Milk and Honey

“You’re fine, baby,” Sophi said. “Just fine.” Gently, she dabbed Dotty’s forehead.

“Hi, Dotty,” Benko said. “You did just great, honey.”

“It wasn’t her,” Dotty moaned.

“I’m sorry, Dotty,” Benko said. “I’m truly sorry. I thought maybe we had a chance … I’m sorry. This is just a little setback. We’ll find the sunnabitch and your Heather.”

“Oh, God,” Dotty wailed.

“Take it easy, honey,” Sophi said. “Drink this.” She raised the cup of water to her lips. Dotty sipped slowly at first, then gulped the water down.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” Dotty whispered.

Benko said, “You gotta rest a minute, Dotty.”

“Please, Charlie,” she begged. “Please get me out of here!”

“Okay, okay,” Benko said. “I just don’t want you to overexert yourself, you know? C’mon, Dot. I’ll help you stand up.”

“Thank you very much, Ms. Rawlings,” Marge said. “I appreciate your help.”

“You tell Detective Decker that I’m taking Baby Sally to the doctor’s tomorrow,” Sophi said. “And I’ll get what he asked for.”

“I’ll do that,” Marge said. “Let me help you, Mrs. Palmer. Lean on me.”

Benko whispered into Marge’s ear, “Please, Detective. Please! Find me that sunnabitch!”

Decker woke up at six, let the dog out, showered, shaved, dressed, then said an abbreviated version of Shacharit—the morning prayers. He’d once recited the entire service and had even wore phylacteries, but lately that seemed like an awful lot of bother for very little spiritual enhancement. So he settled on saying the Shema—the essence of Judaism—and eighteen verses of silent devotion. When he finished, he put down his siddur, then studied himself in the mirror. He patted his flat stomach, flexed his biceps. The body wasn’t the problem, it was the face. Those bags! It made him look like the big four-oh had stepped on his face years before. A pisser, since he just entered his fifth decade of life a year ago.

What would Rina think?

Shit.

Gorgeous Rina. Gorgeous young Rina. Not yet thirty, she could still pass for a high school student if she dressed simply. As Decker stared at his face, he knew he looked old enough to be her father.

“Fuck it,” he said.

He went to the kitchen, slipped four pieces of bread into the toaster, and pulled out a quart of milk. The kitchen window faced his back acreage—flat dirt fields that disappeared into mountainside. The morning summer sun was strong, pouring its thick honey into the crags and rocky crevices. The window was open, the air was dry and dusty. As he drank from the carton, he heard Ginger yapping excitedly. The barking was followed by the steady blows of a hammer, and the noise was coming from his property. From his barn.

“What the hell?” Decker said. He went out the back door and stopped short at the entrance to the barn. Abel was in the middle of the room, kneeling on his prosthesis, ripping up a rotted plank of flooring. At his side were a tool chest and a box of nails.

Ginger barked at the sight of a stranger. Decker quieted the dog and said, “Abel, what are you doing?”

“Your barn and stable are a stack of cards, Doc,” Abel said. “Floorboards warped, the stalls are coming apart at the seams. The beams weren’t fit properly. Y’all put ’em up yourself?”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Decker said.

“Getting sloppy, Doc.”

“Abel—”

“And your barn wall is Swiss cheese,” Abel said. “Full of bullet holes. Shoot-out time at the O.K. Corral, Pete?”

Decker ignored the remark. “How’d you even get here?”

Abel pointed to a motorcycle leaning against the wall.

“You biked here?”

“No, Doc. I carried it on my shoulders.”

“Don’t be cute,” Decker said. He petted Ginger and walked over to Abel, stood over him. “Let me see your driver’s license.”

Abel looked up. “What?”

“Let me see your driver’s license.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“The license?”

Abel hesitated, then reached in his pocket and threw the license on the floor. Decker picked it up, looked at it, and handed it back to him. Abel pocketed the card.

He said, “You know, I once had a good friend, but he turned into a cop.”

“Yeah, well, yesterday, you didn’t call the friend, you called the cop.”

“Well, maybe it was my mistake to call him at all.”

Neither one spoke for a moment. Abel continued tugging up on the floorboard.

“Your ceiling don’t look that hot, either,” he said. “You can see daylight through the rafters.”

“You’re going to roof my barn, Abe?”

“All I have to do is screw my leg into a scaffold jack, and a tornado couldn’t dislodge me.”

