Faye Kellerman - Milk and Honey

“Never saw her around the neighborhood?”

“No,” Jane said.

“You’re sure?”

“There’s a lot of kids around here,” Jane said. “I’m not positive that I’ve never seen her, but I don’t know the kid personally.”

Decker said, “Thank you for your time.”

He drove back to the Bingham residence.

“You again?” Patty said, when she saw him at the door. But she was smiling.

“I think I will have that cup of coffee,” Decker said.

Patty’s smile turned to a grin. “Why don’t you come around through the side? I’ll meet you at the back.”

“I don’t mind drinking with all the noise,” Decker said. “I like kids.” He walked inside before Patty could object.

The house was center-hall plan—living room on the left, dining area to the right. The living room was sparsely furnished and sterile—a white velvet sofa and matching love seat, a glass coffee table, and a fireplace that had never been used. The dining area held a fake wood-grain Formica table and eight chairs. Through the dining room was a kitchen stocked with all the latest appliances, the countertops white Formica, one section already marred by a burn mark. The cabinets were new, but the finish was cheap and full of varnish bubbles. Right off the kitchen was the family room. It was piled high with kids and mess—laundry, toys, scraps of food. The TV was blaring. Three older children were slouched on a brown-and-white plaid sofa accented with Naugahyde straps. A four-year-old was sitting cross-legged on the wall-to-wall brown shag carpet.

“Sure you want to drink coffee with all this noise going on?”

“Where’s the fifth?” Decker asked.

“Huh?”

“The fifth kid,” Decker said. “I only count four.”

“Oh,” Patty looked around. “Brian, go find the baby.”

“I’m watchin’—”

“I said, find the baby,” Patty demanded. “Shit. I’m always looking for one of ’em.”

A boy of around ten slipped off the couch, a perpetual sulk plastered on his face.

“Who’s he?” asked one of the older girls. Her hair was cut short, and she had braces on her teeth.

“A cop,” Patty said. “I’m giving him some coffee. You take cream?”

“Black.”

“Cops can drink when they’re on duty?” the girl asked skeptically.

“If it’s coffee,” Decker said.

“Mind your own business, Karen,” Patty said.

“I was just asking,” Karen whined. “Geez.”

Brian walked in, carrying a two-year-old. She was wearing nothing but a diaper. Decker stared at the face. Old Jane had a good eye. There was a resemblance. It wasn’t unusually strong, it wasn’t uncanny, but both little girls shared a certain look.

“That’s the little one?” Decker asked.

“My bundle of trouble,” Patty said. “Here’s your coffee.”

“Thanks.” Decker kept glancing at the baby as he drank. Maybe it was the playful look in the baby’s eyes. Sally had playful eyes.

“So,” Patty said. “How long have you been a cop?”

Decker gulped the coffee as fast as he could. “Too long.”

“Seen it all, haven’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So have I,” Patty said.

“Give me a break,” Brian muttered.

“Keep your damn thoughts to yourself,” Patty said.

Decker put the mug on the countertop. “Thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Bingham. I’ve got to go now.”

“You’re a fast drinker.” Patty nudged him in the ribs. “Hope you don’t do everything that fast.”

Decker groaned inwardly.

“How ’bout a refill?” Patty said.

“No thanks.”

The air conditioner suddenly blasted cold air atop his head.

“Gotta go,” Decker said.

Patty said, “Hey, maybe I’ll see you around, huh?”

Karen rolled her eyes.

Decker said, “Maybe.”

He left as quickly as he could.

“How was Patty Bingham?” Marge asked.

Decker loosened his tie and said, “Patty has strong, unfulfilled sexual needs.”

“What?” Hollander looked up from his paperwork. “What’s this about unfulfilled sexual needs?”

Marge said, “Go back to sleep, Mike.”

“A crime-lab report came in for you, Pete,” Hollander said. “It’s on your desk.”

“Thanks,” Decker said. He sat down, opened a bottle of aspirin, and swallowed a couple of tablets without water.

“Unfulfilled needs, huh?” said Marge.

“Can I get this woman’s phone number?” Hollander asked.

“You wouldn’t want it,” Decker said. “She’s a piece of work.” To Marge, he said, “Her youngest kid looks a little like Sally.”

“Is that significant?” Marge asked.

“No, not really,” Decker said. “Just a point of observation. As far as Patty goes, maybe she does know who Sally is, maybe she doesn’t. I had a hard time reading her, because she was coming on to me so strongly.”

“Is she listed in the book?” Hollander said.

Decker said, “I talked to some more neighbors. No one knows Baby Sally by name.”

Marge shrugged. Decker broke the seal on the manila envelope. He pulled out several sheets of paper and began to scan them.

“What did you order?” Marge asked.

“Lab report from the scene of my friend’s crime.”

“Still delusional,” Marge said.

“A little delusion never hurt anyone.” He read on. “They didn’t lift any prints off the shiv. It was cleaned.”

“Your friend wiped it,” Marge said.

“Why would he wipe the shiv?” Decker said. “Supposedly it was his shiv, not hers. Of course it would have his prints on it. Seems to me he’d just stick it back in its sheath and leave.”

“Decker,” Marge said. “Watch TV. Criminals clean their weapons.”

Decker said, “Let’s reenact this. My friend rapes and cuts this girl. He wipes the shiv and puts it on the table. Now, presumably, he’s getting ready to go and intends to take the shiv with him.”

“Okay,” Marge said.

“Now if you were cut like she was, you’d scream, right? You couldn’t help yourself.”

“I would think so.”

“So say she screamed when he sliced her. Are you going to wipe your shiv calmly and lay it on the table, or are you going to get the hell out of there, figuring her screaming may have alerted someone?”

“He was cocky. Or he was a psycho who enjoyed watching her suffer.”

“I can’t buy that,” Decker said. “Margie, he’s seen it all—arms and legs and shit blasted all over the place, moaning lumps that used to be people. Some guys got off on torturing anything with slanted eyes. Blood lust or they just went nuts. Not Abel … not Abel.”

Decker covered his mouth, felt himself breathing through his hands.

“You all right?” Marge said.

“Yeah,” Decker said quietly. He wiped his forehead with his jacket sleeve. “Logic tells me that a true rape-o would leave as soon as he was done and worry about cleaning the knife another time. And consider this. His prints were found elsewhere—all over the apartment, as a matter of fact. But not on the weapon.”

Marge said, “Maybe he intended to wipe the apartment clean, but she stopped him by clobbering him with the lamp.”

“Yeah, that’s another thing. The gal’s dripping blood and has a collapsed lung, but she has enough strength to hit him with a lamp. And what’s he doing while she’s crawling on the floor and retrieving a lamp?”

“In the john?”

“She didn’t bong him as he exited the john. If I were him, I would have noticed her and stopped her.”

“He was too busy cleaning the shiv to notice.”

“Which brings us back to the first point, do you calmly clean your weapon after all this commotion took place?”