Street Dreams (22 page)

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Help me look for the handbag.”

“That’s what I’m doing.” She swept the light across the dark ground. “Who’s your date?”

I gave up on subtlety. “The black guy over there.”

“Really.”
A pause. “Great body. Why’s he shirtless?”

I couldn’t keep the scorn out of my voice.
“Because
he ripped it off to tie up a gushing artery.”

“Wow … that’s cool.”

“Hayley, shut up!”

She held my shoulders, and I started to cry. She hugged me tightly and I let her do it. “You’re okay, Cin, you’re okay.”

“It was just so awful … that horrible noise!” I pulled away. “We’ve got to find the purse. We’ve got to find out who she is
… was.”

“I know he’s a jerk, Decker. I know I’m a jerk for going out with him, especially ’cause he still likes you—”

“Not the time for a psychodrama, Marx.” I stepped away from her and took in my surroundings. The body had landed around ten
feet from a stucco office building encircled by a three-foot hedge of waxy privet. Maybe the purse landed somewhere in the
bushes. I began separating branch from branch. It was dark and I was looking into black holes.

“Maybe you’d do better if you could see.” Hayley offered me the flashlight. I took it and shone the beam into the thick leaves.

“Thanks.”

“How about I hold while you look?”

I nodded. “Thanks.” A pause. “I know I’m being a butt.”

“You’re fine, Decker, but you witnessed something shocking. Oliver’s right. You should sit down.”

Sharp twigs scratched the back of my hands. “Oliver’s not right about anything.”

“How long have you been going with this guy?”

“A week. It’s nothing, okay? You know you can shine the light and look at the same time.”

Hayley began a perfunctory search through the flora. “First date?”

“Third.”

“Third … It’s going well then.”

“Can I get a little illumination over here?”

She shifted the angle of the beam. “You do anything yet?”

I didn’t answer.

Excitement in her voice. “Is he good?”

Again I didn’t answer.

More excitement. “Is it true what they say about black guys?”

It took herculean effort not to punch her out, but once more I didn’t answer.

Hayley was staring into the bushes, bringing the light into focus on something. “What’s this?”

“What?”

“That!” It was rectangular in shape and made from chrome or steel or silver. It winked in the dark. She squinted. “Maybe a
pop-top?”

I went in for a closer inspection. “Too big. It could have come from her purse. We shouldn’t touch it … although I don’t know
why.”

“Just in case.” Hayley reached in her own purse and pulled out a tissue. “Here.”

I retrieved the metal and was surprised to find it attached to a chain. It was the type of dog tag usually worn by GIs. The
surface was embossed with a name, a phone number, and a notice that the wearer was on Dilantin and phenobarbital, and was
allergic to penicillin and all its derivatives as well as erythromycin and all its derivatives.

“This is one ill girl.”

“‘Belinda Syracuse.’” Hayley read the inscription in the beam of light. “Think it’s her?”

I took out my cell phone, my heart thumping in my chest. “There’s one way to find out.” As I phoned the number, I had an eerie
sense of déjà vu. Then I began to sweat, thinking about what I’d say to whoever answered the phone at three-thirty in the
morning. After three rings, a machine kicked in. When the recorded voice told me who was on the other end of the line, I gasped
and dropped the phone. It bounced several times but didn’t break.

The wonders of modern technology.

I
finally took
Oliver’s advice and sat down, because had I remained on my feet, I would have passed out. Hayley kept asking me questions.
I could hear her voice but couldn’t understand the words because my head was still spinning. Eventually, things began to register.

“… you okay? Do you need water?”

“I’m fine!” I insisted.

The excitement in her voice attracted Oliver’s attention. He jogged over.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Hayley said. “Decker called up the number on the dog tag. Then she dropped the phone.”

“What dog tag?”

