Faye Kellerman

by Street Dreams

  A long sigh breathed over the line. “What did you do after breakfast?”

  “I went to Mid-City High School per your suggestion. It was a good one.” I related the conversation I had with Carisse and Rhiannon. Decker picked up on the blond hair as well.

  “If Rhiannon could tell she had blond hair, it means to me that the woman probably has access to a shower or bath. Any idea of the age?”

  “No.”

  Decker said, “If there’s something off about her, maybe instead of homeless shelters, you should try looking into vocational schools for the developmentally disabled. Maybe the girl was well cared for, but retarded.”

  “That would be so sad,” I said. “A retarded girl giving birth in the back alley of Hollywood. She must be so frightened. And what kind of chance does the kid have?”

  “Some people are remarkable survivors.” A pause. “I’m talking to one of them.”

  I felt myself smiling. “Funny, Decker. I was going to say the same thing.”

  After such an extraordinary night, I was glad that my shift contained the usual suspects: drunks, hookers, hustlers, and other various and sundry miscreants. I rode with my sometimes partner—Graham Beaudry—who wavered between hours on the Day and Evening watch. He was one of the few men in the department whom I didn’t absolutely distrust.

  Tonight was made up of banal traffic tickets and motorist warnings sandwiched in between other “hot” incidents. On the plate were a couple of alcohol-related domestics, a hysterical wife who had blown up her stove, a bad fender bender that sent a couple of people to Adventist (they would be okay), and a missing teen who turned out to be sniffing glue in her boyfriend’s garage apartment.

  I finished my shift at eleven, and because the station house was so close to Mid-City Pediatric, I figured I’d take a chance and try to find out something about the baby’s blood work. I knew that Koby was my best bet for information, but I didn’t want to give the guy the impression that I was stalking him. But if I saw him, well, what could I do? And if I couldn’t get any information on the abandoned infant, perhaps I could just hold her in my arms again. Like Marnie the elfin nurse had said, babies thrive on human contact.

  After checking in at the front desk, I was allowed to go up to the neonatal ward. Marnie wasn’t on shift, but Koby was. He was wearing a white coat over a denim shirt and jeans. He saw me through tired eyes and his face lit up.

  “You are here. I hope it’s me and not hospital coffee.”

  I smiled. “Have you gone home since last night?”

  “Why? I look that tired?”

  “You look fine.”

  “I’m sure I don’t. Two people called in sick. I do a double shift, working with five hours of sleep.”

  “That’s rough.”

  “I can manage. You look lovely.”

  “Thank you. I like the white coat. Very eminent.”

  He smiled. “Almost like a real doctor, no?”

  I felt myself getting warm. “I didn’t mean it that way at all.”

  “I am teasing you because you blush so easily. I find it charming.”

  “To me, it’s just annoying.”

  “You are forced to wear your emotions. I can hide behind my dark complexion. I wear the white coat because I just finished up a teaching seminar with a group of nursing students from one of the colleges. USC, I think.” He checked his watch. “I finish maybe fifteen minutes ago.”

  “This late?”

  “Night classes … it’s part of the curriculum. I take them on rounds … the hands-on approach. Of course, all it does is scare them.” He rolled his eyes. “The hospital likes us to wear white coats instead of scrubs when we lecture. It’s ridiculous—first the scrubs, then the coat, then back to the scrubs. I change so much, I should be on a catwalk.”

  I laughed.

  “Your smile is so nice. And what are your plans?”

  “I just got off work. After my stop here, I’m going home.”

  “A pity. I won’t be off until six in the morning. Two camels passing through the night.”

  “Are you going to be up for tomorrow’s lunch?”

  “Yes, most certainly. Please don’t cancel on me.”

  “No problem.” I lowered my voice. “I have a favor to ask you.”

  He chuckled. “What can I help you with, Cindy?”

  I patted his shoulder. “You’re very nice. They’ve done lab work on the infant I brought in, right?”

