Faye Kellerman: Milk and Honey

The man began speaking to Marge in rapid Spanish.

“No hablo Español,” Marge said. “Wait. Un momento. Sientese. On the bench.”

The Hispanic nodded his head in comprehension and sat down between the woman and the biker.

Collins said, “These dingdongs speak more Spanish than English over here.”

Marge asked, “Where’d you transfer from, Sarge?”

“Southeast,” Collins answered. “Five years in that shithole. They don’t speak English over there, either. Only fluent jive.”

“Most of the people in this division are hardworking,” Marge said.

“Yeah,” Collins said. “Till they get their papers and apply for welfare. Seems like America is the land of opportunity as long as you aren’t American.”

Marge smiled, made a quick exit. Collins hadn’t been in the division more than a week, and the SOB was already bitching and moaning. He probably hated women, too. Marge shrugged him off, figuring a five-year stint at Southeast could do strange things to anyone.

She climbed up the metal staircase and opened the door to the dorm.

Decker wasn’t sleeping. He was wrestling with the kid on the floor, trying to change her diaper. From the looks of the struggle, the kid had the edge. The big redhead was so involved in the ordeal that he hadn’t even heard the door open.

“C’mon, kiddo,” Decker said. “Just onnnne more second—no. No, don’t do that. Hold still. Shit. Excuse my language. Just hold—”

The kid kicked her legs with all her might.

“Happy? You just ripped the diaper again.”

Decker tickled her ribs. The toddler broke into peals of laughter.

“Ticklish, huh?” Decker tickled her again. She spasmed with guffaws. “Now listen, buddy. I’m talkin’ tough now. I’ve got to get you protected. Let me just get this … this damn tab—this tab over here …”

The little girl ripped the diaper off and gave him a self-satisfied smile.

“God, you’re rambunctious.” He paused, then said, “And you’re a cutey, too. Are you hungry?”

“Hungee,” the kid repeated.

“Then how about we put on the diaper? Then old Pete will get you some milk while I try to wake up with a cup of coffee.”

“Hot,” the toddler said.

“What’s hot?”

“Hot.”

“Is something burning you?” Decker looked around, touched the floor. “I don’t feel anything hot.”

The baby smiled again.

“Yes, if old Pete don’t get some coffee soon, he’s going to drop on the spot.”

“Hot,” the child repeated.

“What’s hot?” Decker asked, frustrated.

“Maybe she means coffee is hot,” Marge suggested.

Decker whipped his head around.

“How long have you been standing there?” he said.

“About a minute.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to help me.”

“You’re handling her very well, Pete.”

“Get me another diaper,” Decker said. “She keeps ripping them off. I think she’s ready to be trained.”

“Tell her mother that when she comes to pick her up,” Marge said, throwing him a new diaper.

Wincing, Decker diapered the toddler, then picked her up. “This is Auntie Margie, pumpkin,” he said. “Say hello.”

“Well, hello there,” Margie said, reaching out for the child. The girl jumped into Marge’s arms. “Well, aren’t you a friendly little thing.” She smiled at the baby, then looked at Decker.

“What’s on your mind, big buddy?” she asked him. “You’ve got a hinky expression on your face.”

“What time is it?” Decker asked.

“Around seven-thirty, I guess.”

Decker asked, “Have we received any phone calls yet about a missing child?”

“Not that I know of … It’s still early, Pete.”

“When Cindy was that age, she was up at six o’clock every morning. I remember it well because I was the one who was up with her. It’s kind of late for a mother not to notice her child missing.”

“Kids differ. My nephew used to sleep till nine. All of my sister’s friends were green with envy.”

“Just proves my point,” Decker said. “Most kids aren’t real late sleepers.”

“But this one could be,” Marge said.

Decker didn’t answer her.

“What else is sticking in your craw?” Marge asked.

Decker said, “I found her in a pajama sleeper, Margie. I had it bagged. It had recent blood on it.”

“A lot?”

“More than a nosebleed’s worth. And none of it looks like it came from the kid. Her body was clean except for a little rash on both her arms.”

“Blood on a pajama sleeper isn’t an everyday occurrence,” Marge admitted. “I don’t like it, either.”

There was a moment of silence. Marge broke it.

“Think her mother was whacked?”

“Maybe a suicide.” Decker shrugged. “The kid’s obviously been well cared for. No superficial signs of abuse. I figure I’ll wait until nine. If no one calls in by then, we’ll do a door-to-door search where I found her last night.”

“MacPherson said she was wandering around the new development over the quarry.”

“Yep. The newest Manfred job—a couple hundred houses. Looks like I got my work cut out for me.”

Marge said, “It’s your day off.”

“Not anymore,” Decker said. “It’s okay. I don’t mind doing my bit for this little thing. All I need is a couple of hours off in the afternoon. Do me a favor, Margie. Get the kid some juice and bread or something. She must be starved.”

“Sure,” Marge said. “Want some help canvassing the area?”

“You’ve read my mind.” Decker reached for his cigarettes, then retracted his hand. “What time is it now? Eight?”

“Quarter to.”

“I’d like to pull another hour of sleep before we begin talking to the good folk, if you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead. Maybe the situation will resolve itself with a frantic phone call.”

“I sure as hell hope so. But I’m not overly optimistic.”

“Want me to punch her description into the computer?” Marge asked.

“That’s a little premature,” Decker said. “Go ahead and snap Polaroids of her for ID purposes. And if you get a chance, print her feet, also. Maybe they will match some hospital newborn file.”

“Want me to call IDC?”

Decker frowned. “Yeah, I guess someone should. If no one claims her, we’re going to have to take her somewhere.”

“I’ll call up Richard Lui at MacClaren Hall. He’s a nice guy with primo connections to the good foster homes. Did I ever tell you I went out with him?”

“Was this before or after Carroll?”

“After Carroll, before Kevin. We didn’t last too long, but we had enough of a good time that he still does favors for me.”

“Well, use the clout, woman. Ask him to call Sophi Rawlings. She’s a great lady and happens to be in the area. I think she’s licensed to handle them this young. If you make yourself unusually charming, maybe we can circumvent MacClaren altogether and take her to Sophi’s directly.”

“No problem. Richard is wild about me.” Marge smiled at the little girl and said, “Let’s get you some grub, honey.”

“Honey!” the child shouted.

Marge laughed. “You’re a honey.”

“Honey!” the toddler echoed.

Decker waited until Marge and the kid were gone then sank into his bunk. He fell asleep with a smile on his lips. He dreamed of Rina—lost, lovely days that he hoped to recapture very soon.

Sweet dreams so real, yet like spun sugar, a touch and everything dissolves. The blast of incandescent light. Marge’s voice.

“Wake up, Pete.”

“I’m up,” he grunted.

“Are you up as in paying attention?”

“What time is it?”