“Abe, you don’t have to do this …”

“Yes, I do, Doc. Yes, I do indeed have to do this. It serves a right fine purpose for me.”

“I never expected you to pay me back.”

“Well, you see, Pete,” Abel said, “that’s where you and I differ. I always intended on payin’ you back in one fashion or another. Ain’t got no money on me. But I sure as hell have time.”

“Let me ask you this, Abe,” Decker said. “What if I find proof-positive evidence that you did what you’re accused of doing?”

“What if?”

Decker chewed the corner of his mustache. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and kneaded it. He said, “I’ll nail you, buddy. I swear to God, I’ll nail you.”

“You find any evidence that I hurt that lady, and I’ll give you the hammer. So do your job. It don’t worry me any.”

Ginger jumped onto Decker’s chest again and panted.

“I think the critter’s hungry,” Abel said.

“Yeah,” Decker said. “C’mon, girl. Let’s eat breakfast. Are you hungry, Abe?”

“Nope.”

“Look, don’t be shy—”

“I ain’t hungry.”

“You want some coffee? I always make extra.”

Abel said, “If you come back out, you can bring me a cup.” He looked at Decker’s cigarettes. “You gonna smoke them, or just giving the cellophane a massage?”

“Take the whole fucking pack,” Decker said, tossing them over.

“No need for profanities,” Abel said. “Got some matches, or should I eat them raw?”

Decker gave him a book. “Don’t burn the place down.”

“Depends how much it’s insured for.”

“Not enough,” Decker said. He went inside and fed the dog. He fixed two more pieces of toast and brought them along with two cups of black coffee. “Just in case you changed your mind about being hungry.”

“I said I wasn’t,” Abel said, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Fine.” Decker sipped his coffee. “I’ll toss ’em.”

“I’ll take ’em,” Abel said. “You shouldn’t be wasting good food.” He stubbed out his smoke and devoured the first piece of toast in three bites.

Decker asked, “So what do you aim to do for me, Abe?”

“I figure I’ll rebuild everything from the ground up. When I’m done with the barn, I’ll move on to the stable. The whole thing shouldn’t be costing more than a couple hundred worth of lumber, maybe another hundred for the hardware.”

“I’ll pay for the supplies,” Decker said.

“All right,” Abel said. “I’ll feed and exercise your animals, if you want.”

“Sure. That’ll save me about an hour a day. If you want to take a pleasure ride, go ahead. Just do it in the morning or late afternoon. It’s too hot otherwise.”

“I hear you.”

“Abe,” Decker said, “how about if you start the job a week from now? I’ve got someone coming in from out of town this afternoon. I’m going to need some privacy.”

“I’ll be discreet.”

“No offense, but I don’t want you around,” Decker said. “I don’t want anyone around. The barn can wait.”

Abel bit his lip and nodded.

Decker said, “It’s nothing personal …”

“I know.”

“Call it quits around noon. It starts getting pretty hot out here anyway.”

“I’ll be gone.”

Decker sighed and gave Abel a firm pat on his shoulder. “Be talking to you. Hey, you want a beer or anything for later on?”

“Only if it’s dark and imported,” Abel said. “I’m picky about my brews.”

“I’ve got some Dos Equis. I’ll bring you out a bottle.”

“Thanks.”

Decker waited a moment, wishing he could think of something to say. Once conversation with Abel had been as natural as a draw of breath. But that was many moons ago.

He went inside the house to fetch the beer.

Marge showed the picture of Douglas Miller to MacPherson.

“Know this one, Paulie?”

MacPherson glanced over his shoulder. “No. What’s the piss-bucket done?”

“Kidnapped his daughter,” Marge said. “Doesn’t look familiar to you? He looked familiar to Mike and me.”

“Never seen him,” MacPherson said.

Marge rapped her knuckles on her head. “The mug books! Shit, my brain was mud last night. I should have made an appointment for the bounty hunter to come in and take a look. I hope he’s still in town.” She pocketed the picture and dialed the phone. Decker walked into the squad room.

“Ah, the man’s big day,” MacPherson said, with a leer on his face.

“You talking to me?” Decker asked.

“I believe I am, Rabbi. Correct me if I’m wrong, but is not this indeed the day that the fair Rina arrives?”

Decker stared at him. “You been listening in on my phone conversations, Paul?”

MacPherson shrugged. “I can’t help it if you tie up the party line.”

Decker said, “You amaze me, Paul. Every day you reach new heights of assholism.”

