Street Dreams by Faye Kellerman Page B

your address. You do have e-mail,
     right?”
    “Absolutely.” He took my card without disappointment, then handed me his. “My home phone, my work phone, my cell phone, and,
     at last, my e-mail. You can contact me however you want with the details and I’ll explain how to get to my place. It’s in
     the hills. I enjoyed your company very much, Cindy. Go.”
    I gave him a slight wave and took off, feeling featherlight, despite a heavy gun weighing down my purse.

11
    J ust before roll call, I caught up with Greg Van Horn as he was signing out for his two-week vacation, the field roster marked in green highlighter.
     His face was filled with good cheer, and he had a spring in his step. Already, he had loosened his tie. I cornered him while
     he was waving his last good-byes. He frowned when he saw me, but too bad. Out there was a girl who needed medical attention.
     I gave him the slip of paper and explained myself.
    “You did this by yourself?”
    “All by my little lonesome.”
    “On your own time?”
    “Yes, sir, on my own time.”
    He was still staring at me.
    “Golly, that woman does have a brain in her head—”
    “Decker!”
    “Sorry, sir.” I stifled a smile.
    He tapped his foot. “You’re putting me in conflict, Decker, and right before my vacation. I’m not thrilled about this.”
    “Next time, I’ll try to be less effective.”
    He glowered at me, but it lacked feeling. “The case belongs to Russ, but he don’t deserve the credit. You do.”
    “It may not be anything, sir.”
    He handed me back the slip of paper. “So why don’t you check it out first?”
    “Then what if it is something?”
    “Follow it up.”
    “Should I contact Russ?”
    “Play it by ear.”
    Giving me leeway. He was being very gentlemanly. I thanked him and stowed the slip of paper in my pocket. He noticed the uncertainty
     that I felt.
    “What?”
    “This is a little different from what I’m used to. Talking to a retarded girl about babies and sex.” That sounded fearful.
     “I can do it. No problem. Just … any suggestions? I don’t want to blow your case.”
    “More like
your
case.” He held out his hands helplessly. “I’m on vacation, Decker. You got contacts in the Department. Use ’em.”

    Home had always been Decker’s refuge, but of late, it was his office as well. At the station, there were issues and problems
     and details. There were meetings with superiors, meetings with the detectives, meetings with county supervisors or reps from
     the city council or congressional districts. There was PR that amounted to a lot of BS. Smiling through all of it gave him
     one giant headache. Once he’d been able to handle it, fielding calls as smoothly as a Vegas dealer. Now he constantly felt
     distracted, and the sudden images of blood and death didn’t help.
    He took off his glasses and set them on the desktop, rubbing his eyes without relief. Rina had set up a comfortable home office
     in the guest room/den. In the daytime, the back windows showed a view of the mature fruit trees. At the current hour, the
     vista was dark. But because the room was situated next to a pittosporum tree in full bloom, sweet jasmine scents wafted through
     the open louver slats. In the peace and quiet of his own sanctuary, he could go through some of the more puzzling case files,
     often breathing life into stagnating investigations.
    He was able to keep his job and his equilibrium because he was working twice as hard as he should have been. He’d get through
     it—he had no choice, his family needed the money—but it would take a while. Rina’s confession had helped, but Decker knew
     she wasn’t being completely honest with him. By and by, it would all come out.
    “How much longer?”
    Decker jerked his head up. Rina was dressed in black sweats. With no makeup and her hair down, she could have passed for her
     twenties.
    “What time is it?” he asked.
    “Eleven-thirty.”
    “Did I say something about coming in