Faye Kellerman

by Street Dreams

  “I do. It’s the truth.”

  “I know, honey. Look, Cindy, it’s late. I’ve got to get some sleep. But I’ll be reachable all morning. If you have a problem, don’t hesitate to call me on my cell. But honestly, I don’t think you’ll need to, because I know you’ll handle it perfectly. After what you’ve gone through, this should be easy.”

  “Thanks for the confidence. I love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you, too.” A pause. “So how’d you meet this guy?”

  “We’re not having this conversation, Dad.”

  “Just use me and discard me.”

  “What else are parents for?”

  12

  It was a one-story Spanish house sitting in a block of Arts and Crafts bungalows, the stucco so white it sparkled like snowdrift. Nestled among large-leaf banana plants and cocoa palms, the home had the requisite red-tiled roof and the little gated courtyard. Full of curb appeal: That was real estate lingo for something that looked good on the outside. I had tried to dress soothingly—a sage blazer over cream-colored blouse and slacks— but I suspected that Ms. Sanders wouldn’t be focusing on my sartorial splendor.

  It was just past eight in the morning, early enough to catch her before she went to work, and I chose not to phone beforehand because I didn’t want to scare anyone off. I rang the bell. The peephole door opened.

  “Yes?”

  “Good morning. I’m Officer Cynthia Decker. I’m looking for Louise Sanders.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Officer Cynthia Decker of Los Angeles Police—Hollywood.”

  She opened the door a fraction of an inch. The chain was still attached. “Can I see some ID, please?”

  Billfold already in hand, I slipped it through the crack. She took it and, after a few moments, passed it back. The door opened all the way.

  She was much older than I expected—in her late forties or early fifties. I was led to believe that Sarah was in her twenties. That meant there was quite an age gap between them. Louise had short, blunt-cut gray hair that framed an oval face and gray-green eyes. Her features were regular, and once, she had been pretty. Now, she was handsome in her black skirt suit and crisp white blouse.

  “Yes?”

  “May I come in for a few minutes?”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “I’ll be happy to explain everything, but it’s better if we talk inside.”

  Reluctantly, she allowed me to cross the threshold. The living room was small but restored beautifully—dark beamed ceilings, Saltillo tiled floor, textured beige stucco walls, and lots of molding and niches. There was a brown leather couch with matching chairs; the accent tables were made of heavy dark wood. An upright piano stood in the corner; a sheet of music rested on the stand. I asked her who played.

  “My sister. What’s going on?”

  “Thank you for your patience. Can I sit down?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I settled into one of the leather chairs. She sat on the couch. “A case I’m working on led me to your sister’s school—the Fordham Communal Center. …”

  “Yes, yes. What about it?”

  “I understand Sarah hasn’t been feeling well. How’s she doing?”

  The woman was taken aback. “That’s why you’re here?”

  “Is Sarah all right?”

  “As a matter of fact, she’s not well. She has some health issues. I was thinking of taking her to the doctor’s this morning.”

  “I think that might be a good idea.”

  “Why?” She became startled. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “I honestly don’t know if anything’s wrong with her. Let me tell you why I’m here and then you decide. Several days ago, LAPD found a newborn infant in a Dumpster behind a nearby restaurant. Perhaps you read about it in the paper?”

  “I saw it on the news.”

  “I pulled her out. It was pretty scary, but I’m happy to report that the baby’s doing well and is in very good health.”

  “That’s nice.” A glance at the watch. “Can we get to the point?”

  “I was just wondering if … well, maybe Sarah’s lost a little weight recently?”

  The woman’s eyes widened as shock swept across her face. “What!” She stood up and screamed, “Sarah! Get here—”

  “Wait, wait, wait!” I gently touched her arm. “Before we get her involved, how about if we talk about this calmly.”

  She broke away and started pacing. “I don’t believe this! It’s one thing after another! All I want is a little peace and quiet, and then …” She plopped back down on the sofa and slapped her hands over her face. Her voice cracked as she spoke. “I’m just so … tired!”

  “It may be nothing.”

  “It isn’t nothing. It’s never nothing! It’s always something! She’s been bleeding hard. I just thought it was a rough period. I didn’t even think about pregnancy.” Again she started to pace. “Is she in trouble with the law?”

  “Obviously, there are circumstances here.”

  “It’s going to be hell! I just know it! I’m going to need a lawyer. I’m going to have to make a court appearance! And I’m going to look like a total idiot! How could I have not known!”

  “She’s a heavy girl. It’s completely understandable. The main thing is to get her medical attention. That’s the reason I’m here. To help her, not to hurt her.”

  She stopped racing about, covered her mouth with her hand, then let it drop to her side. “Of course. You’re being very understanding.”

  “Both of you will be okay.”

  She looked at my face. “The baby’s okay?”

  “She’s absolutely adorable.”

  A smile spread over her distraught face. “Thank God!”

  “Ms. Sanders … did you know that Sarah—”

  “No idea! She never mentioned any boy … any special boy. She mentioned lots of boys. She was supposed to be on the pill.”

  “Birth control isn’t perfect.”