“Admit it, Pete,” MacPherson said. “We’re all voyeurs and eavesdroppers. That’s our field. Probing.”

“You eavesdropped on my personal phone conversation. Paul, that’s so … juvenile.”

“I hope you find out what’s troubling your lass.”

Decker gave him a murderous look. MacPherson winked and went back to his paperwork.

Marge hung up the phone and said, “This scumbag look familiar to you?” She tossed Decker the photo. Decker studied it for a moment, then shook his head. “Who is he?”

“He’s the asshole husband of the lady last night.”

“Oh.” Decker concentrated on the picture for a long time. “No. I don’t know him. How’s the lady doing? When you called last night, you said she was pretty upset.”

“I just got off the phone with her bounty hunter. He said she’d calmed down. He sent her back this morning. He’s still in L.A. and is going to look through our mug books. I know this joker lives in our area.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” Decker said.

“What are you doing this morning?” Marge asked.

“I’ve got a court appearance at one-thirty. I have to go downtown, can you believe that noise? The Lessing case.”

“Why aren’t they arraigning him at Van Nuys?”

“’Cause they’ve got him booked downtown. He was out on bail, and raped a girl in Wilshire Division. Shit, what is the matter with these judges? I think Lessing’s bail was only ten grand.”

“Probably the same bail as your buddy’s,” Marge said.

“Dunn, don’t start with me,” Decker said.

“Just pointing out a certain irony.”

Decker said, “Thank you, Detective Dunn, for that little lesson. I think I’ll be useful and go back up to the Manfred development right now. Talk to Patty Bingham—the one you thought was hiding something. Maybe contact a few of the neighbors we missed yesterday. Want to come with me?”

“I’ve got a date with a twelve-year-old charged with vehicular manslaughter,” Marge said.

“Tut, tut,” MacPherson said, looking up from his paperwork. “What is this world coming to?”

“See you later,” Decker said to Marge.

“Have a splendid time tonight, Peter,” MacPherson said.

“Eat your heart out, Paulie.”

A peroxide blonde opened the door until the chain stopped its advance. Her complexion was sallow, her eyes a strange shade of seawater green. Kids were screaming in the background.

“Yes?” she said.

“Police, Mrs. Bingham.” Decker showed her his badge. “I’d like a few minutes of your time.”

The green orbs began to dart in their sockets.

“What do you want?”

“It concerns a missing child.” Decker took out the photo of Baby Sally and slipped it through the door. “We’re trying to locate this little girl’s parents—”

“I already talked to the police yesterday,” the woman said. “I don’t know who this kid is.”

“Mommy …” said a tiny wail.

“Wait a minute!” the woman snapped.

Decker said, “If you’ll just take your time …”

“I said I don’t know who she is!”

Decker lied, “But I was told by a neighbor down the street that you might know—”

“Who told you that?”

“One of your neighbors.”

“Which one?”

“Uh, let me look at my notes,” Decker said, flipping through an empty notepad.

“Was it Jane?” she fired out. “Did Jane tell you I know this kid?”

Another kid screamed, “Mommy, Andrea hit me!”

“I said wait a minute!”

Decker squinted, trying to get a better look at Patty Bingham. They were still talking through the chain.

“Yeah, it was Jane,” Decker said.

“Well, Jane is a liar!”

The door slammed in Decker’s face. He thought the interview was over, until he heard the chain unlatch and the door opened all the way. Patty Bingham was wearing cutoff shorts and a T-shirt. She was a decent-looking woman and was tight in all the right places, but looked as if she’d traveled more than a few miles in her life. She seemed to be an angry woman, but her eyes gave Decker a quick once-over and her expression softened. She cocked her hip.

“Look, sir …” She let out a small laugh. “I don’t know what Jane Hickey told you, but I don’t know who that kid is. And I’ve got five of my own—”

“Five?”

“Well, three are from my husband’s first marriage. They’re visiting him for the summer. Ain’t that a riot! What did you say your name was?”

The phone rang.

“Want me to get that, Patty?” yelled another voice.

“Yeah.” She faced Decker. “Your name?”

Decker showed her his badge again.

“Jane has a kind of big mouth,” Patty said. “Know what I mean?”

“But why would Jane say you knew this kid if you didn’t?” Decker asked. “Please Mrs. Bingham, the kid’s in a foster home, and we don’t know who her parents are. If her parents don’t want her—”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Patty said. She turned red.

“Why?” Decker asked.

