Street Dreams (2 page)

Actually, I did know a thing or two about infants, having a half sister eighteen years my junior. Her mother, Rina—my stepmother—had
become very ill after childbirth and guess who stepped up to the plate when my father was in a near state of collapse? (Who
could have blamed him? Rina almost died.)

The positive side was the sisterly bonding, at least on my part. Hannah Rosie Decker was my only blood sibling, and they didn’t
come any cuter or better than she. I adored her. Matter of fact, I liked my father’s family very much. Rina’s sons were great
kids and I loved them and respected them as much as anyone could love and respect step-relatives. Rina took wonderful care
of my father, a feat worth noting because Dad was not the easiest person to get along with. I knew this from firsthand experience.

“Did anyone call 911?”

“Yo hable.”
Delacruz handed me another clean rag to wipe my dirty face.

“Thank you,
señor.
” I had put a clean napkin over my shoulder and was rocking the baby against my chest. “If you can, get some warm sugar water
and dunk a clean napkin into it. Then bring it to me.”

The man was off in a flash. The baby’s cries had quieted to soft sobs. I suddenly noticed that my own cheeks were warm and
wet, thrilled that this incident had resolved positively. Delacruz was back with the sugar water–soaked napkin. I took it
and put the tip of a corner into her mouth. Immediately, she sucked greedily. In the distance I heard a wail of sirens.

“We’ve got to get you to the hospital, little one. You’re one heck of a strong pup, aren’t you?”

I smelled as overripe as rotten fruit. I placed the infant back into Delacruz’s arms. “
Por favor,
give her to the ambulance people. I need to wash my hands.”

He took the bundle and began to walk with her. It was one of those Kodak moments, this macho man cooing in Spanish to this
tiny, displaced infant. The job had its heartbreak, but it also had its rewards.

After rotating my shoulders to release the tension, I went through the back door of The Tango and asked one of the dishwashers
where I could clean up. I heard a gasp and turned around. A man wearing a toque was shooing me away with dismissive hands.
“Zis is a food establishment! You cannot come in here like zat!”

“Someone dumped a baby in the trash outside.” My stare was fierce and piercing. “I just rescued her by opening up fifteen
bags of garbage. I need to
wash
my hands!”

Toque was confused. “Here? A
bébé?
”

“Yes, sir! Here! A
bébé!
” I spotted a cloud of suds that had filled up a sink. Wordlessly, I walked over and plunged my hands inside very warm water.
What the heck! All the china went into a dishwasher anyway, right? After ridding my hands of the grime, I ran the cold water
full blast and washed my face. One of the kitchen workers was nice enough to offer me a clean towel. I dried myself off and
looked up.

The ambulance had arrived, red strobe lights pulsing through the windows. I pointed to Mr. Toque and gave him my steely-eyed
look. “Like heartburn, I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.”

The EMTs had already cut the cord and were cleaning her up. I regarded the medics as they did their job. A sturdy black woman
was holding the baby in her arms while a thin white kid with a consumptive complexion was carefully wiping down the infant’s
face. Both were gloved.

“How’s she doing?” I asked.

They looked up. The thin kid smiled when he saw me. “Whew, you musta been hungry.”

The kid’s name tag said
B. HANOVER
. I gave him a hard stare and he recoiled. “Jeez. Just trying out a little levity, Officer. It breaks the tension.”

“How’s she doing?” I repeated.

The woman answered. Her name was Y. Crumack. “Fine, so far … a success story.”

“That’s always nice.”

The infant’s placenta had been bagged and was resting on the ground a couple of feet away. It would be taken to a pathology
lab, the tissue examined for disease and genetic material that might identify her. For no good reason, I picked up the bag.

Crumack said, “We’ll need that. It has to be biopsied.”

“Yeah, I know. Where are you taking her?”

“Mid-City Pediatric Hospital.”

“The one on Vermont,” I said.

“Only one I know,” Hanover said. “Any ideas about the mom?”

“Not a clue.”

“You should find her,” Hanover informed me. “It would help everyone out.”

“Wow, I hadn’t thought about that,” I snapped. “Thanks for sharing.”

“No need to get testy,” Hanover sneered.

Crumack opened the back door, strapping the baby in an infant seat. The wailing had returned. I assumed that to be a positive
sign. I gave her the bagged placenta and she placed it in the ambulance.

“She sounds hungry,” I said.

“Starved,” Crumack answered. “Her abdomen is empty.”

“Her head looks … I don’t know … elongated, maybe? What’s that all about?”

“Probably from being pushed out of the birth canal. Main thing is, it isn’t crushed. She was real lucky, considering all the
things that could have gone wrong. She could’ve swallowed something and choked; she could’ve suffocated; she could’ve been
crushed. This is an A-one outcome.” She patted my shoulder. “And you’re part of it.”

I felt my eyes water. “Hey, don’t look at me, thank Señor Delacruz,” I told her. “He’s got good ears.”

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.

W
hen 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.”

“That’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.