Faye Kellerman Read online

  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.

  2

  When was the trash last 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 bow-legged 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.”

  “ABC, eh?” A flicker of hesitancy shot through his eyes. “Is that the one with the anchorwoman who has the white streak in her black hair, like a skunk?”

  “I don’t know. … There’s NBC. The others can’t be far behind.” I patted his shoulder. “It’s show time.”

  “How’s your Q, Decker?”

  “Me?” I pointed to my chest. “You’ve got the gold shield, Greg.”

  “But you found the baby.”

  “Yeah, but I stink and you’re in a suit.” I waved him off. “I’ll go yellow-tape the area and look around.”

  “You sure?” But he was already straightening his tie and smoothing his hair. “Yeah, tape off the area. Don’t sweat it too much, Decker. I can pretty much take it from here. And hey, I’ll take you up on your offer … to canvass the area tomorrow.”

  “Th
at’ll work for me.”

  “Good. We’ll coordinate in a moment. Just let me get these clowns off my back.”

  “Of course.”

  “Show ’em what a real detective looks like, huh?”

  “You tell ’em, Greg.”

  Van Horn made tracks toward a grouping of handheld Mini-cams, lurching like a cowboy ready for the showdown.

  In Hollywood, everybody’s a star.

  A half block from the restaurant was a pool of something that didn’t smell like water and shone ruby red under the beam of the flashlight. There were also intermittent drips from the puddle to the Dumpster behind The Tango. Because of the location, I thought of a homeless woman or a runaway teen, someone scared and unstable. She would have to be on the skids, pushing out a baby in a back alley, all alone amid a host of bugs and rats.

  The blood of childbirth—if we were lucky.

  If the mother was someone local, it would narrow the search. Maybe knocking on doors wouldn’t be the answer. Maybe my best bet would be to hunt down the throwaways, to crawl through the underbelly of Hollywood, a city that offered so much but rarely made good on its promises.

  I showed the spot to Greg Van Horn after he did his dog-and-pony show for the nightly news. He regarded the blood while scratching his abundant nose.

  “Homicide?” I asked him.

  “Can’t be ruled out.” His jaws were bulging as if chewing on something hard. “My instincts tell me no. The configuration doesn’t look like a murder.”

  “The concentration of blood in one spot as well as the absence of spatter.”

  Van Horn nodded. “Yeah, exactly.”

  “I was thinking about someone homeless. Who else would squat in a back alley?”

  “I’ll buy that.” Eyes still on the pond of blood, he took out his cellular phone. “Time to call in the techs.”

  “Want me to walk around the area, sir? See if I can find some street people?”

  “Did you finish roping the area?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sure. Go pretend you’re a gold shield, Decker.”

  Low blow, Greg. I said with a smile, “Just testing out my mettle.”

  “I thought you already passed that test.”

  This time the smile was genuine. “That was nice. Thank you.”

  “Get out of here.”

  I skipped over the yellow tape, walking about a hundred yards north through the alley and onto Hollywood Boulevard. The sidewalks weren’t paved with gold, but they were filled with lots of black-stoned stars set into red granite. Each star represented a different icon of the entertainment media—TV, film, radio, or the recording industry. The good news was that recent gentrification and climbing real estate prices had preserved some of the older architecture and had cleaned up lots of the seedier aspects of the area.

  The western part of the boulevard was breaking through, probably like Times Square had done a dozen or so years ago. The city planners were smart enough to face-lift its known quantities, like the famous movie houses—Mann’s Chinese Theatre, Egyptian, and El Capitan—as well as the sideshow carnival attractions like Ripley’s Believe It or Not and the Hollywood Wax Museum. In addition, the renovated sector now boasted several eye-catching shopping galleries and a spanking-new gold-and-black-granite live theater built by Kodak. These landmarks drew lots of tourists, those hoping to be touched by magic or, at the very least, bask in its afterglow.

  It was the night that brought out the predators, individuals who thrived on marginal life. The eastern portion of Hollywood was the domain of tattoo parlors and bail bondsmen, of cheap retail shops, several no-tell motels and fast-food joints.

  The Tango sat on the border between the bright lights of old glamour and the slums of decay. As economic revival crept eastward, some of the neon spilled over, but not nearly enough to illuminate the hidden cracks and crevices. I didn’t have to walk too far before I found someone. She sat on the sidewalk, her back against the painted glass window advertising 50 percent off bargain-basement clothing. Her knees were pressed against her chest, and a thin blanket was thrown over her body and tucked under her chin. Her age was indeterminate—anywhere from twenty to fifty. Her hair was matted and dirty, her complexion so pancaked with grime that it could have held membership to any race. Black pupils peered out through vacant red-rimmed orbs, her mouth a slash mark with skin stretched tightly over a bony framework. By her side were a coin cup, several paper bags, and a tattered backpack.

