I laughed.
“Your smile is so nice. And what are your plans?”
“I just got off work. After my stop here, I’m going home.”
“A pity. I won’t be off until six in the morning. Two camels passing through the night.”
“Are you going to be up for tomorrow’s lunch?”
“Yes, most certainly.Pleasedon’t cancel on me.”
“No problem.” I lowered my voice. “I have a favor to ask you.”
He chuckled. “What can I help you with, Cindy?”
I patted his shoulder. “You’re very nice. They’ve done lab work on the infant I brought in, right?”
“You were there when I draw the blood. What’s on your mind?”
“Is there any marker in her blood that would suggest that she is of one race or another? I’m trying to search for the mother, and the only lead I have so far is a blond white woman. The baby doesn’t look Caucasian to me.”
“That is because she isn’t, and I don’t need a lab to tell you that. She is of mixed blood-black and white.”
“Why not Hispanic?”
“The skin tone is different, and the features don’t suggest it. Hispanic infants just don’t look like she does. The thicker lips, the flaring nostrils, the broad forehead-suggestive of African blood, but it’s not as pronounced. My own siblings are mixed race. It’s not so hard for me to spot.”
“So if the mother is white…”
“Yes, it means the father is black.”
“Thanks, Koby. You’ve been a big help.”
He smiled, but it was tinged with uneasiness. He appeared to be wrestling with something.
“What?” I said. “You’re not supposed to be talking to me? Don’t worry. I won’t say anything.”
He looked around, then beckoned me into an empty hospital room. He closed the door. We were alone, but no sexual electricity this time. He was all business. “The baby. She has pronounced spatulate thumbs. I notice it as soon as she came in.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means her thumbs are short and look like spoons. Also, her eyes. It’s hard to tell because she’s a newborn, but I thought I detect epicanthic folds. I pointed it out to the resident. She agrees with my observations.”
“Okay. And they are significant because…”
“They may not be significant. We’ll know when the chromosomes are looked at.”
“Chromosomes?”
“Possibly the baby has Down’s syndrome.”
My heart dropped. “Down’s syndrome?”
“Possibly.”He smiled sadly. “I’m not sure, Cindy. I could be wrong.”
“Why don’t I expect that to be the case?”
“You’re saddened, I understand. But I see it differently. The child is different, this is true, but basically she’s healthy.” He laid a large hand on my shoulder. “So much sickness here. Life has thrown all these families curveballs. She still needs love. Hopefully, we’ll find a home that will take care of her special needs. I’m only telling you this because you are looking for the parents. If I am right-and maybe I am not-you might want to keep this private information in mind when you do your search.”
Of course, that was why he was bending the rules. Not to sadden me, but to help in my quest. The parents might be normal looking, but maybe one of them was Down’s as well. I was more determined than ever to find my little baby’s parents.
“When will the results come in?”
“Maybe tomorrow. I’ll tell you when I know something definite.”
Mixed race and one of the parentsmightbe Down’s. I knew a lot more going out than I did coming in. And wasn’t that the purpose of this visit?
“Can I hold her, Koby?”
“It’s a very busy night, Cindy.”
I stood my ground. He exhaled. “I give you five minutes. And that includes the time it takes to suit up.”
“I’m a very fast dresser.”
“Come.” He led me into the office that adjoined the nursery. He watched me with intensity as I donned the paper suit, observing my every move, but this time his eyes were not at all hungry. They held an expression of wariness. I asked him what was wrong.
He said, “You are getting attached to her, Cindy. Watch yourself or you’ll be in for a broken heart.”
“The question is, how do younotget attached to them?”
His smile was a plaintive memory. “After many broken hearts, you learn.”
Breakfast wasa quick affair-coffee, juice, and a bowl of granola with skim milk. In working mode, I dressed for efficiency: gray slacks, black ribbed crewneck sweater-merino wool because it and cashmere were the only kinds of wool I could wear against my skin-and black flats. Because I was meeting Koby for lunch, I brought along a pair of pumps and a colorful scarf to offset the look of a funeral director. Scarves were wonderful. Throw them around your neck and people thought you took great pride in your appearance.
There was just one vocational school that looked promising. Fordham Communal Center for the Developmentally Disabled sat just east of Hollywood in the Silver Lake district-yes, there really was a reservoir lake. The neighborhood was predominantly Latino, but it held smatterings of other nationalities who had gone through the portals of INS. The school’s address was a half block from Sunset Boulevard, that handy crosstown thoroughfare that began at the Pacific Ocean and died east of Dodger stadium.
I found a parking space on the side street and got out of the car, armed with a badge and medical information. The building was a renovated two-story Arts and Crafts hunter green bungalow surrounded by a porch and topped by a peaked roof. Buttermilk-colored wood trim framed the front door and encased two multipaned side windows. Leading up to the door was a lovely stone walkway. After giving the knocker a few judicious raps, I was buzzed in.
I was surprised that the house appeared to have maintained its original floor plan. There was a tiny vestibule that led into a sun-drenched living room replete with desks and other office paraphernalia. Natural light was made possible by windows and French doors in the back wall through which I could see a panoply of color-an array of flower gardens fit for any Impressionist painting. I could make out figures tilling and tending the soil.
The woman who manned the desk closest to the entry was already on her feet. She was blond and thin and appeared perpetually nervous. “Can I help you?”
I showed my badge and ID. Lapis eyes widened as she read the pertinent information. “Officer Decker, is it?”
“Indeed it is. I’m trying to find out information on someone. Who would I talk to for that?”
“What kind of information?”
“It might be personal. Are you in charge?”
“No, that would be Mr. Klinghoffner.”
“Could I speak to him, please?”
“I think he’s upstairs.”
I didn’t say anything and neither did she. After a few seconds passed, I smiled and said, “When do you think he might come downstairs?”
“Oh, I can go get him if you want.”
“Yes, I would like that, thank you.”
“Okay.” She didn’t move, her eyes nervously scanning around the room. “You can sit down if you want.”
“Thank you.”
“Okay.” I decided she wanted me to sit before she fetched the boss. There was a cozy arrangement in the center of the room-a floral upholstered sofa and two matching overstuffed chairs. I elected to park myself on the couch and sank down into the cushions. She stared at me for a moment, then bounded up to the second story.
The house still had much of its old-world charm-arched entryways, hardwood floors, casement windows, a wood-beamed ceiling, and lots of built-in oak bookshelves and cabinets. The room was square and at each corner was a work area-a desk and chair, a file cabinet, and a computer station. With the nervous woman upstairs in search of Mr. Klinghoffner, the only other person on the floor was a beanpole man in the right corner. He appeared to be in his late twenties with a short haircut and a mottled complexion. Buried in his paperwork, he didn’t bother to look at me. But that didn’t stop me from staring at him. When he did look up, he colored red and went back to his piles of pulp.