by Gerry Boyle
“So the baby wasn’t with you?” Kat said.
“My daughter, she loves the baby Lincoln. But this time, I hear this guy, he’s yelling at Miss Anthony. That she can’t bring the baby down here. But her place, you see, it’s not good for a baby. The dirt. The party.”
“What were they yelling at Chantelle?” Brandon said. “The friends.”
Otto didn’t answer.
“You can tell us,” Kat said.
Otto took a deep breath. “The big man, the bald head. He say, ‘You not bringing that baby to no—”
He hesitated.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Brandon said.
“Most people here, they’re good people,” Otto said.
“This guy with the bald head—” Kat said.
“He was gone for a long time,” Otto said. “I thought he won’t come back. But he did.”
“If he ever bothers you again,” Brandon said, “call me.”
He handed Otto his card. Otto looked at it. Nodded. The look from Kat.
“And now, Mr. Otto,” Brandon said. “May we look inside your apartment?”
Two young guys—tall and thin, late teens—leaned in the kitchen, arms folded on their chests. They wore basketball shorts, NBA jerseys: The younger one, New Jersey Nets, glared at the cops. The older one, Denver Nuggets, stared impassively.
Otto’s wife and daughter—long robes, head scarves—sat side by side on the couch in the living room, the room so neat it looked like it had been sanded. Above them was a painting, a landscape of desert and mountains.
“Who’s the artist?” Brandon said.
The mother looked at the daughter.
“Very nice,” Brandon said.
Fatima, pretty under her red head scarf, looked away.
They checked the apartment, Kat doing the room where Fatima slept, maybe with her mother. Brandon did the guys’ room, posters of Tupac, Jay-Z, LeBron. Basketball shoes lined up in a row.
No baby.
In the living room, the sons standing there now, still with arms crossed. Kat said, “Do you know of anyone else who might have taken the baby? Just to take care of it?”
The family stared, silent. Finally, the dad shook his head.
“No. We talk to Miss Anthony but we don’t know her outside of this place.”
“Was it all men at the party?” Kat said.
Otto said something to his wife in Arabic.
“Two girls,” Otto said.
“Hoochie mamas,” the younger of the guys said. “Crack whores.”
“Shush,” Otto snapped.
“What’s your name?” Brandon said.
“This is Samir,” Otto said. “His brother is Edgard.”
Samir was older, bigger, his hair combed out. Edgard was wiry, broader face, hair in tight braids like Tupac on the poster. The brothers stared.
“Samir is studying at the community college. He is in studies to be a nurse.”
The father beamed. Samir looked at the cops, said nothing.
“Edgard,” Otto said, “he is in the high school.”
No beam this time, in the face or the voice. Edgard glared at the cops.
Kat handed her card to the father, said, “Please call if you think of anything.” Brandon held his card out to Edgard and Samir. Samir took it, folded it in half. Otto put Kat’s card in his shirt pocket. Brandon and Kat moved to the door. Kat was outside in the hall when Brandon turned back, looked at the two brothers.
“Yo, like we’re gonna be hitting up Five-Oh,” Edgard said. “Fuck that.”
“Shut up, bro,” Samir said, smacking his brother on the shoulder. Edgard shoved him back. The door swung shut.
There were work boots outside the door to the first-floor flat, rear. Brown leather spattered with white paint. Kat knocked. They waited.
“They’re gonna go at it with Lance’s crew, you know,” Kat said.
“The guys insulted their sister,” Brandon said.
“So somebody will end up stabbed or shot,” Kat said. “So stupid.”
“I don’t know,” Brandon said. “You have to stand up for something.”
A pause.
“As your field training officer, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Kat said.
There was the thump of someone big crossing the room inside the apartment. Then the footsteps stopped.
“Police,” Kat said.
They heard deadbolts sliding, a chain coming off. The door opened. A man stood there in plaid boxers. He was an inch or two over six feet, muscled, long, tanned face. Hair in a ponytail, a tattoo of a smiling skull on his shoulder. Underneath it: BLADES, MC.
