Milk and Honey (2 page)

Marge Dunn hummed
out loud as she walked into the detectives’ squad room. Her cheerful mood was immediately silenced by a grunt and a sneer from Paul MacPherson. She frowned and brushed wisps of blond hair from her round, doelike eyes. A big woman, tough when she had to be, she didn’t like crap first thing in the morning.

“What’s eating your ass?” she asked him.

“One doesn’t whistle at seven in the morning,” answered MacPherson. “It’s profane.”

Marge sighed. MacPherson . He was constantly forced to prove himself, and playing supercop got old very fast. Marge could understand that. Being the only woman detective was no picnic, either. MacPherson spent long hours at work. Made him good at the job, but gave him a problem ’tude. He was also constantly on the prowl.

“You been up all night, Paulie?”

“Gang shoot-out, two
A.M
., with bad-breath Fordebrand in Maui, guess who caught the call? Two DBs and a six-year-old in intensive care with a bullet in her brain—it made the headlines of all the morning papers, Marjorie. Don’t you read?”

“Not if I can help it,” Marge answered. “Paul, my man,
you’re so pale you’re starting to look white. Go home and get some sleep.”

“‘To sleep, perchance to dream…’” Paul raised his eyebrows. “I just got my season tickets to the Globe Theater in San Diego. First production’s
All’s Well That Ends Well
. Come with me, my sweet, and I promise you an extraordinary experience.”

“Pass.”

“Come on, Marjorie,” Paul said. “Expose yourself to culture.”

“I have culture.” She reached inside her desk and pulled out her flute case. “This is culture.”

“Culture is for yogurt,” said Mike Hollander, lumbering in. He settled his meaty buttocks on a chair and pulled out a pile of papers from his desk drawer.

“Good morning, Michael,” said Marge. “Did you get the invitation to my next recital?”

Hollander tugged on the ends of his drooping mustache and gave her a sick smile. “Mary and I will be there.”

Marge gave him a pat atop his bald head. “For that, I’ll serve you coffee.”

Hollander smiled, genuinely this time. “You can toss me that old doughnut, Margie. No one else seems to be eating it.”

“Righto.” She aimed and fired. Hollander caught it in his right hand.

MacPherson said, “You’re actually going to her recital.”

Hollander whispered back, “The sacrifices one makes for friendship.”

“You’re an asshole,” MacPherson said. “You listen to her produce squeaky noises and I ask, what’s the payoff?”

“It makes her happy,” Hollander said.

“Makes her
happy
?” MacPherson said. “I don’t believe you said that, Michael.”

“I heard that, Paul,” Marge said.

“
Mea culpa
, madam,” said MacPherson. “I apologize. I
don’t pick fights with women who outweigh me by twenty-five pounds.”

“Twenty,” Marge said. “I lost some weight since I broke up with Carroll. God, what an appetite that man had. I never realized how much the two of us ate.” She went over to the urn and poured two rounds of coffee, one in her unadorned mug, another in Hollander’s—a ceramic cup fronted with two 3-D breasts, the nipples painted bright pink.

“Done with the paper work yet, Paulie?” Hollander asked. “Shit, that must have been bad.”

MacPherson said, “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the DBs. Both of the punks were subhuman. It’s the little sister that burns my butt.”

“She get in the way of cross fire?” Marge asked, handing Hollander his cup.

MacPherson shook his head. “Get this. She was trying to protect her older brother—the punk. Such a sweet little thing. What a waste!”

“Where’s Decker?” Hollander asked. “He’s late this morning.”

“He took the day off,” Marge said.

“Oh, that’s right,” Hollander said. “He mentioned he was meeting some old army buddy that got himself in a jam.”

MacPherson said. “Rabbi Pete’s upstairs committing an immoral act with a minor.”

Marge smiled and sipped.

“I shit you not,” MacPherson continued. “He’s in the dorm sleeping with a kid under two. As a matter of fact, Margie, you’d better wake him up. Some dumb social worker’s going to see him and the kid together, and poor Pete’ll be charged with sexual abuse.”

“What happened?” Marge asked.

