Where is the Baby? Read Online Free Page A

shoved her so hard her head smashed into the door frame. ‘Ooops!’ Grabbing her by the hair, pushing her head down, he tossed her into the back. ‘Gotta be careful there, Missus, watch what you’re doing. Next thing ya know, being so clumsy, you could fall down the stairs and hurt yourself.’
    Sliding behind the wheel, in a low voice, Chuck said, ‘Hate these evil fuckin’ people, hate these fuckin’ dead kid calls.’
    Six months later, Chuck got himself promoted to a desk. ‘Can’t take the ugly anymore, Bri,’ he said apologetically. ‘Come see me now ’n’ then, ’kay? Lemme know how you’re doing.’
    Brian kept handling the calls with his new partner, Hal. He couldn’t have said why, until today when dispatch sent them to the Kmart to see this grimy tyke, with intelligence just shining off her, as if she was lit from inside. So much fear, yet such courage. And, underneath it all, whimsy.
    So maybe the seven years had been preparation for today, for dealing with this little girl who belonged to some family that might come rushing to claim her. He sure as hell hoped so. But if not . . . if not . . .
    Determined to handle the case with the greatest care, the chief put out a call to Connie Miller. With the advent of mandatory sensitivity training in the department some months earlier, she’d been called upon to do the photography for new cases with increasing regularity, primarily in instances of aggravated rape or assault involving young females or children and, only sometimes, adult women. As far as the department was concerned, her greatest asset was that no matter how traumatized the victim might be, Connie managed to get the shots. Her congenial kindness enabled her to deal with the subjects without adding to their pain. She’d even been known to make some of them laugh. How she did it was a source of wonder to the men in the department. The few women on the force understood her magic from the start.
    Connie had inherited her mother’s clear deep-set blue eyes and her father’s wide nose and heavy jaw. She was less than five feet tall, a plain-looking woman – until she smiled and became lovely in a singularly compelling fashion. Her smile was like an unexpected gift, containing great heart and gentle humor. When she came to the ER to document their injuries on film, she treated every female with quiet respect. She took a moment to lift the hair away from a girl’s eyes, or made funny, self-deprecating remarks – about the difficulty of buying size five shoes, or about her forays into children’s departments to buy clothes, or about her mad mop of black curly hair. ‘Imagine trying to persuade someone to cut this.’ She’d smile and tug at a handful of glossy curls. ‘About as easy as finding a sweater in the kids’ department that doesn’t have ABCs or teddy bears on it.’
    Keeping up a constant, distracting patter in a low voice that had a melodic, slightly foreign cadence, she got the pictures taken before the subject had a chance to feel ashamed or embarrassed. Connie swept around the woman or child like a small whirlwind, chatting and clicking away, the speed-winder zizzing as she shot thirty-six exposures which, without exception, were sufficient. Finished, she’d tenderly wrap her subject in the hospital gown, or sheet or blanket – whatever the nursing staff had given them – and with an affectionate smile, or squeeze of the hand or pat on the arm, she’d say, ‘You’re just wonderful. Thank you so much for helping me.’ Then she’d leave, go directly to the nearest rest room, close herself into a stall, and either throw up or weep. Minutes later, her emotions once more rigidly under control, she’d be headed to the police darkroom or to her studio to process the film.
    She was preparing to go shoot a golden wedding anniversary