I showed Oliver the strip of metal that Hayley and I had found in the bushes. “The phone number on the tag is for Fordham
Communal Center for the Developmentally Disabled. If the hit-and-run victim is this woman Belinda Syracuse, then in the famous
words of Yogi Berra, ‘It’s déjà vu all over again.’”

“What the hell does that mean?” Oliver barked.

“Can you give me a minute to catch my breath?” I snapped back.

The two of them waited, staring at me. Despite Oliver’s incredible rudeness and brusque manner, there was concern in his eyes.
He told me to take my time.

I said, “The baby that I plucked from the trash? The mother was a resident of the same center … the Fordham Center. …”

They continued to study my face. Oliver said, “And …”

“Well, don’t you think it’s a big coincidence?”

Oliver held out his hands as if he were balancing scales. “Yeah … I suppose.”

I suddenly felt inane. What
was
the big deal?

“What?” Oliver asked. “You think they’re related? Tell me. I’m listening.”

“I don’t know.”

“So what are you getting all hysterical about?”

“I don’t know, Oliver, maybe it’s the shock of seeing a fellow human being batted around like a shuttlecock!”

I was talking louder than I thought. Koby shouted out, “Are you okay, Cindy?”

“I’m fine,” I yelled back. “Just having a spirited debate!”

My voice was razor sharp. Koby gesticulated to one of the paramedics, then sprinted over. Someone had provided him with a
blue short-sleeved scrub top. He took in my face, his eyes also concerned. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine.” I pointed to my companions, one at a time. “This is Officer Marx, also from Hollywood PD … Homicide Detective
Scott Oliver.”

“Yaakov Kutiel.” He lifted up his bloodied gloves. “Forgive the lack of handshake.”

Oliver nodded.

Koby directed his attention to me. “Do you need me to take you home right now?”

“I can take her home if you’re busy,” Oliver volunteered.

I cringed. If our past wasn’t obvious before, it sure was now.

Koby spoke before I could. “No, that’s fine.”

“Just that you looked kinda busy,” Oliver said.

I said, “What I really need to do is go over to the Fordham Communal Center and find out if Belinda Syracuse is sleeping in
a bed or not.” I showed Koby the dog tag. He read the information but didn’t touch it. “I found this in the bushes. The number
corresponds to the Fordham Center, the same school that Sarah Sanders went to.”

“The abandoned baby’s mother?”

I nodded.

“That’s odd.”

“I thought so. Probably one of those weird coincidences. Anyway, since I’ve already been to the place and dealt with some
of the people there, I think I should go and find out about Belinda Syracuse. If she is the victim, it’s only proper to give
her an identity.”

“You’re not a Homicide detective, Cindy.” Oliver found that necessary to point out.

“But you are. So come with me.” I added, “Both you and Marx.”

Koby said, “If you’re going to work, then I will go to the hospital with the children. Since I’ve been with them from the
start, I’m familiar with their medical conditions. I might have something useful to contribute.”

“Koby’s a—” I started again. “Yaakov’s a critical-care nurse at Mid-City Peds.”

“Very dedicated,” Oliver said.

“You do your job, I do mine.” Koby regarded me. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine, Koby, honest.” I stood up to prove the point. “Hayley will drive me to your place so I can pick up my car.” I kissed
him lightly on the mouth. “Go. We’ll talk later.”

“Maybe
I’ll
talk to you later, too,” Oliver told him. “Decker here is a little sketchy on the details.”

Koby gave him the full force of his jeweled eyes. “I’m sure she remembers more than I do. But I will help you if I can.” He
turned and jogged back.

Moments passed. It was late and I was spent and impatient. “The officers can wait with the body for Hollywood Homicide. Are
we going or not?”

Oliver shrugged. Hayley took my arm and together we walked to Oliver’s Beemer.

I sat in the backseat, giving out directions but otherwise mute. Hayley didn’t push it, but Scott made some weak stab at chitchat,
which mercifully died a natural death. I was livid at Scott, but I was trying very hard not to let the anger interfere with
professionalism.

