Free Street Dreams by Faye Kellerman Page A

color, hair color?”
    “Blondish hair,” Rhiannon volunteered.
    Blondish hair. For Rhiannon to have noticed blond hair at nighttime, it must have meant that the woman was very blond. Also,
     it meant something else to me: that the woman’s hair was relatively clean. Even blond hair gets dark when it’s dirty and greasy.
     Neither girl mentioned anything about her smell, usually the first thing people noticed when dealing with the homeless.
    “And you haven’t seen her for a while?”
    “I haven’t looked for her,” Carisse said. “You asked me for ideas, I gave you some.”
    “Thank you. You’ve both been very helpful.” I gave each of them my business card. “If you see her again, you’ll give me a
     call.”
    Rhiannon squinted at the card. “‘Cyn-thi-a Decker.’” She looked at me. “That’s you?”
    “That’s me.”
    “How long have you been a cop?”
    “Two years.”
    “So you’re still, like, new at it?”
    “I’ve been around,” I told her.
    “You like it?”
    “Very much.”
    “So, like, what does it take to be a cop?”
    There was the long answer. Being a cop for me meant a passionate desire to help people and a fierce determination to seek
     justice. It meant courage, fortitude, physical stamina, and a tolerance for long, lonely nights. It meant having a clearly
     defined sense of self, a scrupulous honesty, and comfort with alienation. It meant wrestling with demons in nightmares that
     sometimes come true. It meant all those things to me, and a lot more.
    But I gave her the short answer. It takes a high school diploma and a warm body. Oh, and if you have a clean record that always
     helps, although it’s not
mandatory.
    What’s a misdemeanor drug possession between friends?

8
    I didn’t get a chance to check up on the blood work.”
    “Okay.” Dad didn’t say more. He was expecting my next request.
    I shifted my cell from one ear to the other. “I don’t suppose you’d like to make a phone call to the hospital?”
    “Cindy, it’s not my place. Also, maybe Van Horn placed a call. Did you check?”
    I knew Greg was twelve hours away from vacation time … not a chance. “I don’t think so. I just thought it would sound more
     official coming from a lieutenant. But you’re right. I’ll make my own call. Get my own feet wet, right?”
    “Why don’t you coordinate with Detective Van Horn?”
    “I will in two weeks, when he comes back from vacation.” Silence over the phone. The Loo wasn’t rescuing me. “It was nice
     seeing you this morning, Daddy.”
    A long sigh breathed over the line. “What did you do after breakfast?”
    “I went to Mid-City High School per your suggestion. It was a good one.” I related the conversation I had with Carisse and
     Rhiannon. Decker picked up on the blond hair as well.
    “If Rhiannon could tell she had blond hair, it means to me that the woman probably has access to a shower or bath. Any idea
     of the age?”
    “No.”
    Decker said, “If there’s something off about her, maybe instead of homeless shelters, you should try looking into vocational
     schools for the developmentally disabled. Maybe the girl was well cared for, but retarded.”
    “That would be so sad,” I said. “A retarded girl giving birth in the back alley of Hollywood. She must be so frightened. And
     what kind of chance does the kid have?”
    “Some people are remarkable survivors.” A pause. “I’m talking to one of them.”
    I felt myself smiling. “Funny, Decker. I was going to say the same thing.”

    After such an extraordinary night, I was glad that my shift contained the usual suspects: drunks, hookers, hustlers, and other
     various and sundry miscreants. I rode with my sometimes partner—Graham Beaudry—who wavered between hours on the Day and Evening
     watch. He was one of the few men in the department whom I didn’t absolutely distrust.
    Tonight was made up of banal traffic tickets and motorist warnings sandwiched in between other