Faye Kellerman: Street Dreams

“She sounds hungry,” I said.

“Starved,” Crumack answered. “Her abdomen is empty.”

“Her head looks… I don’t know… elongated, maybe? What’s that all about?”

“Probably from being pushed out of the birth canal. Main thing is, it isn’t crushed. She was real lucky, considering all the things that could have gone wrong. She could’ve swallowed something and choked; she could’ve suffocated; she could’ve been crushed. This is an A-one outcome.” She patted my shoulder. “And you’re part of it.”

I felt my eyes water. “Hey, don’t look at me, thank Señor Delacruz,” I told her. “He’s got good ears.”

The man knew enough English to recognize a compliment. His smile was broad.

“Any idea how many hours she’s been alive?” I asked the techs.

Hanover said, “Her body temperature hasn’t dropped that much. Of course, she was insulated in all that garbage. I’d say a fairly recent dump.”

“So what are we talking about?” I asked. “Two hours? Four hours?”

“Maybe,” Crumack said. “Six hours, max.”

I checked my watch. It was ten-thirty. “So she was dumped around four or five in the afternoon?”

“Sounds about right.” Crumack turned to his partner. “Let’s go.”

I called out, “Mid-City Pediatric!”

Hanover reconfirmed it, slid behind the wheel, and shut the door, moving on out with sirens blaring and lights blazing. My arms felt incredibly empty. Although I rarely thought about my biological clock-I was only twenty-eight-I was suddenly pricked by maternal pangs. It felt good to give comfort. Long ago, that was my primary reason for becoming a cop.

The clincher was my father, of course.

He had discouraged me from entering the profession. Being the ridiculously stubborn daughter I was, his caveats had the opposite effect. There were taut moments between us, but most of that had been resolved. I truly loved being a cop and not because I had unresolved Freudian needs. Still, if I had been sired by a “psychologist dad” instead of a “lieutenant dad,” I probably would have become a therapist.

I unhooked my radio from my belt and called the dispatcher, requesting a detective to the scene.

When was the trashlast emptied?… Before Mr. Delacruz?”

I was addressing Andre Racine, the sous-chef at The Tango. He was taller than I by about three inches, making him around five-eleven, with broad shoulders and the beginnings of a beer belly hanging over the crossed strings of his apron. His toque was slightly askew, looking like a vanilla soufflé. We were talking right near the back door so I could keep an eye on what was going on outside.

“Ze trash is emptied at night. Sometimes eet is two days, not longer.”

“The back door was open at the time. You didn’t hear anyone crying or rummaging around back here?”

The man shook his head. “Eet is a racket in a keetchen with all zee equipment and appliances running. Eet is good if I can hear myself think!”

I had spoken to several other kitchen employees and they had said the same thing. I could confirm the noise myself. There were the usual rumbles and beeps of the appliances, plus one of the guys had turned on a boom box to a Spanish station specializing in salsa music. To add to the cacophony, the restaurant featured a live band-a jazz combo that included electric guitar, bass, piano, and drums. The din would have driven me crazy, but I supposed that these men felt lucky to have steady jobs in this climate.

Though the back door was open, the screen door was closed to prevent infestations of rodents or pesky, winged critters. It was hard to see through the mesh. Nothing seemed suspicious to my eyes, no one was giving off bad vibes. Quite the contrary: All these good people had come out to help. They were exhausted by the incident and so was I. Looking up from my notepad, I thanked the stunned chef, then walked outside to catch my breath and organize my notes. My watch was almost up and a gold shield was on the way to take over the investigation. I began to write the names of my interviewees in alphabetical order. After each name, I listed the person’s position and telephone number. I wanted to present the primary detective with something organized… something that would impress.

A few minutes later, a cruiser pulled up and parked in the alley, perpendicular to the spaces behind The Tango, blocking all the cars including mine. Greg Van Horn got out, his gait a bowlegged strut that buckled under the weight of his girth. He wasn’t fat, just a solid hunk of meat. Greg was in his early sixties, passing time until retirement. He’d been married twice, divorced twice. Rumor still had him as a pussy hound, and a bitter one at that. But he was nice enough to me. I think he had worked with my father way back when, and there had been some mutual admiration.

Greg was of medium height, with a thick top of coarse gray hair. His face was round with fleshy features including a drinker’s nose. His blue suit was boxy on him. Anything he wore would have been boxy. I gave him a thirty-second recap, then showed him my notepad. I pointed out Martino Delacruz. “He lives on Western. He’s worked at The Tango for six years.”

“Green card?” Van Horn asked.

“Yes, he has one. After things calmed down, he showed it to me without my asking.” I paused. “Not that it’s relevant. It’s not as if he’s going to trial as a witness or anything.”

“Never can tell, Decker.” He moved a sausage-size finger across the bridge of his nose. Not wiping it, more like scratching an itch inside his flaring nostrils.

“He went outside to take out the trash and heard the baby crying,” I continued. “He was going to call for help, but then he spotted my cruiser. You want me to bring him over to you, sir?”

Van Horn’s eyes swept over my face, then walked downward, stopping short of my chest. His eyes narrowed. “I think you need to change your uniform.”

“I know that. I’m going off duty in twenty minutes, unless you need me to stick around.”

“I might need another pair of hands. Sooner we find the mother, the better.”

I gave a quick glance over my shoulder. “Not much here in the way of a residential area.”

“Not on Hollywood, no. But if you go south, between Hollywood and Sunset, there are lots of houses and apartments.”

“Do you want me to go door-to-door now, sir?”

A glance at his watch. “It’ll take time. Is that a problem for you, Decker?”

“No, not at all, Detective. Where would you like me to start?”

Van Horn’s nose wrinkled. “You really need to put on something clean, Decker.”

“Want me to go change and then come back?” I spoke without rancor. Being polite meant being cautious. As far as I was concerned, the less my personality stood out, the happier I was.

“I take it you have no plans tonight, Decker?”

“Just a hot date with my shower.”

He smiled, then took another peek at his watch. “It’s late… probably too late to canvass thoroughly.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow and help you search if you want.”

“I doubt if your sergeant will want to pull you out of circulation just for that.”

“I’ll do it in the morning, on my own time.”

“You’re ambitious.”

“And knowing my stock, that surprises you?”

A grin this time. “You’re gonna do just fine, Decker.”

High praise coming from Greg.

“While I talk to the people on your list, you cordon off the area and look around for anything that might give us a clue as to who the mother is. I suppose at this late hour, our best bet could be a request for public help on the eleven o’clock news.”

A news van pulled up just as the words left his mouth. “You’re prescient, Detective. Here’s your chance.”