“The rabbi found the kid wandering the streets in that new development about one this morning. Brought her into the station house.”

“Which development?” Hollander asked. “There’s been a
bunch of them lately. Assholes gerrymander the district, and we’ve got all these rich boys coming in and building all over the place.”

“Manfred and Associates,” MacPherson said. “You know. The one where all the streets are trees or states.”

“The one above the old lime quarry,” Marge said.

“You got it,” MacPherson answered.

“Decker call IDC yet?” Hollander asked.

“Nah,” MacPherson said. “Too early for that. He just filled out the forms and placed her under protective custody. The kid probably climbed out of her crib and escaped through a doggy door. Pete’s hoping for a frantic call any moment.”

“I’ll go wake him,” Marge said. She placed her mug on her desktop. “Enjoy your coffee, Michael.”

Hollander said, “Thanks. It’s as close as I’ll get to tit this morning.”

She walked out of the squad room into the front reception area. A middle-aged Hispanic was gesticulating to the desk sergeant. He was beanpole-thin, his face etched with deep sun lines. The sergeant looked bored, his chin resting in the palm of his hand, his eyes looking over the head of the Hispanic to Marge.

“Yo, Detective Dunn.”

Marge waved and said, “Sergeant Collins.”

“Is Sergeant Decker around? I need someone who can speak Spanish.”

Marge said, “I’ll go find you someone bilingual, Sarge.”

“Thanks.” Collins turned to the Hispanic. “Down, boy. Over there.” He pointed to a bench against the wall. It was occupied by a biker with bulging arms blued by tattooing, and a diminutive girl with stringy hair. “There, there!”

Marge said,
“Sientese aquí, por favor.”

The man began speaking to Marge in rapid Spanish.

“No hablo Español,”
Marge said. “Wait.
Un momento. Sientese
. On the bench.”

The Hispanic nodded his head in comprehension and sat down between the woman and the biker.

Collins said, “These dingdongs speak more Spanish than English over here.”

Marge asked, “Where’d you transfer from, Sarge?”

“Southeast,” Collins answered. “Five years in that shithole. They don’t speak English over there, either. Only fluent jive.”

“Most of the people in this division are hardworking,” Marge said.

“Yeah,” Collins said. “Till they get their papers and apply for welfare. Seems like America is the land of opportunity as long as you aren’t American.”

Marge smiled, made a quick exit. Collins hadn’t been in the division more than a week, and the SOB was already bitching and moaning. He probably hated women, too. Marge shrugged him off, figuring a five-year stint at Southeast could do strange things to anyone.

She climbed up the metal staircase and opened the door to the dorm.

Decker wasn’t sleeping. He was wrestling with the kid on the floor, trying to change her diaper. From the looks of the struggle, the kid had the edge. The big redhead was so involved in the ordeal that he hadn’t even heard the door open.

“C’mon, kiddo,” Decker said. “Just onnnne more second—no. No, don’t do that. Hold still. Shit. Excuse my language. Just hold—”

The kid kicked her legs with all her might.

“Happy? You just ripped the diaper again.”

Decker tickled her ribs. The toddler broke into peals of laughter.

“Ticklish, huh?” Decker tickled her again. She spasmed with guffaws. “Now listen, buddy. I’m talkin’ tough now. I’ve got to get you protected. Let me just get this…this damn tab—this tab over here….”

The little girl ripped the diaper off and gave him a self-satisfied smile.

“God, you’re rambunctious.” He paused, then said, “And you’re a cutey, too. Are you hungry?”

“Hungee,” the kid repeated.

“Then how about we put on the diaper? Then old Pete will get you some milk while I try to wake up with a cup of coffee.”

“Hot,” the toddler said.

“What’s hot?”

“Hot.”

“Is something burning you?” Decker looked around, touched the floor. “I don’t feel anything hot.”

The baby smiled again.

“Yes, if old Pete don’t get some coffee soon, he’s going to drop on the spot.”

“Hot,” the child repeated.

“What’s hot?” Decker asked, frustrated.

“Maybe she means coffee is hot,” Marge suggested.

Decker whipped his head around.

“How long have you been standing there?” he said.

“About a minute.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to help me.”

