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
“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
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