Chapter One
I saw him frantically waving the white flag, a man
admitting defeat. As I pulled the cruiser into one of the
alley's parking spaces, blocking a silver Mercedes S500, I
realized that the banner was, in fact, a napkin. He wore a
solid wall of white, the hem of a long, stained apron
brushing his white jeans midshin. Though it was night, I
could see a face covered with moisture. Not a surprise
because the air was a chilly mist: typical May-gloom
weather in L.A. I radioed my whereabouts to the dispatcher
and got out, my right hand on my baton, the other swinging
freely at my side. The alley stank of garbage, the odor
emanating from the trash bins behind the restaurant. The
flies, normally shy in the dark, were having a field day.
The rear area of The Tango was illuminated by a strong
yellow spotlight above the back door. The man in white was
short, five-seven at the most, with a rough, tawny
complexion, a black mustache, and hands flapping randomly.
He was agitated, talking bullet-speed Spanish. I picked up
a few words, but didn't ask him to stop and translate,
because I heard the noise myself-the highpitched wails of
a baby.
"Where?" I yelled over his words. "Dónde?"
"Aquí, aquí!" He was pointing to an army-green Dumpster
filled to the brim with blue plastic refuse bags.
"Call 911." I ran to the site and pulled out several bags,
tearing one open and exposing myself to a slop of wilted
salad greens, mushy vegetables, and golf balls of gray
meat and congealed fat. As I sifted through the trash, my
clean, pressed uniform and I became performance art, the
deep blue cloth soaking up the oils and stains of
previously pricey edibles. "I need help! Necesito ayuda!
Ahorita."
"Sí, sí!" He dashed back inside.
The crying was getting louder and that was good, but there
was still no sign of the wail's origin. My heart was
slamming against my chest as I sorted through the top
layer of bags. The bin was deep. I needed to jump inside
to remove all the bags, but I didn't want to step on
anything until I had checked it out. Three men came
running out of the back door.
"Escalera!"-a ladder-I barked. "Yo necisito una escalera."
One went back inside, the other two began pulling out
bags.
"Careful, careful!" I screamed. "I don't know where it
is!" I used the word "it" because it could have been a
thrown-away kitten. When agitated, felines sound like
babies. But all of us knew it wasn't a cat.
Finally, the ladder appeared and I scurried up the steps,
gingerly removing enough bags until I could see the
bottom, a disc of dirty metal under the beam of my
flashlight. I went over legs first and, holding the rim
with my hands, lowered myself to the bottom. I picked a
bag at random, checked inside, then hoisted it over the
top when I satisfied myself that it didn't contain the
source of the noise.
Slow, Cindy, I told myself. Don't want to mess this up.
With each bag removed, I could hear myself getting closer
to the sound's origin. Someone had taken the time to bury
it. Fury welled inside me, but I held it at bay to do a
job. At the bottom layer, I hit pay dirt-a newborn girl
with the cord still attached to her navel, her face and
body filthy, her eyes scrunched up, her cries strong and
tearless. I yelled out for something to wrap her in, and
they handed me a fresh, starched tablecloth. I wiped down
the body, cleaned out the mouth and nose as best as I
could, and bundled her up-umbilicus and all. I held her up
so someone could take her from me. Then I hoisted myself
up and out.
The man who had flagged me down offered me a wet towel. I
wiped down my hands and face. I asked him his name.
"Martino Delacruz."
"Good job, Señor Delacruz!" I smiled at him. "Buen
trabajo."
The man's eyes were wet.
Moments later, the bundle was passed back to me. I felt
grubby holding her, but obviously since I was the only
woman in the crowd, I was supposed to know about these
kinds of things.
Actually, I did know a thing or two about infants, having
a half sister eighteen years my junior. Her mother, Rina-
my stepmother -had become very ill after childbirth and
guess who stepped up to the plate when my father was in a
near state of collapse? (Who could have blamed him? Rina
almost died.)
The positive side was the sisterly bonding, at least on my
part. Hannah Rosie Decker was my only blood sibling, and
they didn't come any cuter or better than she. I adored
her. Matter of fact, I liked my father's family very much.
Rina's sons were great kids and I loved them and respected
them as much as anyone could love and respect step-
relatives. Rina took wonderful care of my father, a feat
worth noting because Dad was not the easiest person to get
along with. I knew this from firsthand experience.
"Did anyone call 911?"
"Yo hable." Delacruz handed me another clean rag to wipe
my dirty face.
"Thank you, señor." I had put a clean napkin over my
shoulder and was rocking the baby against my chest. "If
you can, get some warm sugar water and dunk a clean napkin
into it. Then bring it to me."
The man was off in a flash. The baby's cries had quieted
to soft sobs. I suddenly noticed that my own cheeks were
warm and wet, thrilled that this incident had resolved
positively. Delacruz was back with the sugar water-soaked
napkin. I took it and put the tip of a corner into her
mouth. Immediately, she sucked greedily. In the distance I
heard a wail of sirens.