  “You were there when I draw the blood. What’s on your mind?”

  “Is there any marker in her blood that would suggest that she is of one race or another? I’m trying to search for the mother, and the only lead I have so far is a blond white woman. The baby doesn’t look Caucasian to me.”

  “That is because she isn’t, and I don’t need a lab to tell you that. She is of mixed blood—black and white.”

  “Why not Hispanic?”

  “The skin tone is different, and the features don’t suggest it. Hispanic infants just don’t look like she does. The thicker lips, the flaring nostrils, the broad forehead—suggestive of African blood, but it’s not as pronounced. My own siblings are mixed race. It’s not so hard for me to spot.”

  “So if the mother is white …”

  “Yes, it means the father is black.”

  “Thanks, Koby. You’ve been a big help.”

  He smiled, but it was tinged with uneasiness. He appeared to be wrestling with something.

  “What?” I said. “You’re not supposed to be talking to me? Don’t worry. I won’t say anything.”

  He looked around, then beckoned me into an empty hospital room. He closed the door. We were alone, but no sexual electricity this time. He was all business. “The baby. She has pronounced spatulate thumbs. I notice it as soon as she came in.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means her thumbs are short and look like spoons. Also, her eyes. It’s hard to tell because she’s a newborn, but I thought I detect epicanthic folds. I pointed it out to the resident. She agrees with my observations.”

  “Okay. And they are significant because …”

  “They may not be significant. We’ll know when the chromosomes are looked at.”

  “Chromosomes?”

  “Possibly the baby has Down’s syndrome.”

  My heart dropped. “Down’s syndrome?”

  “Possibly.” He smiled sadly. “I’m not sure, Cindy. I could be wrong.”

  “Why don’t I expect that to be the case?”

  “You’re saddened, I understand. But I see it differently. The child is different, this is true, but basically she’s healthy.” He laid a large hand on my shoulder. “So much sickness here. Life has thrown all these families curveballs. She still needs love. Hopefully, we’ll find a home that will take care of her special needs. I’m only telling you this because you are looking for the parents. If I am right—and maybe I am not—you might want to keep this private information in mind when you do your search.”

  Of course, that was why he was bending the rules. Not to sadden me, but to help in my quest. The parents might be normal looking, but maybe one of them was Down’s as well. I was more determined than ever to find my little baby’s parents.

  “When will the results come in?”

  “Maybe tomorrow. I’ll tell you when I know something definite.”

  Mixed race and one of the parents might be Down’s. I knew a lot more going out than I did coming in. And wasn’t that the purpose of this visit?

  “Can I hold her, Koby?”

  “It’s a very busy night, Cindy.”

  I stood my ground. He exhaled. “I give you five minutes. And that includes the time it takes to suit up.”

  “I’m a very fast dresser.”

  “Come.” He led me into the office that adjoined the nursery. He watched me with intensity as I donned the paper suit, observing my every move, but this time his eyes were not at all hungry. They held an expression of wariness. I ask
ed him what was wrong.

  He said, “You are getting attached to her, Cindy. Watch yourself or you’ll be in for a broken heart.”

  “The question is, how do you not get attached to them?”

  His smile was a plaintive memory. “After many broken hearts, you learn.”

  9

  Breakfast was a quick affair—coffee, juice, and a bowl of granola with skim milk. In working mode, I dressed for efficiency: gray slacks, black ribbed crewneck sweater—merino wool because it and cashmere were the only kinds of wool I could wear against my skin—and black flats. Because I was meeting Koby for lunch, I brought along a pair of pumps and a colorful scarf to offset the look of a funeral director. Scarves were wonderful. Throw them around your neck and people thought you took great pride in your appearance.

  There was just one vocational school that looked promising. Fordham Communal Center for the Developmentally Disabled sat just east of Hollywood in the Silver Lake district—yes, there really was a reservoir lake. The neighborhood was predominantly Latino, but it held smatterings of other nationalities who had gone through the portals of INS. The school’s address was a half block from Sunset Boulevard, that handy crosstown thoroughfare that began at the Pacific Ocean and died east of Dodger stadium.

