“I shit you not,” MacPherson continued. “He’s in the dorm sleeping with a kid under two. As a matter of fact, Margie, you’d better wake him up. Some dumb social worker’s going to see him and the kid together, and poor Pete’ll be charged with sexual abuse.”

“What happened?” Marge asked.

“The rabbi found the kid wandering the streets in that new development about one this morning. Brought her into the station house.”

“Which development?” Hollander asked. “There’s been a bunch of them lately. Assholes gerrymander the district, and we’ve got all these rich boys coming in and building all over the place.”

“Manfred and Associates,” MacPherson said. “You know. The one where all the streets are trees or states.”

“The one above the old lime quarry,” Marge said.

“You got it,” MacPherson answered.

“Decker call IDC yet?” Hollander asked.

“Nah,” MacPherson said. “Too early for that. He just filled out the forms and placed her under protective custody. The kid probably climbed out of her crib and escaped through a doggy door. Pete’s hoping for a frantic call any moment.”

“I’ll go wake him,” Marge said. She placed her mug on her desktop. “Enjoy your coffee, Michael.”

Hollander said, “Thanks. It’s as close as I’ll get to tit this morning.”

She walked out of the squad room into the front reception area. A middle-aged Hispanic was gesticulating to the desk sergeant. He was beanpole-thin, his face etched with deep sun lines. The sergeant looked bored, his chin resting in the palm of his hand, his eyes looking over the head of the Hispanic to Marge.

“Yo, Detective Dunn.”

Marge waved and said, “Sergeant Collins.”

“Is Sergeant Decker around? I need someone who can speak Spanish.”

Marge said, “I’ll go find you someone bilingual, Sarge.”

“Thanks.” Collins turned to the Hispanic. “Down, boy. Over there.” He pointed to a bench against the wall. It was occupied by a biker with bulging arms blued by tattooing, and a diminutive girl with stringy hair. “There, there!”

Marge said, “Sientese aquí, por favor.”

The man began speaking to Marge in rapid Spanish.

“No hablo Español,” Marge said. “Wait. Un momento. Sientese. On the bench.”

The Hispanic nodded his head in comprehension and sat down between the woman and the biker.

Collins said, “These dingdongs speak more Spanish than English over here.”

Marge asked, “Where’d you transfer from, Sarge?”

“Southeast,” Collins answered. “Five years in that shithole. They don’t speak English over there, either. Only fluent jive.”

“Most of the people in this division are hardworking,” Marge said.

“Yeah,” Collins said. “Till they get their papers and apply for welfare. Seems like America is the land of opportunity as long as you aren’t American.”