“You got it,” MacPherson answered.
“Decker call IDC yet?” Hollander asked.
“Nah,” MacPherson said. “Too early for that. He just filled out the forms and placed her under protective custody. The kid probably climbed out of her crib and escaped through a doggy door. Pete’s hoping for a frantic call any moment.”
“I’ll go wake him,” Marge said. She placed her mug on her desktop. “Enjoy your coffee, Michael.”
Hollander said, “Thanks. It’s as close as I’ll get to tit this morning.”
She walked out of the squad room into the front reception area. A middle-aged Hispanic was gesticulating to the desk sergeant. He was beanpole-thin, his face etched with deep sun lines. The sergeant looked bored, his chin resting in the palm of his hand, his eyes looking over the head of the Hispanic to Marge.
“Yo, Detective Dunn.”
Marge waved and said, “Sergeant Collins.”
“Is Sergeant Decker around? I need someone who can speak Spanish.”
Marge said, “I’ll go find you someone bilingual, Sarge.”
“Thanks.” Collins turned to the Hispanic. “Down, boy. Over there.” He pointed to a bench against the wall. It was occupied by a biker with bulging arms blued by tattooing, and a diminutive girl with stringy hair. “There, there!”
Marge said, “Sientese aquí, por favor.”
The man began speaking to Marge in rapid Spanish.
“No hablo Español,” Marge said. “Wait. Un momento. Sientese. On the bench.”
The Hispanic nodded his head in comprehension and sat down between the woman and the biker.
Collins said, “These dingdongs speak more Spanish than English over here.”
Marge asked, “Where’d you transfer from, Sarge?”
“Southeast,” Collins answered. “Five years in that shithole. They don’t speak English over there, either. Only fluent jive.”
“Most of the people in this division are hardworking,” Marge said.
“Yeah,” Collins said. “Till they get their papers and apply for welfare. Seems like America is the land of opportunity as long as you aren’t American.”
Marge smiled, made a quick exit. Collins hadn’t been in the division more than a week, and the SOB was already bitching and moaning. He probably hated women, too. Marge shrugged him off, figuring a five-year stint at Southeast could do strange things to anyone.
She climbed up the metal staircase and opened the door to the dorm.
Decker wasn’t sleeping. He was wrestling with the kid on the floor, trying to change her diaper. From the looks of the struggle, the kid had the edge. The big redhead was so involved in the ordeal that he hadn’t even heard the door open.
“C’mon, kiddo,” Decker said. “Just onnnne more second—no. No, don’t do that. Hold still. Shit. Excuse my language. Just hold—”
The kid kicked her legs with all her might.
“Happy? You just ripped the diaper again.”
Decker tickled her ribs. The toddler broke into peals of laughter.
“Ticklish, huh?” Decker tickled her again. She spasmed with guffaws. “Now listen, buddy. I’m talkin’ tough now. I’ve got to get you protected. Let me just get this … this damn tab—this tab over here …”
The little girl ripped the diaper off and gave him a self-satisfied smile.
“God, you’re rambunctious.” He paused, then said, “And you’re a cutey, too. Are you hungry?”
“Hungee,” the kid repeated.
“Then how about we put on the diaper? Then old Pete will get you some milk while I try to wake up with a cup of coffee.”
“Hot,” the toddler said.
“What’s hot?”
“Hot.”
“Is something burning you?” Decker looked around, touched the floor. “I don’t feel anything hot.”
The baby smiled again.
“Yes, if old Pete don’t get some coffee soon, he’s going to drop on the spot.”
“Hot,” the child repeated.
“What’s hot?” Decker asked, frustrated.
“Maybe she means coffee is hot,” Marge suggested.
Decker whipped his head around.
“How long have you been standing there?” he said.
“About a minute.”
“I don’t suppose you’d like to help me.”
“You’re handling her very well, Pete.”
“Get me another diaper,” Decker said. “She keeps ripping them off. I think she’s ready to be trained.”
“Tell her mother that when she comes to pick her up,” Marge said, throwing him a new diaper.
Wincing, Decker diapered the toddler, then picked her up. “This is Auntie Margie, pumpkin,” he said. “Say hello.”
“Well, hello there,” Margie said, reaching out for the child. The girl jumped into Marge’s arms. “Well, aren’t you a friendly little thing.” She smiled at the baby, then looked at Decker.
“What’s on your mind, big buddy?” she asked him. “You’ve got a hinky expression on your face.”
“What time is it?” Decker asked.
“Around seven-thirty, I guess.”
Decker asked, “Have we received any phone calls yet about a missing child?”
“Not that I know of … It’s still early, Pete.”
“When Cindy was that age, she was up at six o’clock every morning. I remember it well because I was the one who was up with her. It’s kind of late for a mother not to notice her child missing.”
“Kids differ. My nephew used to sleep till nine. All of my sister’s friends were green with envy.”
“Just proves my point,” Decker said. “Most kids aren’t real late sleepers.”
“But this one could be,” Marge said.
Decker didn’t answer her.
“What else is sticking in your craw?” Marge asked.
Decker said, “I found her in a pajama sleeper, Margie. I had it bagged. It had recent blood on it.”
“A lot?”
“More than a nosebleed’s worth. And none of it looks like it came from the kid. Her body was clean except for a little rash on both her arms.”
“Blood on a pajama sleeper isn’t an everyday occurrence,” Marge admitted. “I don’t like it, either.”
There was a moment of silence. Marge broke it.
“Think her mother was whacked?”
“Maybe a suicide.” Decker shrugged. “The kid’s obviously been well cared for. No superficial signs of abuse. I figure I’ll wait until nine. If no one calls in by then, we’ll do a door-to-door search where I found her last night.”
“MacPherson said she was wandering around the new development over the quarry.”
“Yep. The newest Manfred job—a couple