Wendy Hornsby - Midnight Baby

“You said this case was weird.”

“Your prostitute,” he said, “died virgo intacta.”

Mike held me all night. I’m not sure whether I slept. We didn’t make love until dawn. In the dark, the specter of young Pisces and her violent end lay between us like a fevered child who slips into the parental bed at night.

When the first light filtered through the bedroom shutters, I opened my eyes and found Mike looking at me with a worried crease between his pale brows. I kissed his shoulder, and what followed was very sweet, unusually tame for us.

The carillon at Grace Cathedral was chiming nine when we finally walked downstairs.

Lyle was in the kitchen, drinking coffee over the Examiner. He wore his uniform, that is, a starched dress shirt open at the neck, chinos, and loafers – no socks. His thin brown hair was still damp from the shower.

“Morning,” he smirked, and popped up for two more coffee mugs. “You children hungry?”

“No,” I said.

“Starved,” Mike said. “I missed dinner.”

“Why didn’t you say something when you got in?” Lyle scolded. “We don’t do room service in this house, but the kitchen never closes.”

Mike pulled me against him and kissed the top of my head. “Guess I wasn’t thinking about food.”

“Maggie always says she’s not hungry in the morning, but she eats breakfast like a lumberjack.” Lyle talked on as he got eggs and milk from the refrigerator. I found his abundant energy exhausting. “Mike, you’re so skinny. You look like a little cholesterol packing won’t hurt you just this once. I’m thinking fluffy crab omelettes with Parmesan and tomatoes, toasted corn bread on the side. Some fresh papaya. Sound good?”

“Sounds good.” Mike ran his hand down my back. “But what did you say about room service?”

“Mike, honey,” Lyle laughed, “from the moaning I heard coming from that bedroom this morning, you’d better eat something, take a little rest before she gets your ass back up those stairs. I don’t want no white-haired guy dyin’ in my house.”

“Lyle, Lyle, crocodile,” I mocked, pulling out a chair and sitting. “Whatever can you mean?”

“You know what I mean, missy.” Lyle waggled a finger at me. “And drink your juice before you get started on coffee.”

I poured juice for us from the pitcher on the table and handed a glass to Mike. “Is there a plan?”

“I hope.” Mike sat down. “I told you we took in the boy who was hanging with the victim. Problem is, we can’t get him to talk to anyone. Even Pete had no luck. He’s a scared little rabbit. Who can blame him? He might have seen the killer. I thought, you being a civilian and someone familiar, he might open up to you. Will you go back to L.A. with me this morning?”

“You know I will, Mike,” I said. “All you had to do was call. You really didn’t have to fly all the way up.”

“Stupid, stupid,” Lyle exploded, eviscerating a steamed crab with his cleaver. “Go ahead and slap her, Mike. Or you want me to do it for you? Jesus H., Maggie. Who didn’t have to fly all the way up? Look at the pathetic shell of a man sitting across the table from you. Then go look at your own pathetic self before you say another word.”

“He doesn’t look at all pathetic,” I said, reaching for Mike’s hand.

“Sure. Not now. Not after you spent all night blowing life back into him. Shit.” Dramatically disgusted, Lyle slid sliced papaya in front of us. “Eat your fruit.”

“You’re getting awfully bossy, Lyle,” I said. “You’re even beginning to look like my mother.”

Lyle laughed. “Wish I had her legs. So, anyway, Maggie, your laundry is folded. Eat your breakfast, then go pack your bag. It’ll be nice to have the house all to myself for a couple of days.”

While Mike had a third cup of coffee, I went about the house gathering a few essentials: some cameras, film, extra tapes, two battery packs, a few clothes, and the blue silk nightgown I had bought for Mike’s birthday the year before. All of it fit into a carry-on duffel.

The commuter flight between San Francisco and Los Angeles normally takes barely fifty minutes. But you always have to figure an hour on either end of the flight to shuffle through the airport. So it was early afternoon before we got out to MacLaren Hall in El Monte, where Sly had been taken.

MacLaren Hall is L.A. County’s only juvenile detention facility for nonoffenders. The kids who find their way there have generally been abused or abandoned, or both. It is supposed to be a safe place for youngsters to wait until the courts figure out what should be done with them. From the street, it looks thoroughly institutional, acres of county-beige stucco, high fences, wired windows. Externally, it is not my idea of homey, though inside a good effort is made with limited means to make the surroundings pleasant.

Saturday is visiting day. As it was a lovely, sunny Saturday, the campus grounds were crowded with family groups and children at play on the patchy lawn. Considering the size of the crowd, it was oddly quiet.

Mike and I signed into the reception area and were shown through to a small conference room furnished with a worn sofa and several mismatched easy chairs. The room was Spartan, but a big-hearted, low-budget attempt had been made to brighten the place. There were a few cheap framed pictures on the walls, some kiddie artwork stretched between thumbtacks, a hand-crocheted afghan tossed over the back of the sofa. It wasn’t House Beautiful, but it was a giant improvement on a cardboard box in an alley.

We had to wait a few minutes. The bag of burgers and fries we had brought with us was beginning to leak by the time the door opened. Sly came in, escorted by a professionally cheerful-looking caseworker.

“Wayne Cofeld.” The caseworker thrust out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss MacGowen. I’ve seen your films. Gripping reality. Intensely moving.”

“Thanks,” I said. Everyone’s a critic, but I don’t mind. At least they’re watching. I got my hand back from Cofeld and turned my attention to Sly.

Sly had been processed into hygienic respectability. He looked scrubbed and cleanly dressed. His hair had been trimmed and slicked to the side from an uneven part. I thought he seemed frightened, though he was trying to cover his feelings behind a sullen scowl. Tight against his chest, he held the leg-of-lamb-shaped package of stuff he had retrieved from hiding the night we took him in. Even the stuff had been spruced up, in fresh brown wrapping paper.

“Que pasa, Sly?” I said, moving toward him.

Sly shrugged.

“Miss MacGowen asked how you are, Ronald,” Cofeld said, patronizing.

“I heard her,” the boy snapped.

“Ronald?” I said. “Is that you, Sly?”

“Fuck that.” He turned his head away.

“Ronald Allen Miller,” Mike said. He offered his hand to Sly. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Mike.”

Sly stepped back. “You’re a cop.”

“He’s okay, Sly,” I said. “He’s a friend of mine. He wants to find out who did that to Pisces. So do I. Please help us.”

“I ain’t talkin’ to no cop.”

“Will you talk to me?” I asked. He didn’t answer. That meant he hadn’t said no.

I looked up at Mike. “Mike, will you excuse us?”

He hesitated.

Cofeld opened the door and held it. “Detective, if you don’t mind. I’d like a word with you in my office.”

“Sure,” Mike said, accepting the graceful out. He touched my sleeve. “Holler if you need anything.”

“We’re just down the hall.” Cofeld flashed his dry smile and led Mike away. They had left the door open behind them.

I sat down on the sofa. “So, who are you, Sly or Ronald?”