“You’re handling her very well, Pete.”

“Get me another diaper,” Decker said. “She keeps ripping them off. I think she’s ready to be trained.”

“Tell her mother that when she comes to pick her up,” Marge said, throwing him a new diaper.

Wincing, Decker diapered the toddler, then picked her up. “This is Auntie Margie, pumpkin,” he said. “Say hello.”

“Well, hello there,” Margie said, reaching out for the child. The girl jumped into Marge’s arms. “Well, aren’t you a friendly little thing.” She smiled at the baby, then looked at Decker.

“What’s on your mind, big buddy?” she asked him. “You’ve got a hinky expression on your face.”

“What time is it?” Decker asked.

“Around seven-thirty, I guess.”

Decker asked, “Have we received any phone calls yet about a missing child?”

“Not that I know of…It’s still early, Pete.”

“When Cindy was that age, she was up at six o’clock every morning. I remember it well because
I
was the one who was up with her. It’s kind of late for a mother not to notice her child missing.”

“Kids differ. My nephew used to sleep till nine. All of my sister’s friends were green with envy.”

“Just proves my point,” Decker said. “Most kids aren’t real late sleepers.”

“But this one could be,” Marge said.

Decker didn’t answer her.

“What else is sticking in your craw?” Marge asked.

Decker said, “I found her in a pajama sleeper, Margie. I had it bagged. It had recent blood on it.”

“A lot?”

“More than a nosebleed’s worth. And none of it looks like it came from the kid. Her body was clean except for a little rash on both her arms.”

“Blood on a pajama sleeper isn’t an everyday occurrence,” Marge admitted. “I don’t like it, either.”

There was a moment of silence. Marge broke it.

“Think her mother was whacked?”

“Maybe a suicide.” Decker shrugged. “The kid’s obviously been well cared for. No superficial signs of abuse. I figure I’ll wait until nine. If no one calls in by then, we’ll do a door-to-door search where I found her last night.”

“MacPherson said she was wandering around the new development over the quarry.”

“Yep. The newest Manfred job—a couple hundred houses. Looks like I got my work cut out for me.”

Marge said, “It’s your day off.”

“Not anymore,” Decker said. “It’s okay. I don’t mind doing my bit for this little thing. All I need is a couple of hours off in the afternoon. Do me a favor, Margie. Get the kid some juice and bread or something. She must be starved.”

“Sure,” Marge said. “Want some help canvassing the area?”

“You’ve read my mind.” Decker reached for his cigarettes, then retracted his hand. “What time is it now? Eight?”

“Quarter to.”

“I’d like to pull another hour of sleep before we begin talking to the good folk, if you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead. Maybe the situation will resolve itself with a frantic phone call.”

“I sure as hell hope so. But I’m not overly optimistic.”

“Want me to punch her description into the computer?” Marge asked.

“That’s a little premature,” Decker said. “Go ahead and snap Polaroids of her for ID purposes. And if you get a chance, print her feet, also. Maybe they will match some hospital newborn file.”

“Want me to call IDC?”

Decker frowned. “Yeah, I guess someone should. If no one claims her, we’re going to have to take her somewhere.”

“I’ll call up Richard Lui at MacClaren Hall. He’s a nice guy with primo connections to the good foster homes. Did I ever tell you I went out with him?”

“Was this before or after Carroll?”

“After Carroll, before Kevin. We didn’t last too long, but we had enough of a good time that he still does favors for me.”

“Well, use the clout, woman. Ask him to call Sophi Rawlings. She’s a great lady and happens to be in the area. I think she’s licensed to handle them this young. If you
make yourself unusually charming, maybe we can circumvent MacClaren altogether and take her to Sophi’s directly.”

“No problem. Richard is wild about me.” Marge smiled at the little girl and said, “Let’s get you some grub, honey.”

“Honey!” the child shouted.

Marge laughed. “
You’re
a honey.”

“Honey!” the toddler echoed.

Decker waited until Marge and the kid were gone then sank into his bunk. He fell asleep with a smile on his lips. He dreamed of Rina—lost, lovely days that he hoped to recapture very soon.