go down and make an appearance, you can persuade the technicians to talk to you.”

Koby came to mind. I wondered if he was working today. “Right. Good idea.” I warmed my fingers on my coffee mug. “Things okay
with you, Dad?”

“Things are coming along.”

I looked at my father in earnest. Over the past couple of months, he had traversed some rough roads, things he refused to
talk about. He kept up a stoic appearance—big worries rarely registered on his face—but I knew better. There was always a
telltale sign. The twitch of his mouth, the shift in his gaze. I switched the discussion to neutral ground. “How’s the family?”

“Great.” He sounded like he meant it.

“How’s my Hannah Banana?”

“Your sister’s scary.”

“At ten, her vocabulary is probably bigger than mine.”

“Well, it’s definitely bigger than mine.”

“Is Jacob adjusting to college all right?”

“Yes, very well, thanks.” Dad looked at me. “It’s nice of you to ask, Cindy.”

“And Sammy? Didn’t you say something about a girlfriend?” Surprise in Dad’s eyes. “See? I listen when you talk.”

“Sammy and Rachel are still an item as far as I know.” Decker took my hand. “How are
you
doing, Princess?”

“I’m all right, Dad. Waiting patiently for my turn in the Detectives squad room. In the meantime, I’m studying for the Sergeant’s
exam. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in school, but it’s going well.”

“Brains was never your problem.” He dropped my hand, then fiddled with his coffee cup. “Getting out at all?”

He was staring somewhere over my shoulder, trying to hide his concern. The truth was that both of us had experienced terrible
ordeals, events that had almost cost us our lives. And neither of us was eager to talk about them.

“I’m still in the bowling league.” I scrunched up my eyes and made a moue. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. If you want to help me,
give me some tips on finding this mother. Even if the mom never sees her child again, the kid deserves to know something about
her genetics, don’t you think?”

“Sure.”

“Any advice other than the lab?”

“Visit the local schools—Mid-City High or even the local junior highs because you’re looking for a girl without a car. Ask
the teachers who has been missing, who was pregnant, who may look like they’re pregnant but is not saying anything.”

“That’s a good idea.” I felt suddenly dispirited. Why hadn’t I thought of those things? Of course, Decker picked up on it.

“Cynthia, I
should
know more than you at this stage.” His smile was tender and a bit sad. “Although sometimes I wonder. I’m certainly not immune
to failure.”

I waited for him to say more. Of course, he didn’t. So I told him I thought he was terrific.

Decker smiled. “Likewise. I’m your biggest fan.”

“I know you are, Daddy.”

“Anything else?”

“No, not … well, how about this? Suppose … suppose, I find the mother. Let’s say she’s fifteen and
her
mother won’t let me talk to her or see her. What do I do?”

“You use psychology to convince the mother that it’s in her best interest for you to interview her daughter.”

“How do I do that?”

Decker smiled. “Charm.”

I busied myself with my toast, eating quickly and without talking. The meal was essentially over in ten minutes. When I saw
Decker sneaking a look at his watch, I knew I should let him go. He had taken time off from work. It would be rude of me to
keep him longer.

I left a ten on the table. When he balked, I insisted. Decker walked me to my car, opening the driver’s door like the true
gentleman he was. I hesitated before getting inside.

“I don’t know if I can be charming, Decker.”

“It depends on how badly you want that gold shield,” he responded.

I didn’t answer.

Decker said, “Practice smiling in front of a mirror, Princess. It’ll help to wipe the sneer from your face.”

L
ocated smack in the center
of Hollywood just east of the famous Sunset Strip, Mid-City High connoted glamour to the uninitiated, but in fact, it was
a dispirited school in a depressed area. It compensated for its age by being big—blocks long with intermittent patches of
green lawn. The flesh-colored pink stucco building was constructed with lots of curved walls and glass-block windows—fashionable
architecture in the ’40s and ’50s. Some of the exterior was painted with patriotic or ethnic murals, other parts held smudges
of unwanted graffiti. A couple of smog-tolerant palm trees and clumps of banana plants rounded out the picture of old Los
Angeles. I jogged up the twenty-plus steps leading to the front entrance and pulled open the brick-colored doors.

I was no stranger there, having been sent before by the Department to deliver the “earnest” drug talks with the students.
Last year, I also manned the LAPD booth with George Losario on Career Day. We were deluged with working-class teenage boys
interested in excitement and power. The biggest problem for most of them was the high school diploma required by the Police
Academy. The dropout rate at Mid-City was substantial. George and I used the opportunity to encourage them to stay in school.

Quite a few of my colleagues had more than the requisite high school education. Some had A.A. degrees from community college;
others had B.A.’s. I had a master’s from Columbia. It made me an oddball with the other uniforms as well as an object of suspicion.
I was working really hard to overcome prejudice and had met with some success. I wasn’t complaining, and it wouldn’t help
if I did.

The hallways were crowded and sweaty with adolescent hormones and nonstop activity; school was now year-round in the L.A.
unified district. Noisy, old, tired, Mid-City was only several miles away from the cultured Hollywood Bowl Amphitheater, but
light-years away from the West L.A. area, where the privileged often eschewed the neglected public institutions in favor of
posh private schools. I had to hand it to my stepmother. Though Hannah was an outstanding standardized-test taker, Rina wouldn’t
ever dream of sending my half sister to a private
secular
school. Instead, she elected to send her to a private
religious
school—a seat-of-the-pants Jewish day school. She prized religious studies above all, and in return for her faith in God,
she was rewarded by not having to worry about entrance exams and interviews for my ten-year-old sister.