Decker’s smile faded. Something in the air. He smelled it now—the stale odor on its hands, on the front of its pajamas. Clotted blood. He hadn’t noticed it at first because it had blended with the color of the child’s sleepwear.

“Jesus!” he whispered, his hands shaking. He clutched the toddler, ran back to the unmarked, and unlocked the door.

Where the hell was the kid bleeding from!

He placed the baby on the backseat and unzipped its pajama sleeper. He shined the flashlight on the little body, the skin as smooth and pink as a ripe nectarine. Not a scratch on the chest, back, or shoulders. The forearms and wrist were spotted with a small, dry rash, but the rest of the toddler’s skin wasn’t cut, cracked, or punctured. Decker turned the child over. The back was clear as well.

He held his breath, praying that this wasn’t another ugly sexual-abuse case. He undid the diaper. It was soaked, but as far as he could tell, the child was unscathed. It was a she, and no blood was flowing from any of her orifices. He refastened the diaper as best as he could, then checked her throat, her head, her ears, her nose. The kid endured the impromptu examination with stoicism.

No signs of external or internal bleeding.

Decker exhaled forcibly. He swaddled her in a blanket, pulled out an evidence bag, and dropped the pajama sleeper inside. He buckled her in the backseat as tightly as he could, then drove to the station.

2

Marge Dunn hummed out loud as she walked into the detectives’ squad room. Her cheerful mood was immediately silenced by a grunt and a sneer from Paul MacPherson. She frowned and brushed wisps of blond hair from her round, doelike eyes. A big woman, tough when she had to be, she didn’t like crap first thing in the morning.

“What’s eating your ass?” she asked him.

“One doesn’t whistle at seven in the morning,” answered MacPherson. “It’s profane.”

Marge sighed. MacPherson . He was constantly forced to prove himself, and playing supercop got old very fast. Marge could understand that. Being the only woman detective was no picnic, either. MacPherson spent long hours at work. Made him good at the job, but gave him a problem ’tude. He was also constantly on the prowl.

“You been up all night, Paulie?”

“Gang shoot-out, two A.M., with bad-breath Fordebrand in Maui, guess who caught the call? Two DBs and a six-year-old in intensive care with a bullet in her brain—it made the headlines of all the morning papers, Marjorie. Don’t you read?”

“Not if I can help it,” Marge answered. “Paul, my man, you’re so pale you’re starting to look white. Go home and get some sleep.”