“It’s going to be all right, Sarah. You just have to talk to the nice police officer. And you have to be honest.”

No response from Sarah. I said, “Does your tummy hurt, honey?”

A slight nod of the head.

“We’re going to take you to a doctor to fix that, okay?”

Silence.

“Do you know why your tummy hurts?” I pressed on.

She didn’t answer, but I noticed that she had turned her knees inward. Her pink cheeks had become damp with tears. I said, “The baby is fine, Sarah. It’s a beautiful, healthy girl. And maybe one day, your sister, Louise, will take you to see her.”

She raised her head and glanced at me. Then she dropped her chin to her chest.

Louise broke in. “Sarah, whodidthis to you?”

I squeezed Louise’s arm. She exhaled with awhoosh,shook me off, and stomped off to the other side of the room. Though I really wanted to ask Sarah about her sexual experience, I knew my limitations. This little girl required a specialist. As a police officer, I was concerned with only one thing: if the sex was forced or not. But right now, there were more pressing issues at stake-her health, confirmation that she was the mother, legal ramifications of her act of child endangerment. I decided to forgo the questioning until I had notified the proper channels.

And until I talked to Dad.

“I think we should take her to the hospital now. I’ll call up my sergeant and have someone meet us down there. We should probably get in touch with someone from Mental Health. Does she have a psychologist?”

“She has every single specialist in the world. She’s been well taken care of.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Will I need a lawyer?” Louise bit hard on a thumbnail.

“If you have one, it would be a good idea to call him up.”

Another heavy sigh.

I said, “She’ll be okay.”

“I know, I know. She’s always okay. She’s always okay!”

“You’ll be okay, too, Louise.”

“Me?” Louise’s laugh was hard and bitter. “Sister, my welfare is another story altogether!”

13

There were patson the back from my colleagues and smiles from the brass. There was a time when my accomplishments would have been viewed with suspicion. But last year, I had played the game, drinking with the guys and girls after hours and attending more backyard barbecues than I’d care to recount. I kept my mouth shut, bowled in the Hollywood Women’s League, and did my job. The “incident”-as I refer to it to my therapist-had kicked a lot of life out of me. Bad for the creative spirit, but great for blending in with the masses.

Sarah was out of my hands now, kicked upstairs to the gold shields and the professionals who made their living by helping people talk. I was left with the satisfaction of a job well done, and a curiosity about who had fathered this baby girl. I knew more than Russ MacGregor-the detective who had taken over for Greg-because I had inside information from Koby. If Russ was decent enough, I’d share the facts.

I was off all Friday and had the day to relax. I Googled Yaakov Kutiel, and thankfully he came out honest. Koby’s public claim to fame was being part of the hospital’s outreach program for unwed mothers and fatherless children who lived in Central L.A. For this evening’sShabbatdinner, I kept my look simple: a Kelly green sweater over a black midiskirt and knee-high black boots. Around my neck was a gold chain; my earlobes sported a set of round pearls. I topped off the outfit with a gray pashmina draped over my shoulders.

Koby lived in the hills of Silver Lake, his street on an incline of around thirty degrees. The address corresponded with a tiny, square stucco box that peeked out from the boughs of eucalyptus gone wild. I parked in the driveway behind a ten-year-old Toyota compact, making sure the emergency brake was on. I made the climb up to the front door and knocked, noticing the large ceramic mezuzah attached to the door frame. I’m not sure what I expected when I came in, but I didn’t expect what I saw.

There was pride inside-a mélange of Art Deco and African decor. Highly polished, rich rosewood tables were mixed with a zebra-print plush sofa and leopard-print club chair, both pieces embellished with primary-colored throw pillows. Multicolored textiles with geometric shapes and primitive designs hung on the walls; a bright, bold carpet covered the hardwood floor. Actually, there were several carpets, because as I looked more carefully, I noticed that they were overlapping. The room was teeny-I could almost span the walls with outstretched arms-so it was amazing how much stuff he had crammed in there. More amazing was how well it was put together.

“Wow!” I told him.

He was all smiles. “You like it?”

“Yeah… yeah, I do.”

“Had to think about it?”

“Not at all. It was just…” I shook my head. “Most single guys don’t bother.”

“I like color.”

“I’ll say. But it works. Do you rent?”

He pointed to his chest. “All mine. I have the mortgage to prove it.”

“I’m impressed!” I really was. Home ownership was out of my reach. Despite my supposed austerity, I just couldn’t seem to save very much. That’s what happens when one has parents as backups.

“It didn’t look like this when I bought it,” he explained. “But the price reflected the condition.”

“You fixed it up yourself?”

“Of course. After the purchase, I was completely broke. I had no choice.”

“You did a wonderful job.”

“As long as you don’t look under all the covering. Why do you think I hang so much cloth all over?” He checked his watch. “Shabbatis in an hour. We should go, no?”

“Yeah, we’ve got a ways to travel.”

He picked up a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine. “These are for your stepmother.” He gave me a paper bag. “This is for you for extended… extending the invitation.”

It was a hand-painted doll from the Ethiopian gift shop. I smiled and thanked him. He told me I looked nice and I returned the compliment. He was dressed conservatively-dark green suit, white shirt, red-and-green paisley tie-but his yarmulke was more like a rimless cap that burst with colors.

The first half of the ride was taken up by my success story with Sarah. The next topic was the baby and how well she was doing. After we had exhausted work, things got real quiet. I turned on the radio to provide audio filler.

Koby got the ball rolling. “Did your father ask about me?”

“Yes, of course. He’s a father.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him that I had just met you a couple of days ago, so I didn’t know much about you.”

“That was a good answer.”

“I thought so. Of course, it didn’t stop him from prodding me about you.”

He waited for me to continue.

“I did tell him that you were somewhat observant and your family lives in Israel. That you’d appreciate a traditionalShabbat.”

“That’s true.” He looked out the window. “Did you tell him anything else?”

“Not really. I figured you could talk about yourself better than I could.”

He was quiet.

“What?” I said. “That’s not true?”

“Yes, that is very true. But I think you left something out.”

“What difference does it make?”

“None to me. But to your father, I cannot say.”

“If he’s that way, then he’s not the man I think he is.”

“It’s just better to prepare him, I think.”

“Prepare forwhat,Koby? Being black is not a defect. Why should I have to prep my father?”

“To make him feel more comfortable when he meets me.”

“If I say you’re my friend, he should automatically feel comfortable.”

“To makemefeel more comfortable, maybe?” He fingered the flowers. “I’m not fond of surprises.”

I glanced at him. He shrugged. I felt my stomach drop. “Okay. So maybe that wasn’t so smart. Sorry.”