Milo said, “I really am sorry, ma’am.”
The woman clutched Cody tighter. He mewled.
“Go, you are cursed!” Her eyes were blue, bloodshot, compressed by hatred.
“We’re going to leave, ma’am, I just want to make sure—”
“No! Don’t tell him!”
“Tell who?”
The woman smiled. “Like you don’t know, you bastard. He sent you!”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry for what happened but I really don’t—”
“Him!” she said. “He that would be blessed but is cursed. He that eats of the Paschal and sullies his maw with the blood of innocents.”
Milo looked at me.
The woman began growling again. On cue, Cody cried but this time she was able to still him with a steel-edged hiss. Freeing one hand, she lifted her blouse and I wondered if she’d begin nursing to flaunt her maternal rights. Instead, she stopped just short of the pendulous bottom of her right breast.
A scar, puckered and stitched as subtly as a baseball, rose diagonally from the outer left edge of her rib cage, wandering across her chest and ending mid-sternum.
I said, “He did that to you.”
The woman stuck her tongue out at me. Cody was transfixed by the gesture, staring at her, eyes wide and questioning. Extending his own pink bud and experimenting with a run across his lips.
His eyes were an identical blue hue to his mother’s. Other nuances of facial resemblance began cropping up: narrow chin, wide brow, large flat-to-the-skull ears. If he lived long enough, this chubby tot would end up a tall, rawboned man. Lord knew how his genetics and upbringing would affect his personality.
His mother turned back to Milo, keeping her scar in view. “He sent you. Be gone.”
Bitter and hostile, but relieved by suspicion confirmed. The corners of her mind tucked as neatly as her bedsheet.
Because surrender to uncertainty could be more frightening than death.
Milo said, “Ma’am, we were just following up on a—”
“Ma’am? I am She!”
Cody whimpered.
She rocked him. Spoke to his left ear. “Shh shh shh shh shh shh shh shh shh shh.”
Miraculously, that quieted him down.
Milo spotted the white plastic purse and headed for it. “Ma’am, I’m just going to check your I.D. — no, no, don’t get upset, obviously he didn’t send us or I’d know who you are.”
The woman said, “Hmm,” contemplated that logic, continued to rock her child.
Milo opened the purse, found a black plastic wallet, shuffled through the contents, examined a driver’s license. Before he closed the purse he slipped in a couple of twenties.
The woman spat. “Cursed by thy blood money.”
Milo said, “Actually, it’s holy money, I got it at church.”
“Liar!”
“Save it for yourself or buy Cody a present.”
“No! Remove the filthy pelf! You bring the leprosy of the crumbling wall upon the flesh of the anointed!”
Milo removed the money. The woman’s eyes dropped to his gun. Her forehead grew smooth. Big smile.
Keeping his distance, he waved me to the door, backed toward it, saying, “Sorry for the inconvenience.”
Just for good measure, the woman screamed louder.
CHAPTER 33
When we finally reached the bottom of the stairs, Milo said, “When you write your memoirs don’t put that in.”
Trying to make light. His hands clenched and opened, over and over. His mandible protruded. An assembly line of lumps rolled along his jawline.
We crossed the lobby of the King William, continued past DeWayne Smart’s booth. Smart called out, “Hey!”
Milo circled back to Smart’s window. “What?”
“So where is she?”
“Not our suspect.”
“That sucks,” said Smart. “For you, not her.” Laughing. His jowls were wine bladders.
“You’re a comic philosopher, DeWayne?”
“I—”
“When you look in the mirror, do you see Brad Pitt? That’s how accurate your I.D. was.”
“I—”
“Be sure to fill that prescription for bifocals. Toss in a white cane for good measure.”
“I—”
“Yeah, you.”
Back on L.A. Street, Milo distracted himself from failure by taking charge of small details. Clearing the scene with a series of clipped commands, checking if the APB on Ree Sykes had produced additional credible sightings, not surprised when the answer was no. Texting Moe Reed, he told the younger detective to rip up today’s arrest form, keep fingers crossed for a second opportunity. “And maybe pigs will indeed pilot fighter jets.”
When nothing else remained to be done, he stood watch as the cruisers and the BearCat drove away. As the last official vehicle departed, Skid Row residents began to materialize in the darkness. A glance from Milo sent several of them back inside but enough gawkers remained to set off a buzz. Then snickers.
Milo motioned me toward his unmarked and we left. Inside the car, he said, “Oletha Dreiser. Wheeling, West Virginia 26003.” Talking to himself, not me. Repeating the info, as if practicing a lesson, he began running her through the databases.
Nothing on Dreiser at NCIC, no wants or warrants locally or statewide, no missing persons reports filed.
“Not a criminal,” he said, with some regret. “Mama and child in that dump isn’t much better than wanderers in a manger, huh? We find Daddy Joe, we can build a crèche.”
I thought: Where are the wise men? but held my tongue.
“So,” he said, pulling out a dead cigar. “She’s psychotic, right?”
“Probably.”
“So time to call protective services.”
I said, “Not necessarily.”
“Why not?”
“Depends on what they can offer.”
“You think she’s fit to raise a kid?”
“Is it an optimal situation? No. But on a basic level, she’s doing an adequate job.”
“Because she feeds him?”
“Because he’s well nourished, outwardly healthy, appropriately developed, and clearly attached to her. Because ripping him away from her and stashing him in some shake-of-the-dice foster home will be traumatic for both of them and could do more harm than good.”
“Even if she is well past poco-loco.”
I said, “Even with that.”
“You’re a tolerant guy.”
“I know the system. It’s always a matter of least-terrible.”
“She’s also got a bit of a temper—”
“She had good reason to be angry.”
He frowned. “So I do nothing.”
I said, “Let’s be realistic: Even with a formal diagnosis of schizophrenia, unless there’s clear evidence that she poses an imminent danger to the baby, no court will take him away from her. Hell, even dangerous psychotics don’t get treated now that the Feds consider them another persecuted minority. What you can do is try to teach her about carbon monoxide poisoning and find her a small crib — anywhere that the baby can sleep safely other than right next to her. That will eliminate the risk of a rollover suffocation.”
“What carbon monoxide?”
I told him about the cooking stove. “Though she did have the sense to prop the window open.”
He said, “The bathroom. Didn’t look in there. Brilliant — okay, so who do I call for all this safety education if not the caseworkers?”
“There’s a juvey detective at Pacific I’ve worked with who’s smart and practical. She’ll know who to contact at Central. Want me to try her?”
“That would be nice.”
I reached D II Monica Gutierrez at her home in Palms. She promised to have her counterpart at Central, D II Kendra Washington, check out the situation first thing tomorrow, see what could be done on Oletha and Cody’s behalf.