  “Especially if she didn’t take it. It wouldn’t be the first time. She has a bad gag reflex. It’s hard for her to swallow little things like pills. And liquid medicine makes her gag because it tastes so awful. I should have sterilized—” She cut herself off and looked away.

  “I know that lots of the girls in Fordham are sterilized. I am not judging you, ma’am. It is extremely arrogant for anyone to judge you.”

  “Thank you.” She wiped tears from her face. “Please call me Louise.”

  “All right. How about we both sit down, Louise?”

  A nod and we reclaimed our respective places.

  I said, “So you don’t know if Sarah was having sex or not.”

  “Obviously, she was having sex!”

  I tried to put this as delicately as I could. “Consensual sex, I mean.”

  “Oh my God!” She leaped to her feet. “She was raped?”

  “Louise, let’s not assume anything. It was just a question. That’s why I need to talk to her. That’s why she needs medical attention.”

  She sighed and tried to calm herself. “Do you want to talk to her now?”

  “Yes, but not for too long.” As long as she was standing, I figured I should get to my feet. “Our first concern is getting her to a hospital. I’ll take you there, if you want.”

  “You are being so nice, Officer Decker.” Again the tears started. “That’s all right. I have a car. What are they going to do to her?”

  “I imagine that after checking her out, they’ll take a blood test and verify that she’s the baby’s mother. You know, first things first.” I hesitated. “Louise, the baby’s biracial.”

  She blinked several times. “She’s black?”

  “Part black.”

  Silence.

  “Thank you for telling me.” She choked on her words. “I’ll go get her. Please be gentle. Despite how it may appear, I love her very much.”

  “Louise, I don’t doubt it for a second.”

 
She clasped her hands together. “You know, it doesn’t matter to me what the baby is as long as she’s healthy.”

  “She’s healthy.”

  “That’s all that counts.” A moment’s hesitation. “I’ll go get Sarah.”

  By the way the young girl carried herself, it appeared as if her chin were attached to her chest. Though her eyes were squeezed shut as tightly as humanly possible, tears managed to leak through. Limp strands of blond hair covered her cheeks. Her hands were white-knuckled, balled up into fists. Her brown smock pulled against her generous breasts. Louise placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s going to be all right, Sarah. You just have to talk to the nice police officer. And you have to be honest.”

  No response from Sarah. I said, “Does your tummy hurt, honey?”

  A slight nod of the head.

  “We’re going to take you to a doctor to fix that, okay?”

  Silence.

  “Do you know why your tummy hurts?” I pressed on.

  She didn’t answer, but I noticed that she had turned her knees inward. Her pink cheeks had become damp with tears. I said, “The baby is fine, Sarah. It’s a beautiful, healthy girl. And maybe one day, your sister, Louise, will take you to see her.”

  She raised her head and glanced at me. Then she dropped her chin to her chest.

  Louise broke in. “Sarah, who did this to you?”

  I squeezed Louise’s arm. She exhaled with a whoosh, shook me off, and stomped off to the other side of the room. Though I really wanted to ask Sarah about her sexual experience, I knew my limitations. This little girl required a specialist. As a police officer, I was concerned with only one thing: if the sex was forced or not. But right now, there were more pressing issues at stake—her health, confirmation that she was the mother, legal ramifications of her act of child endangerment. I decided to forgo the questioning until I had notified the proper channels.

  And until I talked to Dad.

  “I think we should take her to the hospital now. I’ll call up my sergeant and have someone meet us down there. We should probably get in touch with someone from Mental Health. Does she have a psychologist?”

  “She has every single specialist in the world. She’s been well taken care of.”

  “I don’t doubt that.”

  “Will I need a lawyer?” Louise bit hard on a thumbnail.

  “If you have one, it would be a good idea to call him up.”

  Another heavy sigh.

  I said, “She’ll be okay.”

  “I know, I know. She’s always okay. She’s al-ways o-kay!”

  “You’ll be okay, too, Louise.”

  “Me?” Louise’s laugh was hard and bitter. “Sister, my welfare is another story altogether!”

  13

  There were pats on the back from my colleagues and smiles from the brass. There was a time when my accomplishments would have been viewed with suspicion. But last year, I had played the game, drinking with the guys and girls after hours and attending more backyard barbecues than I’d care to recount. I kept my mouth shut, bowled in the Hollywood Women’s League, and did my job. The “incident”—as I refer to it to my therapist—had kicked a lot of life out of me. Bad for the creative spirit, but great for blending in with the masses.

  Sarah was out of my hands now, kicked upstairs to the gold shields and the professionals who made their living by helping people talk. I was left with the satisfaction of a job well done, and a curiosity about who had fathered this baby girl. I knew more than Russ MacGregor—the detective who had taken over for Greg—because I had inside information from Koby. If Russ was decent enough, I’d share the facts.

  I was off all Friday and had the day to relax. I Googled Yaakov Kutiel, and thankfully he came out honest. Koby’s public claim to fame was being part of the hospital’s outreach program for unwed mothers and fatherless children who lived in Central L.A. For this evening’s Shabbat dinner, I kept my look simple: a Kelly green sweater over a black midiskirt and knee-high black boots. Around my neck was a gold chain; my earlobes sported a set of round pearls. I topped off the outfit with a gray pashmina draped over my shoulders.

