Milk and Honey

“Have you taken her to a doctor yet, Sergeant?” Sophi asked.

“No.”

“I’ll take her this afternoon.”

“Personally?”

“This young I take them personally.”

“Thank you, Ms. Rawlings,” Decker said. “And I’ll need a blood sample.”

“May I ask why?”

Decker said, “There was blood on her pajamas when I found her. So far as I could ascertain, her body is free from abuse or injury, so I don’t think the blood is hers. But I want to be certain.”

“Oh boy.” Sophi paused. “Whose blood is it?”

Decker shrugged.

“Something’s happened to her mother,” Sophi stated.

“Maybe.”

“Or father,” Sophi added. “Don’t rule out the possibility that she was abducted by her father and he turned her loose when he saw how much work babies can be.”

“Good point,” Decker said. “’Course, that still doesn’t explain the blood.”

Sophi looked at the child and said, “We’re talking too freely. They understand a lot at this age.”

Decker nodded.

“I’ll take good care of her,” Sophi said.

Decker smiled sadly, then said, “Ms. Rawlings, she has a little rash on both her arms. Have the doc check that out for me.”

“Sure,” Sophi said. “Did you name her, Sergeant Decker?”

“You name her, Ms. Rawlings.”

“How ’bout Sally?”

“Sally,” Decker said. “Sally’s a good name.” He stroked the silky little cheek. “Behave yourself, Sally. You hear?”

The toddler smiled at him, then burrowed her brow in Sophi’s inviting bosom.

Decker walked back to the car.

“When are you meeting your scumbag friend?” Marge asked Decker.

“Around three.”

She switched into the left lane of the freeway and floored the accelerator. The 210 was empty today, the mountains flanking the asphalt abloom with flowers and shimmering in the heat. It was already late June; summer had overslept this year, but the high temperatures this week had finally marked its awakening. The mercury was already past 90. Decker turned up the air-conditioning.

“And this scumbag was an army buddy of yours,” Marge said.

“Yep. Stop calling him a scumbag.”

“Hey, that’s what we’ve always called rapists.”

“Alleged rapist.”

“Shit.” Marge passed a big rig and rode the tail wind. “Now you’re playing lawyer on me. What was his excuse? ‘She asked for it,’ or ‘You’ve got the wrong guy’?”

“You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Figures.” Marge shook her head. “He’s a scumbag, Pete. Don’t get sucked up by him because he once saved your life or something.”

“He never saved my life.” Decker took out a cigarette.

“You’re smoking. I hit a nerve.”

“Did you bring a map of the Manfred development?” Decker asked.

“It’s in my purse. About two hundred and fifty houses. Hope you brought a comfortable pair of shoes.”

“I’m starving,” Decker said.

“Want to stop at a Seven-Eleven?”

“Not enough time,” Decker said. “And that’s why I’m smoking. Not because you hit any nerve, lady.”

“Peace, bro.”

Decker laughed.

The car exited at Deep Canyon Road—a main thoroughfare that traversed the mountain-pocket communities of the Foothill Division of the LAPD. The road was narrow and winding, but as it hit the business district, it spread into six lanes. The unmarked passed through the shopping district—discount dress outlets, fast-food drive-ins, a Suzuki dealership, Mexican cantinas, and bars built for drinking, not mating. The retail stores soon yielded to the wholesalers—lumberyards and brickyards, roofing supplies, warehouses. Beyond the warehouses was residential land—small wood-framed houses, and larger ranches. Churches stood like watchtowers every few miles.

Decker had bought empty acreage in the district years ago, right after his divorce. The land had appreciated, but not as much as property in the affluent parts of L.A. But he liked the open space—his ranch was zoned for horses—liked the mountains and the convenience of being fifteen minutes from work.

They passed the turnoff for Yeshivas Ohavei Torah, a religious college for Jewish men—Jewtown, the other cops called it. Women also lived on the premises, with their husbands or fathers. Rina Lazarus had been an anomaly—the sole widow. The first time Decker had ever stepped foot in the place had been two years ago. He’d been the cop assigned to a nasty rape case, Rina had been his star witness.

Two years ago, and such significant change had overtaken his life.

Rina. She was the kind of woman men would murder for. And there she’d been, locked up in that protective, religious environment, oblivious to her bewitching powers. Her lack of guile made her even more appealing to Decker, and he moved in where others had feared to tread. But there were trade-offs. Rina wanted not only a Jewish man, but a religious one.

Baptist-bred Decker, now a frummie—a religious Jew. He’d had lots of second thoughts about becoming Jewish, let alone Orthodox. The extent of his observance had been a major source of conflict between them. How committed was he? Rina had decided to find out. She left the yeshiva—left him—and moved to New York a year ago, claiming he needed to be alone to make his own personal choices.

Six months later, away from her, away from the pressure, Decker arrived at a decision. He liked Judaism—his own modified version. He’d be observant most of the time, but would bend the letter of the law when it seemed right to do so. He explained his convictions to Rina one night in a three-hour phone conversation. She said it was something she could live with.