The stripped-down Harley in the driveway.
“Yeah,” he said.
Kat took the lead, explained the situation. The guy cut her off.
“Ain’t seen no baby,” he said, started to close the door. Brandon put his hand out, stopped it.
“If we could have just a couple minutes.”
“I gotta work, dude. Gotta be up in an hour.”
“We’ll make it fast.”
The biker let the door fall open and they stepped inside.
It was neat, in an industrial sort of way. A couch under a poster of a vintage Harley, a topless woman astride the bike. Cases of empty Budweiser longnecks, stacked. A recliner in front of a small TV on an overturned wooden crate. A cell phone next to the TV.
They stood. Brandon asked the guy’s name.
“Cawley,” he said.
“First name?”
“Awful lot of questions.”
“Almost done. First name?”
“Tony. You sure you’re old enough to be a cop?”
“I’m sure. You live here alone?”
“Sometimes my girlfriend stays.”
“What’s her name?”
“Way too many questions.”
“Name?”
“Tiffany. Tiffany Rox.”
“R-O-X?”
“Yeah. She’s a dancer.”
“Cool,” Kat said, breaking in. “Did you call in a noise complaint?”
“You bet your ass. I get up at six. Fuckin’ welfare scum, up all night.”
“You ask them to be quiet before you called?” Kat said.
“I go all the way up there, somebody’s gonna get his head busted, and it ain’t gonna be me.”
“So you never saw them. Or the baby.”
“No.”
“But they’d all left when you called.”
“TV was still friggin’ blaring.”
“Do you know Chantelle Anthony?” Brandon said, his turn.
“Sure, I know that crackhead.”
Brandon held up a hand. “Easy.”
“What she is,” Cawley said.
“She doesn’t take care of the child?” Kat said.
“I see the scum goin’ up there. Don’t take a rocket scientist to know they ain’t singin’ it a fuckin’ lullaby every night. ’Scuse my French.”
“But you didn’t report it, then maybe get the baby out of there?” Brandon said.
“What?”
“What I said.”
“Hell no. Mind my own business. But you ask me, I’ll give it to you straight.”
“The guys up there, they bother you, say anything?” Kat said.
“You kiddin’? Those punks know, they screw with me, they’re gonna have shit come down on them like they never seen.”
“The club?”
“Stick one of us, we all bleed,” Cawley said. He tapped the tattoo. “Like cops. You understand.”
They did. Brandon got out his card, handed it over.
“You think of anything, hear anything,” he said.
“Sure,” Cawley said. “But I’m tellin’ you, best thing for that kid is, you take it away now, give it to somebody who’ll take care of it, you know what I’m sayin’?”
They did.
“It was a dog, somebody’d call the SPCA.”
They knew that, too.
They were in the driveway when Chantelle came down with O’Farrell and her mother, sister, and glowering brother. Chantelle was shrieking, saying “I want my baby!” over and over. The two women were consoling her, like the baby was already dead.
O’Farrell sidled up on the way by. “No way she sold it,” he said.
“Baby snatcher?” Brandon said.
Chantelle wailed. O’Farrell opened the car door, held it for Chantelle and her entourage. She turned back, saw Brandon. “You guys gotta find my baby,” she shouted, and dissolved into sobs and tears. They got in and O’Farrell closed the door and drove away.
“Trying,” Brandon said.
The first-floor front apartment had its own entrance at the front of the house, an ornate wooden door with a long glass window, a lacy curtain hung over it on the inside. The mailbox said M. and A. Young. Kat pressed the bell. They waited to see if it worked.
Four minutes later—Brandon was clocking it—an inner door rattled open. A woman appeared behind the gauze, peered out. Kat held up her hand and smiled.
“Police, ma’am,” she said. “Just need to ask you a couple of questions.”
