Carisse rolled her eyes. “It’s really Roseanne-”
“It’s whatever I want it to be,be-ach.”
“Hold on!” I broke in. “Let’s keep it friendly.”
“Fine!” Rhiannon clutched her books to her chest and regarded me with wounded eyes. “I think I seen her, too. That homeless girl. She carries a purse made outta shells.”
Carisse nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one.”
“I didn’t know she was pregnant.”
“I’m not saying shewaspregnant, only that she was fat and was readin’ this book.”
I said, “Do you remember the title of the book?”
Carisse shook her head. “You know, she didn’t look like she was really readin’ it. Just like… looking at the pictures.”
“Why don’t you think she was reading the text?”
“ ’Cause she was moving her lips as she went through the book… like turnin’ the pageswaytoo fast. And mumblin’ as she turned the pages. Like talkin’ to herself.”
“Can you describe her?”
“She had a pink face and she was fat,” Carisse told me.
“She was Caucasian, then?”
“Yeah, she was real white… like pink.”
“Something’s wrong with her.” Rhiannon twirled an index finger next to her temple.
“And she talked to herself?” I repeated.
“I dunno,” Rhiannon said. “Never got that close.”
“Like I said, she mumbled,” Carisse told me. “She dressed weird, bundled up in layers of clothing. You could tell she was hot. She was sweating. Her face was covered in sweat… kinda piggish looking… real pink, you know.”
I nodded encouragement. “Eye color, hair color?”
“Blondish hair,” Rhiannon volunteered.
Blondish hair. For Rhiannon to have noticed blond hair at nighttime, it must have meant that the woman was very blond. Also, it meant something else to me: that the woman’s hair was relatively clean. Even blond hair gets dark when it’s dirty and greasy. Neither girl mentioned anything about her smell, usually the first thing people noticed when dealing with the homeless.
“And you haven’t seen her for a while?”
“I haven’t looked for her,” Carisse said. “You asked me for ideas, I gave you some.”
“Thank you. You’ve both been very helpful.” I gave each of them my business card. “If you see her again, you’ll give me a call.”
Rhiannon squinted at the card. “ ‘Cyn-thi-a Decker.’ ” She looked at me. “That’s you?”
“That’s me.”
“How long have you been a cop?”
“Two years.”
“So you’re still, like, new at it?”
“I’ve been around,” I told her.
“You like it?”
“Very much.”
“So, like, what does it take to be a cop?”
There was the long answer. Being a cop for me meant a passionate desire to help people and a fierce determination to seek justice. It meant courage, fortitude, physical stamina, and a tolerance for long, lonely nights. It meant having a clearly defined sense of self, a scrupulous honesty, and comfort with alienation. It meant wrestling with demons in nightmares that sometimes come true. It meant all those things to me, and a lot more.
But I gave her the short answer. It takes a high school diploma and a warm body. Oh, and if you have a clean record that always helps, although it’s not mandatory.
What’s a misdemeanor drug possession between friends?
Ididn’t get a chanceto check up on the blood work.” “Okay.” Dad didn’t say more. He was expecting my next request.
I shifted my cell from one ear to the other. “I don’t suppose you’d like to make a phone call to the hospital?”
“Cindy, it’s not my place. Also, maybe Van Horn placed a call. Did you check?”
I knew Greg was twelve hours away from vacation time… not a chance. “I don’t think so. I just thought it would sound more official coming from a lieutenant. But you’re right. I’ll make my own call. Get my own feet wet, right?”
“Why don’t you coordinate with Detective Van Horn?”
“I will in two weeks, when he comes back from vacation.” Silence over the phone. The Loo wasn’t rescuing me. “It was nice seeing you this morning, Daddy.”
A long sigh breathed over the line. “What did you do after breakfast?”
“I went to Mid-City High School per your suggestion. It was a good one.” I related the conversation I had with Carisse and Rhiannon. Decker picked up on the blond hair as well.
“If Rhiannon could tell she had blond hair, it means to me that the woman probably has access to a shower or bath. Any idea of the age?”
“No.”
Decker said, “If there’s something off about her, maybe instead of homeless shelters, you should try looking into vocational schools for the developmentally disabled. Maybe the girl was well cared for, but retarded.”
“That would be so sad,” I said. “A retarded girl giving birth in the back alley of Hollywood. She must be so frightened. And what kind of chance does the kid have?”
“Some people are remarkable survivors.” A pause. “I’m talking to one of them.”
I felt myself smiling. “Funny, Decker. I was going to say the same thing.”
After such an extraordinary night, I was glad that my shift contained the usual suspects: drunks, hookers, hustlers, and other various and sundry miscreants. I rode with my sometimes partner-Graham Beaudry-who wavered between hours on the Day and Evening watch. He was one of the few men in the department whom I didn’t absolutely distrust.
Tonight was made up of banal traffic tickets and motorist warnings sandwiched in between other “hot” incidents. On the plate were a couple of alcohol-related domestics, a hysterical wife who had blown up her stove, a bad fender bender that sent a couple of people to Adventist (they would be okay), and a missing teen who turned out to be sniffing glue in her boyfriend’s garage apartment.
I finished my shift at eleven, and because the station house was so close to Mid-City Pediatric, I figured I’d take a chance and try to find out something about the baby’s blood work. I knew that Koby was my best bet for information, but I didn’t want to give the guy the impression that I was stalking him. But if I saw him, well, what could I do? And if I couldn’t get any information on the abandoned infant, perhaps I could just hold her in my arms again. Like Marnie the elfin nurse had said, babies thrive on human contact.
After checking in at the front desk, I was allowed to go up to the neonatal ward. Marnie wasn’t on shift, but Koby was. He was wearing a white coat over a denim shirt and jeans. He saw me through tired eyes and his face lit up.
“You are here. I hope it’s me and not hospital coffee.”
I smiled. “Have you gone home since last night?”
“Why? I look that tired?”
“You look fine.”
“I’m sure I don’t. Two people called in sick. I do a double shift, working with five hours of sleep.”
“That’s rough.”
“I can manage. You look lovely.”
“Thank you. I like the white coat. Very eminent.”
He smiled. “Almost like a real doctor, no?”
I felt myself getting warm. “I didn’t mean it that way at all.”
“I am teasing you because you blush so easily. I find it charming.”
“To me, it’s just annoying.”
“You are forced to wear your emotions. I can hide behind my dark complexion. I wear the white coat because I just finished up a teaching seminar with a group of nursing students from one of the colleges. USC, I think.” He checked his watch. “I finish maybe fifteen minutes ago.”
“This late?”
“Night classes… it’s part of the curriculum. I take them on rounds… the hands-on approach. Of course, all it does is scare them.” He rolled his eyes. “The hospital likes us to wear white coats instead of scrubs when we lecture. It’s ridiculous-first the scrubs, then the coat, then back to the scrubs. I change so much, I should be on a catwalk.”