“I mean … who wouldn’t want such a cute kid like that?”

“Some parents are very strange.”

“Ain’t that the truth. Want some coffee? We could drink in the backyard. Ain’t so noisy back there.”

“No thank you, Mrs. Bingham. So you have no idea who she belongs to?”

“No idea.”

“Does she look like anyone you know around the neighborhood?”

“Nope. Sure you don’t want to come in for a cup of coffee?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass,” Decker said. “I still have quite a few more doors to knock on. Take one more look.”

“It won’t do any good.”

“Humor me,” Decker said.

Patty gave a cursory glance at the photo, then shook her head.

Decker said, “I just hate to see such a cute little kid like her in a foster home.”

“I’m sure her parents will turn up,” Patty said.

“I don’t think so,” Decker said.

Patty bit her thumbnail. “Well, it’s not my problem if they don’t. I’m not the savior of the world, you know.”

Decker said. “Maybe you want to keep the photo, just in case—”

“Waste of time.”

“Please. Just show it to your neighbors.”

Patty bit her thumbnail again. “You’re a stubborn man.” She took the photo, looked at it, and stuck it in her hip pocket.

Decker said, “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Bingham.”

“Sure. And don’t listen to Jane. She’s got a big mouth.”

Decker smiled and walked away. Once inside the unmarked, he radioed in a request for the address of a Mrs. Jane Hickey. She lived a block and a half away, one of the houses where no one had been home yesterday. This morning she was outside, watering her small patch of front lawn, wearing a sunsuit. Her hair was wrapped in a kerchief, her face was deeply tanned.

“Mrs. Hickey?” Decker said. “I’m Sergeant Peter Decker, LAPD. I was wondering if I could have a couple of words with you.”

Jane looked at the badge. “What do you want?”

“I just spoke with one of your neighbors, Patty Bingham,” Decker said. He pulled out another picture of Baby Sally. “I’m trying to identify this little girl and locate her parents. I showed the picture to Mrs. Bingham, and she said it looked familiar to her, but she couldn’t place it. Do you have any idea who this child might be?”

Jane eyed the picture and laughed.

“What is it?” Decker asked.

“She looks a little like Patty’s youngest,” Jane said.

Decker’s eyes widened.

Jane said, “Of course, it isn’t Andrea.”

“Do they look a lot alike?”

“Just a little around the eyes … and the hair.” Jane handed the picture back to Decker. “All kids that age kinda look alike. Chubby little faces … you know. I don’t know who this one is, though.”

“Never saw her around the neighborhood?”

“No,” Jane said.

“You’re sure?”

“There’s a lot of kids around here,” Jane said. “I’m not positive that I’ve never seen her, but I don’t know the kid personally.”

Decker said, “Thank you for your time.”

He drove back to the Bingham residence.

“You again?” Patty said, when she saw him at the door. But she was smiling.

“I think I will have that cup of coffee,” Decker said.

Patty’s smile turned to a grin. “Why don’t you come around through the side? I’ll meet you at the back.”

“I don’t mind drinking with all the noise,” Decker said. “I like kids.” He walked inside before Patty could object.

The house was center-hall plan—living room on the left, dining area to the right. The living room was sparsely furnished and sterile—a white velvet sofa and matching love seat, a glass coffee table, and a fireplace that had never been used. The dining area held a fake wood-grain Formica table and eight chairs. Through the dining room was a kitchen stocked with all the latest appliances, the countertops white Formica, one section already marred by a burn mark. The cabinets were new, but the finish was cheap and full of varnish bubbles. Right off the kitchen was the family room. It was piled high with kids and mess—laundry, toys, scraps of food. The TV was blaring. Three older children were slouched on a brown-and-white plaid sofa accented with Naugahyde straps. A four-year-old was sitting cross-legged on the wall-to-wall brown shag carpet.

“Sure you want to drink coffee with all this noise going on?”

“Where’s the fifth?” Decker asked.

“Huh?”

“The fifth kid,” Decker said. “I only count four.”

“Oh,” Patty looked around. “Brian, go find the baby.”

“I’m watchin’—”

“I said, find the baby,” Patty demanded. “Shit. I’m always looking for one of ’em.”

A boy of around ten slipped off the couch, a perpetual sulk plastered on his face.

“Who’s he?” asked one of the older girls. Her hair was cut short, and she had braces on her teeth.

“A cop,” Patty said. “I’m giving him some coffee. You take cream?”

“Black.”

