“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 the wrong district, 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, I might be more trustworthy than an average white cop.

“What do you want?”

“For the last three months, I’ve been trying to find this kid on my off-hours. I’m going through the lists and this place popped up. I’m just asking if you’ve seen him. And if you haven’t, do you know of other places where I should look?”

She took in the picture. “You already looked in L.A.?”

“Everywhere. I was thinking that because he’s black, maybe he perceives himself safer here.”

“That’d be a switch.” Her laugh was bitter. “Comin’ here for safety.”

“I’m grasping at straws. What smells so good?”

“The kitchen.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the location was through the doorway behind her. “Cookin’ up supper.” She glanced at Koby, then returned her eyes to me. “What’s your business in a nine-month-old crime?”

“It’s a long story.”

She crossed her arms and waited.

I took a deep breath. “His girlfriend gave birth to a baby girl. She threw the kid away in a Dumpster. I retrieved the baby. I think the kid deserves to know both her parents. Especially since this poor boy was frightened away. He’s not indigent. There’s a trust fund for him. If I could prove he’s the father of this baby, the kid might get some money, too. Lord knows, she deserves it.”

“And you’re not gettin’ any finder’s fee?”

Cynical eyes.

“I’m not getting a dime,” I told her.

She laughed contemptuously. “Just your average nice white do-gooder cop.”

I held my ground. “They exist.”

She glanced at the picture. Then took it and studied it in earnest. “Lemme show it to Urlene.”