Milk and Honey. Faye Kellerman

agree with you there,” Marge said. “Too many people denied knowing her. And in a place with this many children, where the kids all play together, some of the neighborhood mothers would have recognized her … unless her parents kept her locked up and segregated.”

      “I don’t think so,” Decker said. “Sally’s a sweet little girl—relates well to people, talks a little, smiles a lot. She doesn’t seem like a socially isolated kid to me. Plus, in my interviewing, none of the moms I’d talked to mentioned a weird family on such-and-such street.”

      “Yeah,” Marge said. “In a small neighborhood like this, a weird family would stick out.” She furrowed her brow. “So that brings us back to the crucial question. Where the hell did Sally come from?”

      “Sophi Rawlings made an interesting point. Maybe she was a pawn in a custody dispute. Maybe Dad kidnapped her, then discovered how much work she was and dropped her off here to be found.”

      “Here?”

      “A nice family neighborhood,” Decker said. “Someone was bound to notice her.”

      “Except no one did,” Marge said.

      “I did.”

      “But you weren’t from the neighborhood,” Marge answered. “And what about the blood?”

      Decker shrugged.

      Marge said, “How about this: Dad and Mom live close by. Dad whacks Mom in an argument, panics, and drops the kid here.”

      Decker said. “But where do Dad and Mom live if they don’t live here?”

      Marge said, “There’re a few isolated ranches around here.” She looked toward the mountains. “Probably more squatters than we’d care to admit in those hills.”

      Decker nodded and said, “In the meantime, start up a Missing Person file on Sally. I’ll go to meet my buddy—”

      “The rapist.”

      “Alleged rapist,” Decker said. “You punch Sally’s description and prints into the computer. Also, contact Barry Delferno.”

      Marge stuck out her tongue.

      Decker said, “Want me to call him?”

      “No, no, no,” Marge insisted. “My past experience with the sleaze shall have no bearing on my professional duties.”

      Decker held back a smile and said, “I hear he’s doing very well since he made the switch from bail jumpers to stolen children.”

      “His off-duty car is a ’sixty-four metallic-blue Rolls Silver Cloud,” Marge said. “We’re in the wrong field.”

      “Yeah, well, we already knew that.”

      “What do you want to do with my lady on Oak?”

      “You want me to talk to her?”

      “Yes, I do. Maybe a big guy like you can intimidate her into baring her soul.”

      Decker said, “I can do it now, or I can let her sit on it and come back tomorrow. My personal opinion is to leave her alone for the night. She may see the light in the morning.”

      Marge thought, then said, “Okay, let her sit on it. But not too long.”

      “You think she’s planning a one-way trip somewhere?”

      Marge shook her head. “No indication.”

      “Great,” Decker said. “Let’s go. You drive.”

      4

      Decker stood outside the Los Angeles County Jail. It was a lousy day to dig up bones—three o’clock and the sun was still blasting mercilessly. Sweat ran down his forehead, beaded above his mustache. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face, then sat down on the lone cement bench stranded on an island of scorched lawn. Although large and looming, the gray prison building in front of him cast only a couple feet worth of shadow. No relief there. He took off his suit jacket, and rechecked his watch.

      C’mon, you son of a bitch. Let’s get it over with.

      He stood up. The bench was hot. Besides, he was too antsy to sit. A Khaki-clad sheriff’s deputy walked past him and nodded. Decker nodded back, pulled out a cigarette from his shirt pocket, and began to peel the paper, letting the tobacco shavings fall to the ground. Thirty-seven out of forty cigarettes he handled per day ended up skinned, but better that than smoking the suckers.

      Finally, the glass doors opened and Abel Atwater came out into the afternoon swelter. His former quarterback body had become emaciated—insubstantial under a blousy shirt. The top was faded stripes of orange and green, the weave of the fabric loose and speckled with moth holes. His jeans were frayed at the knees, and on his right foot was a rubbed-out suede Hush Puppy. The left pants leg, Decker knew, housed a Teflon prosthesis. His eyes were more deepset than Decker had remembered, almost sunken. His nose was longer and thinner. Limping along with surprising grace, he twirled his cane, Charlie Chaplin style. The loose-fitting shirt, the rhinestone-studded walking stick, the white bandage around his head, and the dark beard gave him the look of an Arab emir about to hold court.

      He saw Decker and broke into a wide smile.

      “Hey, hey, hey,” he said, hobbling over, his arms spread out like two parentheses. “Yo, Doc. How goes it?”

      Decker rebuffed the embrace and looked at him.

      “We need to talk, Abel.” He rolled up his shirtsleeves.

      “Hey, Doc, why the long face? C’mon, what they’re sayin’ is shit.” He got down on his knee—his good one—and imitated Al Jolson. “Don’t you know me? I’m yo’ baby.” He laughed. “You remember me. Ole Honest Abe Atwater with the ten-inch prick.”

      “Your prick got you into big trouble, Abel.”

      Abel rose. “Lighten up, Pete. You don’t think I really raped her, do you?”

      “She was full of your semen.”

      Abel drawled out, “I didn’t say I didn’t fuck her. I said I didn’t rape her.”

      Decker grabbed Abel’s shirt and pulled the thin face close to his.

      “She’s got a five-inch cut running down her cheek with twenty stitches in it, three broken ribs, and a collapsed lung from a stab wound.” He tightened his grip. “And your jism was inside of her. Now I’m going to ask you a question, Honest Abe, and I want the truth! Understand me well, I mean the truth! Did you rape her?”

      “No.”

      “Did you cut her?” Decker screamed.

      “NO!”

      “You’d better not be shucking me, buddy, because if you are, you’re gonna look back on our days crapped out in Da Nang as fond memories … catch my drift?”

      “Jesus fucking Christ, Pete. I’m telling you the God’s honest truth. I didn’t rape her!”

      Decker let go of him and stared at the broken face.

      “You’re in big trouble, buddy,” he said.

      “I know,” Abel said weakly. “I know I am.”

      “You can’t pretend that nothing happened, Abe.”

      “I know.”

      Decker placed his hand on Abe’s shoulder and led him over to the bench.

      “Let’s sit down and talk about it.”

      Abel dabbed his brow with a tissue. Despite the long, untrimmed beard and the unkempt dress, he smelled freshly scrubbed. He’d always been meticulous about his hygiene, Decker remembered. Used to groom himself like a cat. When the rest of the platoon was covered with caked-on scum, Old Honest