Street Dreams

“He doesn’t want you to drive,” Anika told her sister.

“I want you two to be comfortable,” Decker said. “Let us talk to Magda-Rina’s mother-and I’ll e-mail you some dates.”

Again Marta brought her hand to her chest. Again, her eyes watered. “That would be wonderful. Thank you so much.” She kissed Rina’s left cheek, then the right one. The tears came streaming down. “I am so sorry!”

“Please, Marta-”

“All the pain and suffering that we did to your people!”

“Marta, it’s a new world.” Rina squeezed her hand and sighed. “Hopefully.”

“Yes, hopefully.” She smiled. “That’s all we have… hope.”

As soon as they hit the freeway, Rina said, “I wonder how Mama will react when we tell her we’ve found Marta Lubke.”

“We?”

“I was hoping you’d help me out. Give me a logical reason for why we’d be looking up Marta.”

“That’s easy. Tell your mother that talking about her past made you curious.”

Rina nodded. “I think that will work just fine, you devious devil you.”

“I take exception,” Decker said. “You’re just as devious as I am. I’m just better at it than you.”

“More practice.”

“That’s true enough.” Decker stroked her cheek. “Are you really all right with the outcome? Having your grandmother’s murder remain an open file?”

“Honestly, yes. Like I said, it wasn’t about the murder, it was about my mother’s childhood.” She felt her eyes mist. “I have only known my mother as a burdened woman. I think I needed to know that once she was a little girl.” She put her hand on Peter’s knee. “Areyouokay with not knowing the specifics?”

“Doesn’t bother me at all.” He let his thoughts go for a moment. “Besides, we both know a little more now than we did going into it.”

“You think it was a political thing?”

“Maybe. But it also could have been a serial killer who used politics to mask his murders. We really don’t need the gruesome details.”

“I agree.” Rina felt her eyes closing. “Do you mind if I take a nap?”

“No, of course not. Do you mind if I listen to a CD?”

“No. As a matter of fact, the background noise will help me sleep.”

Decker turned on the L.A. Quartet-four guitarists, four virtuosos. A beautiful woman by his side, superb weather, great music… soon he was flying at eighty plus, ready to take on the big, bad world.

Eyes still closed, Rina said, “Serial killers have this sameness to them.”

“Man, you are right about that. Cut from the same mold.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know,” Decker answered. “But I’m sure if the German police ever found this psycho and interviewed his neighbors, they’d say what an ordinary guy he was-although he tended to keep to himself.”

41

The days passed to weeks,the weeks melded into the months of summer, an intoxicating time of night-blooming jasmine, warm nights, and fiery lovemaking. Afterward, as we lay in a pile of sweat-soaked sheets, swatting mosquitoes that had squeezed through the screens of the open bedroom windows, my legs draped over Koby’s lean and sinewy body, I was thankful for the moment and hopeful for the future. Yaakov and I went from a dating couple to an item. I met his friends; he met mine. Between the two of us, there was always someplace to party, but most of the time we elected to spend our rare free evenings together sharing a bottle of wine in between our physical calisthenics.

When our schedules didn’t coincide, I spent my off-hours hunting-for Joseph Fedek, for Leonard Chatlin, for poor David Tyler, who had dropped out of sight. The good news was Raymond Paxton was true to his word, helping Louise Sanders and me with cash as well as with personal items. I had several good pictures of David. I went through dozens of homeless camps and shelters, and lots of abandoned buildings, flashing David’s photo and receiving blank looks for my efforts. I called local municipalities and got addresses. I checked them out. I found nothing.

Sometimes Koby would come with me. One hot day toward the end of August, I specificallyaskedhim to come with me. The address I had was southeast in a black area outside of L.A. I thought that maybe David would go there because he was black and might feel safer, less conspicuous among his own.

It was a twenty-minute freeway drive into a district of heat and smog and dirt and concrete. The apartment buildings were run-down, the streets pocked and littered, and the buildings desecrated with graffiti warfare. The area held many more liquor stores than schools and libraries, and not much hope where hope should be. It had a few storefront churches and a lot more thrift shops.

The directions I had were good. Once we were off the freeway, I gave Koby a series of rights and lefts and he found the shelter sandwiched between a fast-food joint and a Laundromat. But there was no parking directly in front of the building, forcing us to pull into a space a half block away. I knew I was out of my element, but Koby appeared comfortable. Maybe more protective than usual, looping his arm squarely around my shoulder. This wasn’t our usual Hollywood beat and was probably as foreign to him as it was to me. I was dressed for the heat in knee-length cutoffs and a green tank top, my hair pulled back in a ponytail. Koby wore a red muscle shirt and jeans, his skin now the color of chocolate, made much darker by all of our forays into the California sunshine.

As we headed toward the shelter, a couple of homeys passed by. Big men, both as tall as Koby; the one with a shaved head was at least twice as wide as my boyfriend. But it was his dreadlocked partner with the tattooed arms who spoke up.

“Yo’, niggah! Whatchu axin’ for yo’ ho’ bitch?”

Koby’s eyes narrowed and I saw him clench his fists. Immediately, I pulled out my badge and flashed it in front of their faces.

“Move along, gentlemen,” I told them.

“Dreadlocks” stared and started to speak, but I didn’t give him a chance. “I said, move along!” Then making solid eye contact, I added a please.

They paused long enough to give me ’tude and defiance, but then they probably figured I wasn’t worth the effort. They ambled on, Dreadlocks spitting a couple of inches from my foot. Koby looked over his shoulder, his eyes fuming. When he started to turn around, I took his hand and pulled him forward.

“Here we are.” I opened the boarded door, and still holding Koby’s hand, I dragged him inside. We stood in a small anteroom with peeling stucco walls that held a rack filled with flyers and pamphlets of services. Through an archway, I saw a communal dining room. There was a lone desk, the woman behind it around fifty and completely round with clipped kinky hair of gray-and-black knots. She wore a white tank top and was sweating profusely. It was hot inside and the lethargic ceiling fan didn’t help much. She eyed us suspiciously. Again, I took out my badge.

She read it, then scowled. “LAPD? Someone should give you driving lessons. You’re in thewrongdistrict, sister.”

I ignored the hostility. “I’m trying to locate a runaway.” I took out his picture. “He’s twenty-four with Down’s syndrome characteristics. Black, obviously. Originally, he’s from my district in Hollywood. His retarded girlfriend was gang-raped. He was beaten up and tossed in a trash can like garbage. No one has seen him since and that was around nine months ago.”

She listened to me, then turned her eyes to Koby. “I don’t see your ID.”

“He’s not a cop,” I told her. “He’s my boyfriend.”

Instantly, her eyes narrowed as she studied my face. There was disapproval of me, of course, but also an ever so slight softening in her expression. I had seen it in other blacks before-that by dating Koby, Imightbe more trustworthy than an average white cop.