Faye Kellerman - Street Dreams

Decker turned on the L.A. Quartet-four guitarists, four virtuosos. A beautiful woman by his side, superb weather, great music… soon he was flying at eighty plus, ready to take on the big, bad world.

Eyes still closed, Rina said, “Serial killers have this sameness to them.”

“Man, you are right about that. Cut from the same mold.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know,” Decker answered. “But I’m sure if the German police ever found this psycho and interviewed his neighbors, they’d say what an ordinary guy he was-although he tended to keep to himself.”

The days passed to weeks,the weeks melded into the months of summer, an intoxicating time of night-blooming jasmine, warm nights, and fiery lovemaking. Afterward, as we lay in a pile of sweat-soaked sheets, swatting mosquitoes that had squeezed through the screens of the open bedroom windows, my legs draped over Koby’s lean and sinewy body, I was thankful for the moment and hopeful for the future. Yaakov and I went from a dating couple to an item. I met his friends; he met mine. Between the two of us, there was always someplace to party, but most of the time we elected to spend our rare free evenings together sharing a bottle of wine in between our physical calisthenics.

When our schedules didn’t coincide, I spent my off-hours hunting-for Joseph Fedek, for Leonard Chatlin, for poor David Tyler, who had dropped out of sight. The good news was Raymond Paxton was true to his word, helping Louise Sanders and me with cash as well as with personal items. I had several good pictures of David. I went through dozens of homeless camps and shelters, and lots of abandoned buildings, flashing David’s photo and receiving blank looks for my efforts. I called local municipalities and got addresses. I checked them out. I found nothing.

Sometimes Koby would come with me. One hot day toward the end of August, I specifically asked him to come with me. The address I had was southeast in a black area outside of L.A. I thought that maybe David would go there because he was black and might feel safer, less conspicuous among his own.

It was a twenty-minute freeway drive into a district of heat and smog and dirt and concrete. The apartment buildings were run-down, the streets pocked and littered, and the buildings desecrated with graffiti warfare. The area held many more liquor stores than schools and libraries, and not much hope where hope should be. It had a few storefront churches and a lot more thrift shops.

The directions I had were good. Once we were off the freeway, I gave Koby a series of rights and lefts and he found the shelter sandwiched between a fast-food joint and a Laundromat. But there was no parking directly in front of the building, forcing us to pull into a space a half block away. I knew I was out of my element, but Koby appeared comfortable. Maybe more protective than usual, looping his arm squarely around my shoulder. This wasn’t our usual Hollywood beat and was probably as foreign to him as it was to me. I was dressed for the heat in knee-length cutoffs and a green tank top, my hair pulled back in a ponytail. Koby wore a red muscle shirt and jeans, his skin now the color of chocolate, made much darker by all of our forays into the California sunshine.

As we headed toward the shelter, a couple of homeys passed by. Big men, both as tall as Koby; the one with a shaved head was at least twice as wide as my boyfriend. But it was his dreadlocked partner with the tattooed arms who spoke up.

“Yo’, niggah! Whatchu axin’ for yo’ ho’ bitch?”

Koby’s eyes narrowed and I saw him clench his fists. Immediately, I pulled out my badge and flashed it in front of their faces.

“Move along, gentlemen,” I told them.

“Dreadlocks” stared and started to speak, but I didn’t give him a chance. “I said, move along!” Then making solid eye contact, I added a please.

They paused long enough to give me ’tude and defiance, but then they probably figured I wasn’t worth the effort. They ambled on, Dreadlocks spitting a couple of inches from my foot. Koby looked over his shoulder, his eyes fuming. When he started to turn around, I took his hand and pulled him forward.

“Here we are.” I opened the boarded door, and still holding Koby’s hand, I dragged him inside. We stood in a small anteroom with peeling stucco walls that held a rack filled with flyers and pamphlets of services. Through an archway, I saw a communal dining room. There was a lone desk, the woman behind it around fifty and completely round with clipped kinky hair of gray-and-black knots. She wore a white tank top and was sweating profusely. It was hot inside and the lethargic ceiling fan didn’t help much. She eyed us suspiciously. Again, I took out my badge.

She read it, then scowled. “LAPD? Someone should give you driving lessons. You’re in the wrong district, sister.”

I ignored the hostility. “I’m trying to locate a runaway.” I took out his picture. “He’s twenty-four with Down’s syndrome characteristics. Black, obviously. Originally, he’s from my district in Hollywood. His retarded girlfriend was gang-raped. He was beaten up and tossed in a trash can like garbage. No one has seen him since and that was around nine months ago.”

She listened to me, then turned her eyes to Koby. “I don’t see your ID.”

“He’s not a cop,” I told her. “He’s my boyfriend.”

Instantly, her eyes narrowed as she studied my face. There was disapproval of me, of course, but also an ever so slight softening in her expression. I had seen it in other blacks before-that by dating Koby, I might be more trustworthy than an average white cop.

“What do you want?”

“For the last three months, I’ve been trying to find this kid on my off-hours. I’m going through the lists and this place popped up. I’m just asking if you’ve seen him. And if you haven’t, do you know of other places where I should look?”

She took in the picture. “You already looked in L.A.?”

“Everywhere. I was thinking that because he’s black, maybe he perceives himself safer here.”

“That’d be a switch.” Her laugh was bitter. “Comin’ here for safety.”

“I’m grasping at straws. What smells so good?”

“The kitchen.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the location was through the doorway behind her. “Cookin’ up supper.” She glanced at Koby, then returned her eyes to me. “What’s your business in a nine-month-old crime?”

“It’s a long story.”

She crossed her arms and waited.

I took a deep breath. “His girlfriend gave birth to a baby girl. She threw the kid away in a Dumpster. I retrieved the baby. I think the kid deserves to know both her parents. Especially since this poor boy was frightened away. He’s not indigent. There’s a trust fund for him. If I could prove he’s the father of this baby, the kid might get some money, too. Lord knows, she deserves it.”

“And you’re not gettin’ any finder’s fee?”

Cynical eyes.

“I’m not getting a dime,” I told her.

She laughed contemptuously. “Just your average nice white do-gooder cop.”

I held my ground. “They exist.”

She glanced at the picture. Then took it and studied it in earnest. “Lemme show it to Urlene.”

I said, “And you are…”

She hesitated. “Cerise.”

“Cynthia Decker.”

I held out my hand. She gave me a limp-fish shake, then regarded Koby. “You don’ talk?”

“Just here for the ride,” he answered.

“You said it, bro’. ’Cause all yo’ be gettin’ is a ride. ” She stood up-her lower torso encased in black stretch shorts-and tramped through the archway into the kitchen.