“Okay. Now you can tell me. What’s with the photographs?”
“It happened one day while you were sleeping off jet lag. I passed a police station. I got curious.”
“About your grandmother.”
“Yes, my grandmother.”
“Does your mother know?”
Rina raised her head. “Absolutely not. You can’t tell her, Peter. Not until I get more information.”
“I have no intention of telling her anything. The less I talk to your mother, the better.”
Rina hit him softly.
Decker said, “What brought this on? Being in Munich?”
“I suppose so. The city is haunted with all my ancestral souls. They spoke from the grave, Peter. Does that make sense?”
“Some of my unsolved cases . . . they still talk to me.”
“So you understand.”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
“It was a very weird trip,” Rina confided.
Who remembers?Decker thought. The fatigue had been overwhelming. Most of the time, he was sleeping. Even when he had been awake, trudging through the wet detritus that covered the mountainous region, his thoughts had been elsewhere. Admittedly, the bitter cold had been invigorating. He wished he were there now—anywhere but back home pretending that things were normal.
Rina snuggled closer. “As I passed a police station, I thought . . . well, if not now, when?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“No. I’m not sure of anything,” Rina told him. “I lost lots of relatives in the war. There was no closure. No bodies to bury, no way of knowing exactly when it happened. Their deaths were the product of unimaginable evil. But with my grandmother . . . maybe there’s a story behind it. I can’t ask my mother about it. God forbid I do anything that would cause her pain. She’s had enough suffering in her life. But I’m a generation removed. My grandmother is my heritage, too. I feel I have a right to know.”
“And what have you found out?”
There was a pause. Then came the sigh. “Nothing. That’s the problem. I can read the words, and even understand a few sentences. But my German isn’t good enough to comprehend the full text, let alone the nuances. And even if I understood every word in the file, I’m still not a detective. I can’t interpret what it all might mean.” She ran her fingers across his chest. “I can get someone to translate the notes. But I need a well-seasoned homicide professional to give meaning to the results—”
“Rina—”
“But only if you’re interested.”
No one spoke.
Then Decker said, “I know what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“You’re trying to engage me in your business to keep my mind off my failures.”
“You didn’t fail!”
“I most certainlydid fail!”
She felt his body tighten. It had been months since the New York ordeal. It was time to come clean, even though it was bound to cause discord. She chose her words carefully, speaking in a whisper. “Peter, I don’t know what happened in the warehouse—”
“I know that. And I’m not ready to talk about it.”
“I’m not asking you to talk about it, Peter. All I want to say is . . .” A sigh. “I know you weren’t alone.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I know who you were with.”
Abruptly, Decker sat up, knocking her head off his chest. He encircled his knees with his arms and stared straight ahead. “I was with Jonathan.”
“But we both know there was someone else—”
“Have you been talking to my brother?”
Anger in his voice. Rina said, “Do you honestly think Randy would betray a confidence?”
Decker continued to direct his gaze at nothing. He didn’t speak.
“I saw Donatti in New York, Peter. He was following me—”
“What!”
“Can you lower your voice?”
“He waswhat?”
“It wasn’t like it sounds.”
“Thatmotherfuc—”
“Peter,shhhh!”
“That is it!” He sprang out of bed, threw on his robe, and began to pace. “I’m going tokill him—which is what I should have done in the first place.”
“Are you going to rant or do you want to hear what I have to say?”
He suddenly turned against her. “Andnow you’re telling me.” His voice was rife with hostility. “Any particular reason for keepingme in the dark?”
“Yes, I had my reasons. And I will tell them to you if you’d like to listen.”
Decker glared at her. He was glad that it was dark so she couldn’t see how furious he was. “What’d the bastard do? Come on to you?”
“Yes, he tried to intimidate me—”
“Thatmotherfucking son-of-a-bitch bastard! I will strangle him with my own—”
“Peter, he took a bullet for me.”
He barely heard her above his own tirade, but he did hear her. In the sudden stillness, he realized he was panting heavily. Sweat was pouring off his forehead. The image materialized in his brain—a shadow lifting up his shirt . . . the bandage around his ribs.
Now we’re twins.
“Whatdid you say?” His voice was softer now.
“I said, I think he took a bullet for me.”
He sat down beside her, his hands shaking. “Youthink?”
“It happened so fast. He’d been following me, although I hadn’t noticed it. The next thing I knew, I was pressed against the hood of a car and he was on top of me, bleeding from a gunshot wound. I know you hate him. And I’m sure you have every right to hate him. I hate him, too. But even reprehensible people can do noble acts.”
Decker was still breathing hard. “How do you know the bullet was for you? It could have been meant for him, you know.”
“Perfectly true. I’m sure he has scores of enemies. But at the time, you had enemies, too. He acted quickly, Peter. It was strictly by instinct. And now it’s over . . . all of it. So I guess we’ll never find out.”
Again the room fell silent.
Rina said, “Come back to bed. It’s only five. You can still catch a couple of hours of sleep.”