“Cops can drink when they’re on duty?” the girl asked skeptically.

“If it’s coffee,” Decker said.

“Mind your own business, Karen,” Patty said.

“I was just asking,” Karen whined. “Geez.”

Brian walked in, carrying a two-year-old. She was wearing nothing but a diaper. Decker stared at the face. Old Jane had a good eye. There was a resemblance. It wasn’t unusually strong, it wasn’t uncanny, but both little girls shared a certain look.

“That’s the little one?” Decker asked.

“My bundle of trouble,” Patty said. “Here’s your coffee.”

“Thanks.” Decker kept glancing at the baby as he drank. Maybe it was the playful look in the baby’s eyes. Sally had playful eyes.

“So,” Patty said. “How long have you been a cop?”

Decker gulped the coffee as fast as he could. “Too long.”

“Seen it all, haven’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So have I,” Patty said.

“Give me a break,” Brian muttered.

“Keep your damn thoughts to yourself,” Patty said.

Decker put the mug on the countertop. “Thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Bingham. I’ve got to go now.”

“You’re a fast drinker.” Patty nudged him in the ribs. “Hope you don’t do everything that fast.”

Decker groaned inwardly.

“How ’bout a refill?” Patty said.

“No thanks.”

The air conditioner suddenly blasted cold air atop his head.

“Gotta go,” Decker said.

Patty said, “Hey, maybe I’ll see you around, huh?”

Karen rolled her eyes.

Decker said, “Maybe.”

He left as quickly as he could.

8

“How was Patty Bingham?” Marge asked.

Decker loosened his tie and said, “Patty has strong, unfulfilled sexual needs.”

“What?” Hollander looked up from his paperwork. “What’s this about unfulfilled sexual needs?”

Marge said, “Go back to sleep, Mike.”

“A crime-lab report came in for you, Pete,” Hollander said. “It’s on your desk.”

“Thanks,” Decker said. He sat down, opened a bottle of aspirin, and swallowed a couple of tablets without water.

“Unfulfilled needs, huh?” said Marge.

“Can I get this woman’s phone number?” Hollander asked.

“You wouldn’t want it,” Decker said. “She’s a piece of work.” To Marge, he said, “Her youngest kid looks a little like Sally.”

“Is that significant?” Marge asked.

“No, not really,” Decker said. “Just a point of observation. As far as Patty goes, maybe she does know who Sally is, maybe she doesn’t. I had a hard time reading her, because she was coming on to me so strongly.”

“Is she listed in the book?” Hollander said.

Decker said, “I talked to some more neighbors. No one knows Baby Sally by name.”

Marge shrugged. Decker broke the seal on the manila envelope. He pulled out several sheets of paper and began to scan them.

“What did you order?” Marge asked.

“Lab report from the scene of my friend’s crime.”

“Still delusional,” Marge said.

“A little delusion never hurt anyone.” He read on. “They didn’t lift any prints off the shiv. It was cleaned.”

“Your friend wiped it,” Marge said.

“Why would he wipe the shiv?” Decker said. “Supposedly it was his shiv, not hers. Of course it would have his prints on it. Seems to me he’d just stick it back in its sheath and leave.”

“Decker,” Marge said. “Watch TV. Criminals clean their weapons.”

Decker said, “Let’s reenact this. My friend rapes and cuts this girl. He wipes the shiv and puts it on the table. Now, presumably, he’s getting ready to go and intends to take the shiv with him.”

“Okay,” Marge said.

“Now if you were cut like she was, you’d scream, right? You couldn’t help yourself.”

“I would think so.”

“So say she screamed when he sliced her. Are you going to wipe your shiv calmly and lay it on the table, or are you going to get the hell out of there, figuring her screaming may have alerted someone?”

“He was cocky. Or he was a psycho who enjoyed watching her suffer.”

“I can’t buy that,” Decker said. “Margie, he’s seen it all—arms and legs and shit blasted all over the place, moaning lumps that used to be people. Some guys got off on torturing anything with slanted eyes. Blood lust or they just went nuts. Not Abel … not Abel.”

Decker covered his mouth, felt himself breathing through his hands.

“You all right?” Marge said.

“Yeah,” Decker said quietly. He wiped his forehead with his jacket sleeve. “Logic tells me that a true rape-o would leave as soon as he was done and worry about cleaning the knife another time. And consider this. His prints were found elsewhere—all over the apartment, as a matter of fact. But not on the weapon.”