More rattles, then the window door swung open. The woman stepped back and they stepped in. She was in her forties, red-faced and slightly pear-shaped, a thick hank of auburn hair tied back. She was wearing a white flower-print bathrobe and white slippers. A matching flannel nightgown peeked out from her neck. She wrapped her arms around herself like she was naked.
“Mrs. Young?” Kat said.
“Miss Young,” the woman said, scolding.
“Right,” Kat said.
Kat gave the spiel about the baby. Brandon looked around the entrance: a pair of low rain shoes, the kind you get at Wal-Mart, placed neatly on a plastic tray. A wheeled wire cart, a stack of reusable grocery bags inside. A yellow slicker on a peg.
“Do you know Chantelle? The woman on the third floor?” Kat said.
Miss Young wrinkled her nose like the milk had soured.
“We keep to ourselves,” she said.
“We?” Brandon said.
“Mother and I,” Miss Young said.
“You live here with your mom?” he said.
“That’s what I just said.”
Brandon felt himself bristle, choked it back.
“What is your first name, Miss Young?” he said.
“I don’t see that that’s any of your business,” she said.
“Investigation of a missing child,” Brandon said. “It is our business.”
Miss Young pursed her lips, irritated.
“Annie,” she said.
“Your mother?” Brandon said.
“Marguerite.”
“Just the two of you?” he said.
“Yes. Since my dad passed away.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Kat said.
“When was that?” Brandon said.
“Twelve years ago. He was killed in an industrial accident, if you want to know. On the waterfront.”
“Very sad,” Kat said.
“Your mother up?” Brandon said.
“No. I figured it wasn’t necessary for both of us to be disturbed at this hour.”
“We’d like to talk to her,” Brandon said.
Kat glanced at him, knowing he was putting the screws to the woman.
“I can tell you anything she would,” Annie Young said.
“Better to hear it directly from her,” Brandon said.
“I’ll see if I can wake her,” Annie Young said.
“Mind if we step in?” Brandon said.
“Does it matter if I do?” the woman said.
“No,” Brandon said. “As a matter of fact, it doesn’t.”
She opened the inner door, another big wooden thing with a window, grand in its day. The door opened to a parlor sort-of room, a lamp lit beside a big couch, the back of the couch draped with more lacy things.
Annie Young shuffled off. Kat and Brandon looked around.
There was a television in the corner, a big wooden console, a picture of JFK hanging above it. A dark glass-fronted armoire filled with fancy dishes. A big stuffed chair, worn into the shape of someone. Magazines stacked on a table beside the chair. Brandon stepped over.
Ladies’ Home Journal. From the nineties.
“Nice museum,” Kat said.
“Can see why they wouldn’t have Chantelle in for tea,” Brandon said.
“You’re pushing Miss Young pretty hard.”
“She didn’t seem to care that a baby is missing. It bugs me.”
“Because you’re suspicious, or because you’re pissed off by the whole situation?” Kat said.
“Makes biker boy look like a bleeding heart.”
“Gotta watch that, Brandon. Letting your emotions control your decisions.”
“Gotcha. But she’s still a snob.”
There was the sound of approaching voices from deeper inside the apartment, then the shuffle of slippers. Annie Young appeared, guiding an older woman by the shoulder. The woman was in her bathrobe and nightgown, too, gray hair sticking out. Mom looked just like the daughter, aged twenty-five years.
They both scowled. Bookends.
“You sit in your chair, Mama,” Annie Young said.
“Whose baby?” the older woman said, as she was led across the room. “That trollop upstairs? Ought to sterilize those people before they can reproduce.”
“Mama, shush,” the daughter said.
“Well, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” the mother said.
She turned and fell back into the chair, revealing mottled ankles, gray-blue veins showing on the tops of her feet. She looked at the police like she was the queen and they’d been granted an audience. Annie Young crouched by the chair, the lady in waiting.
“Mrs. Young,” Kat said.
“Do you know what time it is, young lady?” Mrs. Young said. “Respectable people are in bed.”