  I found a parking space on the side street and got out of the car, armed with a badge and medical information. The building was a renovated two-story Arts and Crafts hunter green bungalow surrounded by a porch and topped by a peaked roof. Buttermilk-colored wood trim framed the front door and encased two multipaned side windows. Leading up to the door was a lovely stone walkway. After giving the knocker a few judicious raps, I was buzzed in.

  I was surprised that the house appeared to have maintained its original floor plan. There was a tiny vestibule that led into a sun-drenched living room replete with desks and other office paraphernalia. Natural light was made possible by windows and French doors in the back wall through which I could see a panoply of color—an array of flower gardens fit for any Impressionist painting. I could make out figures tilling and tending the soil.

  The woman who manned the desk closest to the entry was already on her feet. She was blond and thin and appeared perpetually nervous. “Can I help you?”

  I showed my badge and ID. Lapis eyes widened as she read the pertinent information. “Officer Decker, is it?”

  “Indeed it is. I’m trying to find out information on someone. Who would I talk to for that?”

  “What kind of information?”

  “It might be personal. Are you in charge?”

  “No, that would be Mr. Klinghoffner.”

  “Could I speak to him, please?”

  “I think he’s upstairs.”

  I didn’t say anything and neither did she. After a few seconds passed, I smiled and said, “When do you think he might come downstairs?”

  “Oh, I can go get him if you want.”

  “Yes, I would like that, thank you.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t move, her eyes nervously scanning around the room. “You can sit down if you want.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Okay.” I decided she wanted me to sit before she fetched the boss. There was a cozy arrangement in the center of the room—a floral upholstered sofa and two matching overstuffed chairs. I elected to park myself on the couch and sank down into the cushions. She stared at me for a moment, then bounded up to the second story.

  The house still had much of its old-world charm—arched entryways, hardwood floors, casement windows, a wood-beamed ceiling, and lots of built-in oak bookshelves and cabinets. The room was square and at each corner was a work area—a desk and chair, a file cabinet, and a computer station. With the nervous woman upstairs in search of Mr. Klinghoffner, the only other person on the floor was a beanpole man in the right corner. He appeared to be in his late twenties with a short haircut and a mottled complexion. Buried in his paperwork, he didn’t bother to look at me. But that didn’t stop me from staring at him. When he did look up, he colored red and went back to his piles of pulp.

  It was time for me to interject some novelty into his life. “What are you working on?”

  “Pardon?” His eyes jumped to my face, his cheeks still pink. “Are you talking to me?”

  “Yes, sir, I am. You seem to be working on something very important.”

  “Not important, just vast.” His eyes went back to his desktop. “All this paperwork: rules, regulations, statutes, ordinances. Whoever the government doesn’t tax to death, it drowns in paperwork. Either way, it’s going to kill us all. You, me, my dog, your cat—”

  “I don’t own a cat.”

  “I wasn’t talking literally!” he replied, bristling. “Forget it!”

  “You seem stressed,” I remarked.

  “Oh please! If I hear that word one more time, I really will up-chuck! Anyone who works with bureaucracy is stressed! Obviously, you don’t.”

  “I work for LAPD. They don’t come any more bureaucratic than that institution.”

  “Or any more corrupt, if you don’t mind my impudence. What are you working on?”

  “Talk about impudence.”

  “Top secret?” he asked in a bored voice.

  “Nothing important. I’m Cindy Decker, by the way.” Silence. “I suppose your mother christened you with a name?”

  “She did.”

  More silence. The guy was a first-class tool. His desk was set against a window, and abruptly a female face pressed itself against the glass. She had short dark hair, hooded eyes, and a gaping mouth with triangular-shaped teeth. She seemed short and was holding a hoe, almost a takeoff on American Gothic. She bore a worrisome expression. With deliberation, she raised her fist and tapped on the windowpane. The beanpole looked up and gave her a half smile that almost humanized him.