He let out an absurd laugh. Sleep was elusive under optimal conditions. Under these circumstances, it was damn nigh impossible. He longed to be next to his wife, to feel her body against his clammy skin. Still, he resisted, trembling like a leaf in the wind.
She held out the covers. “C’mon, soldier. Life is short. Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad.” He hesitated, then quickly slipped under the welcoming duvet, trying to calm his nerves as adrenaline shot through his body. “I’m just . . . shocked. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” He turned to her. “Whydidn’t you tell me?”
“Because a family was in distress. I thought it would have been a distraction. It was a judgment call. If I made the wrong decision, sue me.”
Decker slumped against the pillow. “Now here’s a sobering thought. I compromised your life by dragging you along. And that bastard saves you.” His laugh was bitter. “God almighty, I actually owe the son of a bitch!”
“I’m sure he evened the score in the warehouse. So consider the slate cleaned.”
Again he laughed—hard and angry. Suddenly tears welled up in Decker’s eyes. Before he could blink, they were running down his cheeks. “If anything had happened to you . . .”
“But nothing did happen to me.” She leaned into his body and threw her arm around his chest. “I love you, Peter.”
“I love you, too.” His body was quivering with what might have been, his nerves raw and tender. He was still angry, of course, but notquite as angry. The bastard had been good for something other than plugging him with holes.
God had His reasons.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you, love you, love you.”
“Thank you. It’s nice to be appreciated.”
Decker burst into laughter, hugging her fiercely. He remained entwined with her, neither of them talking, allowing the contact of skin against skin to speak volumes. Holding her . . . feeling the rhythm of her heart until he heard her breathing slow and lengthen as she drifted into sleep. Gently, he disentangled himself and rose from the bed.
“Where’re you going?” she said sleepily.
“I’m getting dressed.”
“It’s not light yet.”
“I’m meeting Cindy for breakfast.” He stretched lethargy from his aching bones. “I might as well get an early jump. I’ll take Hannah to school.”
“Are you sure . . .” Her voice was already in dreamland.
“I’m sure.”
“And later on, you’ll help me with Omah?”
“What?”
“My grandmother?”
Oh,that . “Yes, of course,” he said. “Anything you want.”
“I didn’t die. Stop being so nice.”
He felt himself chuckle. It was a legitimate expression of joy. Though still burdened by his abject failure—that wasn’t going to disappear overnight—he felt lighter than he had in months. In an instant, a searing holocaust of hatred was reduced to . . . well, maybe a bonfire, burning hot and bright, but controllable. Her confession had opened a pressure valve, and for the first time in weeks, he could see again with impartial eyes.
He took a bullet for me.
Potent words. They gave him a whole new perspective on things. Now, maybe,maybe, he could concentrate enough to do his friggin’ job.
6
Iwas running late,going over the canyon and into the Valley: poor form because Dad had made a special effort to meet me. By the time I got to the deli, it was past nine, and Dad was already sitting in a booth, sipping coffee, reading the Calendar section of theTimes. My father was a handsome guy with a full head of hair, although there was lots of white where once it had been orange. His mustache still had color. It was full and bushy and made him look like the macho guy he was. His cheeks were smooth and without shadow as in a recent shave. He had on a white shirt and a dark blue tie. His brown eyes went from his watch, then over the top of the newspaper. When he saw me, he put down the paper and smiled. But there was irritation in his expression.
I slid in on the opposite side, gasping for breath. “Sorry I’m late.”
Dad took off his glasses. “No problem. Bad traffic?”
“Not really. Just a late start.”
At least, I was honest. I picked up a menu and buried myself in the process of selection. “How’re you doing, Lieutenant?”
“Fine. I heard you had quite a night.”
“What do you mean?”
Dad looked at me with skeptical eyes. “The baby?”
“Who tells you these things?” I snapped. “Do you have spies planted in each station house?”
He checked his watch. “We’ve been together eighty-three seconds and already you’re sniping at me.”
I felt my face go hot and covered it with a laugh. He was right. “I’m sorry. Let’s start again.” I leaned over and pecked a kiss on his forehead. “Thanks for taking time to meet me. You’re very busy and I appreciate it. And I’m sorry I’m late. How are you?”
This time, Dad’s smile was genuine. “I’m fine, thank you very much. You look nice.”
“This old thing?” I was wearing a dark blue blouse over blue trousers and a camel jacket.
“Well, you put it together with panache.”
“Thank you, Daddy. I’m sorry I grumped at you.”
“S’right. I only found out about the baby because I went into work early today. The police grapevine was in full force because babies in Dumpsters are always big news. How’s she doing?”
“As of one last night, very well. Now all we have to do is find the mother.”
“We?” Lieutenant Decker’s eyes twinkled. “You don’t trust the gold shields?”
“Last night, I talked to the detective in charge—Greg Van Horn. You know him, right?”
“Greg’s a good guy.”
“A bit past his prime,” I said. “His words, not mine.”
“He must be close to retirement.”