  I dropped a dollar in the cup. She nodded but didn’t make eye contact. I sat beside her and she stiffened. She stank of sweat and misery, but right now I didn’t smell too wonderful myself.

  “What happened to you?” she pronounced in a raspy voice.

  I raised my eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “Your clothes need a cleanin’, Officer.”

  “Oh … that. I went rooting through the garbage tonight.”

  “Then we’s got somethin’ in common.”

  I smiled. “I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

  She looked down at her covered knees. “You’re Officer Cindy.”

  I let out a laugh. “Beg your pardon. The mistake is mine.”

  “It was raining. You gave me a ride. … Brang me to a shelter.”

  I squinted, taking in her face. “Alice Anne?”

  A hint of a smile appeared on her lips.

  I made a face. “You promised me you’d stop hitting the sauce.”

  “I kept my promise.”

  “For how long? Twenty-four hours?”

  “A little longer.”

  “Tsk, tsk, girl.”

  This time, she took in my face. “What happened to you?”

  “Funny you should ask. I found a baby at the bottom of a Dumpster.”

  “Ugh!” Alice Anne exclaimed. “That be terrible! Is it okay?”

  “The baby is fine.”

  “Hard enough bein’ an a-dult out here.” She spat. “Ain’t no place for a baby.”

  “Any ideas, Alice Anne?”

  “Me?” She sounded surprised. “It ain’t mine, sister.”

  “I’m not pointing a finger. But do you have any clue who it might belong to?”

  She was quiet.

  “Come on, Alice Anne. We need to find her.”

  “Don’t know nothin’.”

  Maybe yes, maybe no. “Could be you’ve seen someone out here who was pregnant—”

  “Maybe like a hunnerd out here is pregnant. That’s why they’s out here. ’Cause they’s pregnant and got nowhere else to go.”

  “Where would I find these hundred girls?”

  She threw me a disgusted look. “How long you work here?”

  “Alice—”

  “It ain’t that hard, sister. You just be looking on the wrong street.”

  “Sunset?”

  Alice Anne nodded.

  Sunset was the next major street south. It was where the female prostitutes did their business. The boy toys were out on Santa Monica Boulevard, the next major street over from Sunset. Most of the men bartered in West Hollywood Sheriff area, but sometimes they strayed into LAPD territory—my territory. All these discarded lives. It could make a girl blue sometimes. Of course, Alice Anne was right. What else could an underage, pregnant runaway do to keep her stomach filled?

  I checked my watch. “I’ll drive by tonight. You wouldn’t have any names, would you?”

  “Names, pshhh …” She bundled up. “Can’t be gettin’ close to people. Here today, gone tomorrow.”

  I went inside my wallet and took out another buck. “Buy yourself some hot chocolate. And if you hear about anyone dumping a baby, you’ll give me a ring.”

  This time, I offered her my card. To my surprise, she took it.

  “Pass the word,” I told her. “If the girl goes to the police within three days, nothing will happen to her.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “It’s true, Alice Anne. It’s the law.”

  “Yeah
, I know what the law’s worth.” Again she spat.

  “Well, if you hear about anyth—”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  I forced her to make eye contact with me. “You wouldn’t be holding back on me now, would you?”

  Alice Anne appeared to be horrified. “Lookie here, Officer Cindy. I may be a crazy, ole bag lady. I may have fallen on some hard times. And I may take too many sips of rotgut ’cause I gots lots of pain in this ole body. But I ain’t no raging alcoholic, and I don’t like baby killers.”

  Elegantly stated. I sighed, then said, “Do you want me to arrest you?”

  Alice Anne stared at my face.

  “Three squares and a hot shower,” I told her.

  “No.” She drew herself tighter under her cover. “No, but thanks. You can give me mo’ money if you be feeling charitylike.”

  I took out a five and showed it to her. “Don’t spend it all in one liquor store.”

  She laughed, then closed her eyes.

  Having nothing more to say, I got up and left her to what were hopefully more pleasant thoughts.

  3

  By twelve-thirty, I had showered and was in civilian clothes en route to home. The U-turn happened by remote control, because I didn’t even realize I had changed directions until I was headed the opposite way.

  To the hospital, naturally. Haunted by the image of that frail bundle left behind for Monday-morning garbage pickup, I knew I had to see her in a different environment: safe and blanketed, warm and fed.

  Mid-City Pediatric was about two miles east of where the infant had been discarded. It was a Medicaid hospital, meaning that most of the patients were poor. Despite its location, it had a world-renowned reputation. When my baby sister, Hannah, needed some minor surgery, Rina insisted that she be taken to Mid-City instead of one of the bigger, more moneyed behemoth hospitals on the affluent west side of town.

  It was a five-story building, modern and functional. The interior made stabs at being bright and cheerful—a mural of painted balloons, a gigantic stuffed teddy bear holding an armful of candy canes—but it couldn’t rid itself of that antiseptic smell. One whiff and I knew where I was.