Milk and Honey. Faye Kellerman

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СКАЧАТЬ said, “No sense waking up the entire neighborhood. I’m sure we’ll get a panic call in the morning. The baby will be at the Foothill station. Spread the word, huh?”

      “Sure, Officer, we will,” Jen said.

      “I’m goin’ upstairs,” said the husband. “Back to sleep!”

      “Goodness.” Jen shook her head. “That little cutie was right outside my house?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      Jen chucked the child’s chin. “Hi there, sweetheart. Can I give you a cookie?”

      Decker said, “I don’t think we should feed the child right now. It’s a little late.”

      “Oh yes,” Jen said. “Of course, you’re right. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

      “Thank you but no, ma’am.”

      “What’s a baby doing out in the middle of the night like that?” Jen chucked the child’s chin again.

      “I don’t know, ma’am.” Decker gave her his card. “Call me if you hear of anything.”

      “Oh, I will, I will. The community’s still pretty manageable. It shouldn’t be too hard to locate his parents.”

      “Jennn!” screamed the husband from upstairs. “C’mon! I gotta get up early.”

      “What will you do with him?” Jen asked quickly. “Or maybe it’s a her. Looks like a little girl, don’t you think?”

      Decker smiled noncommittally.

      “What do you do with stray kids like this, poor little thing?”

      “He or she will be cared for until we can locate the parents.”

      “Will she be put in a foster home?”

      “Jennn!”

      “That man drives me nuts!” Jen whispered to Decker.

      “Thanks for your time, ma’am,” Decker said. The door closed behind him, the chain was refastened to the post.

      Decker looked at the toddler and said, “Where the heck did you come from, buddy?”

      The child smiled.

      “Got some teeth there, huh? How many do you have? Ten maybe?”

      The child stared at him, played with a button on his shirt.

      “Well, as long as we’re up so late how ’bout you coming to my place for a nightcap, huh?”

      The child buried its head in Decker’s shoulder.

      “Rather sleep, huh? You must be a girl. It’s the story of my life.”

      Decker headed toward the unmarked.

      “Lord only knows how you escaped. Your mom is going to have a fit in the morning.”

      The toddler tucked its arm under its body.

      “Snuggly little thing, aren’t you? How the heck did I notice you in the first place? Must have been the shiny zipper on your PJs.”

      “Pee jehs,” said the child.

      “Yeah, PJs. What color are they? Red? Pinkish red, kind of. Bet you are a girl.”

      “A gull!” mimicked the toddler.

      Decker’s smile faded. Something in the air. He smelled it now—the stale odor on its hands, on the front of its pajamas. Clotted blood. He hadn’t noticed it at first because it had blended with the color of the child’s sleepwear.

      “Jesus!” he whispered, his hands shaking. He clutched the toddler, ran back to the unmarked, and unlocked the door.

      Where the hell was the kid bleeding from!

      He placed the baby on the backseat and unzipped its pajama sleeper. He shined the flashlight on the little body, the skin as smooth and pink as a ripe nectarine. Not a scratch on the chest, back, or shoulders. The forearms and wrist were spotted with a small, dry rash, but the rest of the toddler’s skin wasn’t cut, cracked, or punctured. Decker turned the child over. The back was clear as well.

      He held his breath, praying that this wasn’t another ugly sexual-abuse case. He undid the diaper. It was soaked, but as far as he could tell, the child was unscathed. It was a she, and no blood was flowing from any of her orifices. He refastened the diaper as best as he could, then checked her throat, her head, her ears, her nose. The kid endured the impromptu examination with stoicism.

      No signs of external or internal bleeding.

      Decker exhaled forcibly. He swaddled her in a blanket, pulled out an evidence bag, and dropped the pajama sleeper inside. He buckled her in the backseat as tightly as he could, then drove to the station.

      2

      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.

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