No traffic on the streets, just a misty fog that haloed road lights and turned Sunset into a blurred snapshot. We raced down
the boulevard, the hour too late for even the dealers and hookers. Not a soul stirred, although we passed an occasional lump
of covers on a bus bench. For all we knew, the body underneath could have been dead. The stillness was freaky, even to the
most ardent of night owls, and time took on a surreal context. We made it to the Fordham Communal Center in less than fifteen
minutes.

I rapped on the door, and it took several minutes to get a response. Once we did, I announced to the scared voice on the other
side that we were the police. I’d never met the woman who answered. She was quite tall, swathed in a terry-cloth robe, her
short dark hair sticking out at all angles, having been attacked by static electricity. She squinted when I showed her my
badge, did the same when Hayley and Oliver showed theirs.

I started the ball rolling. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, ma’am. We have a couple of questions regarding Belinda Syracuse.
We understand she lives here.”

“Belinda?” The woman was confused. “Belinda’s a good girl. What did she do?”

“Is she with you now?” I asked.

“No, she’s out on a weekend pass to visit her brother. May I ask what this is all about?”

I showed her the dog tag. The woman gasped. “What happened to her?”

“We’re not sure. That’s why we’re here.” Oliver walked across the threshold, into the house. We followed, glad to be out of
the chill. “Right now, we need the name and phone number of Belinda’s brother.”

“May I please see your badge again?” the woman asked.

Because the lights were so dim, Oliver held it up to her face. “I know this must be upsetting. The sooner you give us the
information, the sooner we’ll be able to tell you something.”

“I’ve been to the center before,” I added. “With the Sarah Sanders case.”

“She found Sarah’s baby,” Hayley joined in.

“I spoke to Mr. Klinghoffner.”

“He’s not in,” the woman told us. “He doesn’t sleep here.”

Hayley said, “And you are …”

“Myra Manigan.”

Just then a voice came from above the stairs. “Ms. Manigan? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she shouted. “I’ll be up in a moment, dear.”

Oliver tossed her his most charming smile. “Please, Ms. Manigan. The number?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just so … discombobulating.” She turned on a few more lights. “Have a seat. What time is it?”

“Around four
A.M.
,” Hayley said. “Do you need help?”

“No, I’m fine, but thank you. Wait a moment.”

When she was out of earshot, Hayley said, “Poor girl. First being retarded, then dying so dreadfully. What kind of life is
that?”

A few minutes later, Myra came down the steps. “I’ve phoned Mr. Klinghoffner.”

“We still need the number,” Oliver told her.

“Yes, of course. But if you find out—”

“I’ll tell you what’s going on, yes.”

Still, she hesitated. Then, screwing up her courage, she handed me the name and number.

Terrance Syracuse.

The number was a West L.A. exchange.

I traded glances with Oliver. “You’re the lead.”

Oliver threw it back to me. “Help yourself, Decker.”

I looked at Ms. Manigan. “Can I borrow your phone?”

“Of course.”

I took a deep breath and phoned. The man who answered was groggy and pissed. I explained the dilemma as succinctly as possible
but he was still at sea, although now he was agitated.

“She’s not over there?” he asked me.

“No, sir, she’s not. We were hoping she was with you.”

“But she’s supposed to be over there. What’s going on? Who is this?”

“Hollywood Police,” I told him again. “I’m at the Fordham Center right now. I think we could sort this out more efficiently
if we spoke in person.”

“First things first,” Syracuse demanded. “Where is Belinda?”

“Sir, what’s your address?”

“Something’s happened to her, hasn’t it?” His voice broke. “She told me she was going back early. She told me she had a ride.”

“Did she tell you who her ride was?”

“Just someone from the center. What is it? What happened?”

“Sir, we really need to come down and see you.”

“Oh my God.” A heavy sigh. “Oh Jesus, just tell me what happened!”