“I think he dreams of golf clubs. Anyway, he said he didn’t mind if I did a little door-to-door searching on my off-hours.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t mind at all. But even if you find out something, he’ll take the credit. What are you getting out of it?”
“Goodwill from a seasoned detective who admires you, and satisfaction of a job well done. Also I care about the baby. I’m the reverse mallard duck. I’ve imprinted on the kid.”
Dad gave me the courtesy of a laugh.
“I really hope we find the mother soon. She’s probably not in a wonderful state herself.”
“You mean medically?”
“Medically, emotionally. Any ideas, Decker?”
I always called him Decker when we spoke the trade. Still, he smiled at the address.
“First tell me what you know.”
“We think it’s someone local without a car because we found a pool of blood where we think she gave birth.”
“How much blood?”
“I didn’t quantify it, but Greg didn’t think it was enough to be a homicide, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Decker shrugged.
“I agree with him, Loo. I mean, why kill the mother but not the baby?”
“Sadistic killer? A botched abortion? A bleed-out like Rina had with Hannah? She almost died on the operating table. A girl in an alley wouldn’t stand a chance. It all depends on how much blood you found.”
“It didn’t look likethat much blood. Like a little puddle.”
“Splatter marks around the puddle?”
“No . . . just an amoebic blob.”
“Drip marks to the Dumpster?”
Eureka. I had an answer for that one. “Yes, I noticed them. I showed them to Detective Van Horn.”
“Good job.”
I bit my lower lip, holding back a smile. “Still have a ways to go, but I’m trying to keep up with the experts.”
“Good Lord, I hope you don’t mean me,” Decker retorted. “Saving a baby’s life is quite an impressive feat. I’m just throwing out a few observations because you like when I do that.”
“You’re right. I do like it. Your questions hone my brain, when they’re not driving me crazy.”
“Too bad. I’m a complete package. You can’t pick and choose.”
I chuckled. A twenty-something waitress came to our table. Judging from the shadows under her washed-out eyes, she, like me, didn’t get much sleep. Neither Dad nor I was particularly hungry. The Loo ordered a half cantaloupe and asked for a refill of his coffee. I settled on coffee, a large orange juice, and rye toastwith butter and jam, if you please. I may like the underfed look, but dieting was for chumps.
Decker said, “I bet you could tell if the blood was from a birthing mother. Because the puddle might contain some of the baby’s blood as well. The hospital lab could help you out with that one. Now tell me your line of reasoning . . . why you think it was someone local.”
Anticipating this discussion, I had organized my thinking. “Why would someone choose to have a baby in thatparticular back alley? So this tells me a couple of things. One, she was scared and wanted to get rid of the kid ASAP without anyone seeing. Second, if she had any kind of resources—like a car—she wouldn’t have delivered in an alley. So maybe the girl is below driving age, or doesn’t have a car. So she walked to the spot. Meaning I’m looking for a postpartum girl who lives within walking distance to the alley.”
“Or . . . ,” Decker prompted.
“Or possibly a homeless person.”
“There you go,” Decker answered. “What’s the skin tone of the baby?”
“Medium brown. From the looks of her, she could be just about any race except for maybe Nordic. My district is a real polyglot of races.”
The sullen waitr
ess with the baggy eyes brought over our meager order. Her disposition would improve when the meal was over. Today was my treat and I was a big tipper.
After she left, Decker said, “The blood work might help you out with the baby’s race, too. If I were on the case, I’d call up the hospital lab.”
“Don’t I need some kind of court order to do that?”
“Probably. But sometimes, if you just go down and make an appearance, you can persuade the technicians to talk to you.”
Koby came to mind. I wondered if he was working today. “Right. Good idea.” I warmed my fingers on my coffee mug. “Things okay with you, Dad?”
“Things are coming along.”
I looked at my father in earnest. Over the past couple of months, he had traversed some rough roads, things he refused to talk about. He kept up a stoic appearance—big worries rarely registered on his face—but I knew better. There was always a telltale sign. The twitch of his mouth, the shift in his gaze. I switched the discussion to neutral ground. “How’s the family?”
“Great.” He sounded like he meant it.
“How’s my Hannah Banana?”
“Your sister’s scary.”
“At ten, her vocabulary is probably bigger than mine.”
“Well, it’s definitely bigger than mine.”
“Is Jacob adjusting to college all right?”
“Yes, very well, thanks.” Dad looked at me. “It’s nice of you to ask, Cindy.”
“And Sammy? Didn’t you say something about a girlfriend?” Surprise in Dad’s eyes. “See? I listen when you talk.”
“Sammy and Rachel are still an item as far as I know.” Decker took my hand. “How areyou doing, Princess?”
“I’m all right, Dad. Waiting patiently for my turn in the Detectives squad room. In the meantime, I’m studying for the Sergeant’s exam. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in school, but it’s going well.”
“Brains was never your problem.” He dropped my hand, then fiddled with his coffee cup. “Getting out at all?”
Street Dreams Page 5