  Koby lived in the hills of Silver Lake, his street on an incline of around thirty degrees. The address corresponded with a tiny, square stucco box that peeked out from the boughs of eucalyptus gone wild. I parked in the driveway behind a ten-year-old Toyota compact, making sure the emergency brake was on. I made the climb up to the front door and knocked, noticing the large ceramic mezuzah attached to the door frame. I’m not sure what I expected when I came in, but I didn’t expect what I saw.

  There was pride inside—a mélange of Art Deco and African decor. Highly polished, rich rosewood tables were mixed with a zebra-print plush sofa and leopard-print club chair, both pieces embellished with primary-colored throw pillows. Multicolored textiles with geometric shapes and primitive designs hung on the walls; a bright, bold carpet covered the hardwood floor. Actually, there were several carpets, because as I looked more carefully, I noticed that they were overlapping. The room was teeny—I could almost span the walls with outstretched arms—so it was amazing how much stuff he had crammed in there. More amazing was how well it was put together.

  “Wow!” I told him.

  He was all smiles. “You like it?”

  “Yeah … yeah, I do.”

  “Had to think about it?”

  “Not at all. It was just …” I shook my head. “Most single guys don’t bother.”

  “I like color.”

  “I’ll say. But it works. Do you rent?”

  He pointed to his chest. “All mine. I have the mortgage to prove it.”

  “I’m impressed!” I really was. Home ownership was out of my reach. Despite my supposed austerity, I just couldn’t seem to save very much. That’s what happens when one has parents as backups.

  “It didn’t look like this when I bought it,” he explained. “But the price reflected the condition.”

  “You fixed it up yourself?”

  “Of course. After the purchase, I was completely broke. I had no choice.”

  “You did a wonderful job.”

  “As long as you don’t look under all the covering. Why do you think I hang so much cloth all over?” He checked his watch. “Shabbat is in an hour. We should go, no?”

  “Yeah, we’ve got a ways to travel.”

  He picked up a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine. “These are for your stepmother.” He gave me a paper bag. “This is for you for extended … extending the invitation.”

  It was a hand-painted doll from the Ethiopian gift shop. I smiled and thanked him. He told me I looked nice and I returned the compliment. He was dressed conservatively—dark green suit, white shirt, red-and-green paisley tie—but his yarmulke was more like a rimless cap that burst with colors.

  The first half of the ride was taken up by my success story with Sarah. The next topic was the baby and how well she was doing. After we had exhausted work, things got real quiet. I turned on the radio to provide audio filler.

  Koby got the ball rolling. “Did your father ask about me?”

  “Yes, of course. He’s a father.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him that I had just met you a couple of days ago, so I didn’t know much about you.”

  “That was a good answer.”

  “I thought so. Of course, it didn’t stop him from prodding me about you.”

  He waited for me to continue.

  “I did tell him that you were somewhat observant and your family lives in Israel. That you’d appreciate a traditional Shabbat.”

  “That’s true.” He looked out the window. “Did you tell him anything else?”

  “Not really. I figured you could talk about yourself better than I could.”

  He was quiet.

  “What?” I said. “That’s not true?”

  “Yes, that is very true. But I think you left something out.”

 
“What difference does it make?”

  “None to me. But to your father, I cannot say.”

  “If he’s that way, then he’s not the man I think he is.”

  “It’s just better to prepare him, I think.”

  “Prepare for what, Koby? Being black is not a defect. Why should I have to prep my father?”

  “To make him feel more comfortable when he meets me.”

  “If I say you’re my friend, he should automatically feel comfortable.”

  “To make me feel more comfortable, maybe?” He fingered the flowers. “I’m not fond of surprises.”

  I glanced at him. He shrugged. I felt my stomach drop. “Okay. So maybe that wasn’t so smart. Sorry.”

  “It’s all right, Cindy. No problem.”

  “You’ve had bad experiences before?”

  “Not really,” he said. “I never meet parents … never any reason. Last time was maybe fifteen years ago when I take Aliza Goldberg to the movies. Her father was a colonel in Zahal.” He laughed. “Old feelings. So maybe I overreact.”

  We rode for several minutes, one-way chatter coming from the radio.

  “He’s a great guy, Koby. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  But neither of us was sure of anything.

  Dad had a very powerful poker face; it was a necessary component of being a great detective. But knowing him well, I detected the minuscule rise of an eyebrow. Still, he masked it with aplomb, his smile never wavering. He shook Koby’s hand while inviting us inside. My father was slightly taller than my date, but must have outweighed him by a good fifty pounds. Daddy looked handsome in a dark blue suit.

  I spoke quickly, doing the introductions. Everyone was nice and polite. It was a stiff moment, but not unbearable. Koby had good social skills—way better than mine.

  “Shabbat Shalom. Thank you for having me.” He presented Dad with the wine bottle and held the flowers aloft. “This is for your wife.”