Free Street Dreams by Faye Kellerman

help
     and medical attention. Surely they could understand her emotional position. I directed my pleas to a girl sitting in the second
     row, left-hand side. She wore a sleeveless russet tent dress, the hemline resting against smooth thighs. She had round brown
     eyes and long, straight blond hair that reached her shoulders. A pretty little thing, even with the butterfly encased in a
     heart tattooed on her left shoulder. Her right shoulder held the name CARISSE done in florid script.
    Her eyes took me in, although as soon as the bell rang, she was out of her seat, her books pressed against her ample bosom
     and oversize belly. I called out the name etched in blue on her skin. She turned around.
    “Can I talk to you for a moment?”
    Carisse waited.
    I said, “You seemed to be paying attention … focusing on what I was saying—”
    “I’m gonna be late for class.”
    “I’ll write you a note.”
    A swish of the hair.
    “C’mon,” I prodded. “Help me out. You know who I’m talking about?”
    “No.” A shake of her head. “It’s not like I know every knocked-up girl in the city.”
    “Okay, so you don’t know her personally. But maybe you’ve
seen
a girl who fits the picture?”
    Carisse shifted the books in her arms. “Not too far from here … maybe … a couple of blocks east … maybe more.”
    “Yeah?”
    “At a bus stop at night. It’s not far from where I live. I seen this girl sittin’ on the bench. She never goes on the bus,
     and I never seen her comin’ off the bus, either. She just sits there. Like, I’m not saying she’s homeless. And I’m not saying
     she’s preggers. But she is fat and dressed weird. Just sittin’ on the bus bench, readin’ the same book. I haven’t seen her
     for a couple of weeks … maybe longer. I was wonderin’ if like … you know, something happened to her.”
    “Like what?”
    “Hey, you’re a cop. This far east … it ain’t Beverly Hills, you know. Lots of hustlers and lots of poor slobs.”
    “Hey, Carisse, I know who you mean.”
    I turned to the sound of the voice. This one had short black hair, white foundation, and black lipstick and eyeliner. She
     wore a black dress that fell past her knees. Her boots disappeared under the ragged hemline. I thought the Goth look was long
     gone, but I guess I was wrong. She stuck out her hand. “Rhiannon … like the witch in a Fleetwood Mac song.”
    Carisse rolled her eyes. “It’s really Roseanne—”
    “It’s whatever I want it to be,
be-ach.”
    “Hold on!” I broke in. “Let’s keep it friendly.”
    “Fine!” Rhiannon clutched her books to her chest and regarded me with wounded eyes. “I think I seen her, too. That homeless
     girl. She carries a purse made outta shells.”
    Carisse nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one.”
    “I didn’t know she was pregnant.”
    “I’m not saying she
was
pregnant, only that she was fat and was readin’ this book.”
    I said, “Do you remember the title of the book?”
    Carisse shook her head. “You know, she didn’t look like she was really readin’ it. Just like … looking at the pictures.”
    “Why don’t you think she was reading the text?”
    “’Cause she was moving her lips as she went through the book … like turnin’ the pages
way
too fast. And mumblin’ as she turned the pages. Like talkin’ to herself.”
    “Can you describe her?”
    “She had a pink face and she was fat,” Carisse told me.
    “She was Caucasian, then?”
    “Yeah, she was real white … like pink.”
    “Something’s wrong with her.” Rhiannon twirled an index finger next to her temple.
    “And she talked to herself?” I repeated.
    “I dunno,” Rhiannon said. “Never got that close.”
    “Like I said, she mumbled,” Carisse told me. “She dressed weird, bundled up in layers of clothing. You could tell she was
     hot. She was sweating. Her face was covered in sweat … kinda piggish looking … real pink, you know.”
    I nodded encouragement. “Eye