“We’re sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Young,” Kat said. “But this is an emergency. A baby is missing.”
“The girl upstairs? You know there’s no father.”
“Well, I’m sure there is one,” Kat said.
“Druggies and Africans. I’m glad my husband isn’t alive to see what’s happened to this city.”
“Do the Ottos bother you?” Brandon said.
“Parents keep their place well enough,” Mrs. Young said. “But those boys, the younger one, he’s headed for trouble, mark my words. I imagine the girl will just get pregnant and end up on welfare. It’s what they come here for, you know. The welfare.”
“Mother,” Annie Young said. “The police have questions.”
“You didn’t see anyone leaving with a baby?” Brandon said.
“No,” Mrs. Young said.
“Hear anything unusual?”
“Other than the usual hooliganism?” Mrs. Young said. “Foul language? Disrespect?”
“Yes,” Brandon said.
“No,” Mrs. Young said. “How old is the child now?”
“Six months,” Kat said.
“You sure she didn’t trade it for drugs or something?”
“We’re still in the initial stages of the investigation,” Kat said.
“Well, if she lost the baby someplace, I hope there are consequences,” Mrs. Young said. “Worst thing is, the children grow up just like the parents. Give that baby fifteen years, she’ll be knocked up, too.”
“It’s a he,” Kat said.
“So he’ll be a daddy. A deadbeat one. It’s all these people know. Drugs and booze and sex and not a lick of work. When I think how hard my husband worked to put food on the table, to make sure we had a roof over—”
“You’re getting yourself upset,” Annie Young said, patting her mother’s Einstein hair.
“Well, it’s upsetting.”
“That a baby is missing?” Brandon said.
“The way these people reproduce,” Mrs. Young said. “Like rabbits.”
There was a pause. Mrs. Young started to cough. Her daughter patted her back.
“What do you do for work, Miss Young?” Brandon said.
“Hanniman,” she said. “The bakery department. And I take care of my mother.”
“My husband was killed, you know,” Mrs. Young said. “Fixing a conveyor. Someone didn’t hit the kill switch. Started up and Harry was caught up in it.”
“I’m sorry,” Brandon said.
“Lucky for us he had insurance. A pension. Still providing for us to this very day.”
“That was smart of him,” Kat said.
“Not like these animals. Drinking and drugging and fornicating, not a thought for anyone or anything. Children having to see it. Crying shame, what we’ve come to.”
There was no hint of tears.
“Yes,” Brandon said. “Sometimes it is.”
They left cards again, went outside. Perry was in his SUV. He said the dog had followed another track to the basement that ended at the washing machines. Chantelle had done laundry before the party, jeans and her favorite top. “Hit the neighborhood,” Perry said, and pulled away. Kat and Brandon got in the cruiser and headed up the street.
There were two black men at the bus stop on the corner, lunch pails held in front of them. They said they hadn’t seen any baby, just their own, back at home, sleeping. The men smiled. The cops turned away.
“There goes the neighborhood,” Kat said.
“What they said when the Irish arrived,” Brandon said.
Across State Street they saw Big Liz, one of Portland’s homeless. She was pushing a cart, a bag of empty cans loaded on top. Brandon pulled up and he and Kat got out.
“You got electricity comin’ out of your eyeballs, Blake,” Big Liz said. “Everybody does.”
“Right, Lizzie,” Kat said. “Everybody does. You seen a baby?”
“A baby what?” Big Liz said.
“A baby baby, Lizzie,” Brandon said. “You know, a human.”
“Ain’t seen no humans,” the woman said. “Ain’t seen no real humans in a long time.”
“You walking all night?” Kat said.
“Yeah. The electricity, it gets you, you stop movin’. Right through the feet. Why you gotta dance.”
She shuffled her feet in unlaced Nike high-tops.
“Didn’t see anything on the street?” Brandon said. “Down there, near that green house?”
“Nah. Ain’t seen nothin’. Got fuckin’ gum, Blake?”