The Night Detectives (David Mapstone Mystery 7)

“Scarlett. My girlfriend.”

“What’s her last name?”

“Mason. Scarlett Mason. Do you know where she is?”

I nodded, put the picture away, and asked him what problem he had with America’s Finest Pimp.

“I’m really hurting, dude!”

I checked him out in more detail. He might have had the kind of face teenage girls consider cute, at least before his nose had been broken, but to me it looked like a comic-book face, a cross between Archie and Jimmy Olsen. His face was so thin, a vein running up his forehead was prominent.

His body looked rangy and underweight beneath a gray T-shirt, droopy Lakers shorts, and teal flip-flops. A flaming tattoo wrapped itself up his left calf. His fingers, long and slender, were oozing bright red blood from where America’s Finest Pimp had hit him, and now it was dripping onto his shirt. I walked to the kitchen, grabbed a dishtowel, and tossed it to him.

“Where is Scarlett? Please…” His tone was plaintive enough to be believable. I was about to tell him to get some ice on his nose so we could talk.

The next thing I heard sounded like a cat, until it didn’t. My right hand was on the way back to my holster. “Who else is here?”

“The baby.”

8

I grabbed him by the arm and pushed him ahead of me into the bedroom. Once I would hide behind books. Now I was using a human shield. Beside a box spring and mattress on the floor was a yellow hand-me-down crib. After ordering him to stand against the far wall so I could watch him, I approached it.

Sure enough, inside was a baby, incredibly tiny, with a tuft of brown hair and a very soiled diaper.

When I looked back at Lewis, he was kneeling, his head pointed down. “I don’t feel good…”

“How long has this baby needed changing?”

“I don’t know. AFP was here for couple of hours, waiting for Scarlett, telling me he’d kill me if I didn’t give him the money she owed him…” He was sobbing. The vein up his forehead expanded. “I think I have a concussion. I’m dizzy. Can you change him please? I didn’t mean to leave him back here alone.”

I filed the money part away and let him alone. He was useless. I looked around for supplies. All I saw was a television, along with a video-game box and a cell phone sitting atop a plastic crate that doubled as a bedside table. Opening the closet, I found a shelf with a box of Pampers, wipes, and baby powder.

Back at crib-side, I felt pretty useless myself. As a young deputy, I had delivered a couple of babies in the backs of squad cars. Otherwise, I had spent a lifetime staying as far away from them as possible. At least until a year ago, I figured that would always be the case. But as I beheld this tiny, helpless creature, I was nearly overcome by a hurricane of feelings and instincts. The bracing stench coming from the diaper brought me back to reality. It wasn’t as bad as a dead body left for a week inside a house during high summer in Phoenix.

I pulled out a clean diaper and slid it under the baby, who was squirming with more energy and squalling like a siren. Maybe I was painting myself into a very messy corner, but it was worth a try. Then I set the wipes on the mattress and gingerly undid one tab. The stench grew worse. Thankfully, the window was open and a faint sea breeze was coming in. So far, so good: I pulled the other tab, folded it in on itself, and lowered the fron

t of the soiled diaper. Immediately a little fountain of urine shot all over my tie and shirt.

It was a boy.

Pleased with himself, he kicked and flung his arms. Back to it, I used wipes to clean off his front, between his legs, and under his scrotum, wadding them up and putting them on the soiled diaper. Feeling pretty good about myself now, I folded the diaper in on itself to provide a clean surface, lifted his legs, and cleaned off his backside. That took another four wipes. Then I slid out the bad diaper, rolled it up, and, voila, he was safe and sanitary on the new one. I hooked the tabs and lifted him into my arms, which did nothing to stop his wiggling and crying.

“Better?” I smiled. The big baby head stopped crying for a moment, then started squealing again as if I were torturing him with hot pokers.

Instantly, the silent-but-deadly cloud of odor hit me. The new diaper was heavy again and I felt something oozing out onto my hands.

“Well, hell.”

I know a few things: the socio-economic issues of the Progressive Era, the revisionist arguments regarding the causes of World War I, how to prepare a class syllabus. I have some skills, including reloading the Python under pressure, properly tying a necktie with a dimple in the center, and effectively swinging a hammer. I know how to make a dry martini and make love to a woman. Here, I was over my head.

Muttering a lesson in profane oaths for the young master’s linguistic instruction, I carried him into the bathroom and deposited him in the sink. The din of his crying was magnified by a power of ten.

So much for my clever first attempt, filled with hubris and baby-shit.

It took another fifteen minutes, a facecloth protectively placed over his dangerous little penis, much clumsiness on my part, and two diapers, but the baby was finally clean, powdered, and back in his crib. I put a rattle in his hand and shook it. He looked at me with a surprisingly grown-up expression, dropped the rattle, and conked out. After what we’d both been through, it seemed like a good idea to me, too.

I wished that Lindsey’s face would stop flashing across my vision.