  “Back to work, young ’un!” he shouted through the glass. “Rest is for old folk.”

  The lines on her forehead deepened. She started to complain about something. I could tell by her tone of voice, although I couldn’t understand her. Her speech wasn’t clear and she spoke through a glass barrier. “Skinny Man” rolled his eyes, then got up and opened the door. They talked for a moment and then she left. He sat down and resumed his paperwork.

  “Is she okay?” I asked.

  He stared at me. “Of course, she’s okay. Why wouldn’t she be okay?”

  “She just seemed … I don’t know … a little lost.”

  “I hope you’re a better cop than you are a psychologist.” A derisive sneer. “She wants to know how long until lunch. Then after lunch, they want to know how long before dinner. Their lives revolve around meals. Life would be simpler if we had bells, like in school. You’ll have to excuse me. Some of us have deadlines to meet.”

  As in: Shut up. But it didn’t matter because “Nervous Girl” had reappeared with whom I assumed was Mr. Klinghoffner—a man who looked to be in his mid-fifties. He had a shock of thick gray hair, was fat across the middle, and had chubby cheeks to match. All he needed was the suit and the white beard and I was looking at Santa Claus. I got up and extended my hand. He took it politely with a limp-fish shake.

  “Jamie tells me you’re from the police?”

  Jamie must be the nervous girl. “That’s right, Mr. Klinghoffner. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment. Privacy would be preferred.”

  “Don’t bother, I’m not listening, I couldn’t care less,” Skinny Man chimed out.

  Klinghoffner laughed. “Don’t mind Buck.”

  Buck? I had the good sense to keep my smile in check.

  “It’s evaluation time for the Center for funds.” Klinghoffner kneaded doughy hands. “Lots of paperwork. He’s a bit tense. Let’s go into my office. This way.”

  He led me through a kitchen that still had its original cabinets and fixtures. The counters were tiled in sunny yellow, and a diamond pattern of midnight blue and yellow made up the back-splash. Klinghoffner’s office was off to the right—a tiny room t
hat was probably once a pantry. When he closed the door, it was pretty tight inside, but it did have a nice-size picture window and a skylight giving a blue clue to a world beyond.

  “How can I help you, Officer?”

  “If you read the papers on Tuesday morning, you’ll know that LAPD found an abandoned baby in Hollywood.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Terrible.”

  “The baby is doing well. We have reason to believe that the mother is Caucasian and possibly developmentally disabled.”

  “I see.”

  “Any ideas?”

  Klinghoffner appeared to be thinking about it. “I’m not … aware of any of our women being pregnant.”

  “Was pregnant.”

  “Or was pregnant. But I don’t know everything.”

  Covering his rather commodious butt. “Okay. Maybe we could talk in theoretical terms.”

  “I’m not being cagey, Officer Decker, I just don’t know. We try to teach our students about the birds and the bees, but most of their guardians—the parents, the siblings, the aunts—they don’t like to leave things to chance. Many of our women are sterilized coming in. The last thing anyone needs is another special child to deal with.”

  I thought about my poor little baby. Maybe she’d be okay. Maybe Koby was wrong. “You said many of your women are sterilized.”

  “Yes. But it’s not a back-alley thing. There is full consent—from the families, from the women themselves. They request it, Officer. They know that they are in no position to raise a child, should they have sex.”

  “You allow them to have sex?”

  “No, not here. But drives are drives. We are realistic. And the women who aren’t sterilized, we give them the pill every day along with their vitamins. We make sure they take it.”

  “Are the women aware that by doing this, they can’t get pregnant?”

  “We explain it to them. Some comprehend more than others.”

  “But you don’t require them to take birth control, do you?”

  He heaved a great sigh. “We don’t strap them down, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “I’m sorry. I know you have a difficult task. I’m not passing judgment.”