"We've got to get you to the hospital, little one. You're
one heck of a strong pup, aren't you?"
I smelled as overripe as rotten fruit. I placed the infant
back into Delacruz's arms. " Por favor, give her to the
ambulance people. I need to wash my hands."
He took the bundle and began to walk with her. It was one
of those Kodak moments, this macho man cooing in Spanish
to this tiny, displaced infant. The job had its
heartbreak, but it also had its rewards.
After rotating my shoulders to release the tension, I went
through the back door of The Tango and asked one of the
dishwashers where I could clean up. I heard a gasp and
turned around. A man wearing a toque was shooing me away
with dismissive hands. "Zis is a food establishment! You
cannot come in here like zat!"
"Someone dumped a baby in the trash outside." My stare was
fierce and piercing. "I just rescued her by opening up
fifteen bags of garbage. I need to wash my hands!"
Toque was confused. "Here? A bébé?"
"Yes, sir! Here! A bébé!" I spotted a cloud of suds that
had filled up a sink. Wordlessly, I walked over and
plunged my hands inside very warm water. What the heck!
All the china went into a dishwasher anyway, right? After
ridding my hands of the grime, I ran the cold water full
blast and washed my face. One of the kitchen workers was
nice enough to offer me a clean towel. I dried myself off
and looked up.
The ambulance had arrived, red strobe lights pulsing
through the windows. I pointed to Mr. Toque and gave him
my steely-eyed look. "Like heartburn, I'll be back. Don't
go anywhere."
The EMTs had already cut the cord and were cleaning her
up. I regarded the medics as they did their job. A sturdy
black woman was holding the baby in her arms while a thin
white kid with a consumptive complexion was carefully
wiping down the infant's face. Both were gloved.
"How's she doing?" I asked.
They looked up. The thin kid smiled when he saw me. "Whew,
you musta been hungry."
The kid's name tag said B. HANOVER. I gave him a hard
stare and he recoiled. "Jeez. Just trying out a little
levity, Officer. It breaks the tension."
"How's she doing?" I repeated.
The woman answered. Her name was Y. Crumack. "Fine, so
far ... a success story."
"That's always nice."
The infant's placenta had been bagged and was resting on
the ground a couple of feet away. It would be taken to a
pathology lab, the tissue examined for disease and genetic
material that might identify her. For no good reason, I
picked up the bag.
Crumack said, "We'll need that. It has to be biopsied."
"Yeah, I know. Where are you taking her?"
"Mid-City Pediatric Hospital."
"The one on Vermont," I said.
"Only one I know," Hanover said. "Any ideas about the
mom?"
"Not a clue."
"You should find her," Hanover informed me. "It would help
everyone out."
"Wow, I hadn't thought about that," I snapped. "Thanks for
sharing."
"No need to get testy," Hanover sneered.
Crumack opened the back door, strapping the baby in an
infant seat. The wailing had returned. I assumed that to
be a positive sign. I gave her the bagged placenta and she
placed it in the ambulance.
"She sounds hungry," I said.
"Starved," Crumack answered. "Her abdomen is empty."
"Her head looks ... I don't know ... elongated, maybe?
What's that all about?"
"Probably from being pushed out of the birth canal. Main
thing is, it isn't crushed. She was real lucky,
considering all the things that could have gone wrong. She
could've swallowed something and choked; she could've
suffocated; she could've been crushed. This is an A-one
outcome." She patted my shoulder. "And you're part of it."
I felt my eyes water. "Hey, don't look at me, thank Señor
Delacruz," I told her. "He's got good ears."
The man knew enough English to recognize a compliment. His
smile was broad.
"Any idea how many hours she's been alive?" I asked the
techs.
Hanover said, "Her body temperature hasn't dropped that
much. Of course, she was insulated in all that garbage.
I'd say a fairly recent dump."
"So what are we talking about?" I asked. "Two hours? Four
hours?"
"Maybe," Crumack said. "Six hours, max."
I checked my watch. It was ten-thirty. "So she was dumped
around four or five in the afternoon?"
"Sounds about right." Crumack turned to his
partner. "Let's go."
I called out, "Mid-City Pediatric!"
Hanover reconfirmed it, slid behind the wheel, and shut
the door, moving on out with sirens blaring and lights
blazing. My arms felt incredibly empty. Although I rarely
thought about my biological clock-I was only twenty-eight-
I was suddenly pricked by maternal pangs. It felt good to
give comfort. Long ago, that was my primary reason for
becoming a cop.
The clincher was my father, of course.
He had discouraged me from entering the profession. Being
the ridiculously stubborn daughter I was, his caveats had
the opposite effect. There were taut moments between us,
but most of that had been resolved. I truly loved being a
cop and not because I had unresolved Freudian needs.
Still, if I had been sired by a "psychologist dad" instead
of a "lieutenant dad," I probably would have become a
therapist.
I unhooked my radio from my belt and called the
dispatcher, requesting a detective to the scene.