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, who did this to you?”

I squeezed Louise’s arm. She exhaled with a whoosh, 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 al-ways o-kay!”

“You’ll be okay, too, Louise.”

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

13

There were pats on 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’s Shabbat dinner, 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.