said, referring to the casebook.
“I thought Lisbet named the newborns.”
“She encourages the detectives to come up with a name. It’s her way of getting us emotionally involved.”
“Does it work?”
I didn’t say, but Della already knew the answer. It’s easy to depersonalize a baby Jane Doe, but not as easy to forget a forsaken newborn that you’ve given a name.
“Has anyone called the Saint?” I asked.
I offered up Lisbet Keane’s nickname for what it was, a term of respect. An outsider had earned the begrudging high opinion of the coroner’s office and the LAPD.
“I just finished talking with her,” Della said. “She’ll pick up Rose after the coroner releases her.”
Before Lisbet had come on the scene, newborns had been cremated and placed in a mass grave in East LA. A decade earlier, Lisbet had seen a news spot on an abandoned newborn and felt called upon to attend to the baby’s burial. While she was negotiating for a plot, two other dead newborns turned up. Though only a college student at the time, Lisbet had decided she would somehow find the money to bury all three. In the years since she had gathered up every abandoned newborn and seen to their burials. Lisbet’s caring didn’t stop with the dead—she had been the driving force behind establishing California’s Safely Surrendered Baby Law. In only a few years, most of the country had followed California’s example, and as a result nationwide there are now fewer throwaway newborns.
“I’ll call her later,” I said.
Even saints need to make a living. Lisbet was a freelance graphic artist, a job that allowed flexibility for her unusual calling. As far as I was concerned, she was too young and too attractive to be a saint.
I looked at Rose and said in a voice kinder than my own, “Don’t worry, your adopted mom will soon be picking you up.”
“Amen,” Della said.
My eyes turned to the rail of Angels Flight spanning the heights. The railway didn’t operate in the evening, but I hoped that sometime during the night it had made a special ascent.
CHAPTER 4:
THE CRY IN THE WILDERNESS
From inside the rectory office, I heard a familiar and comforting voice announce loudly enough for me to hear, “Well, we can’t keep one of LA’s finest waiting, can we?”
Father Patrick Garrity, known by everyone as Father Pat, was the pastor at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament on Sunset Boulevard. When people think of the Sunset Strip, they don’t usually envision a church, but for more than a century the church has been a part of a neighborhood better known for its sinners than its saints.
“Get in here, Michael,” Father Pat shouted. “I’d like to embarrass you in front of a few people.”
I have never visited Father Pat without him telling the story of our first meeting to at least one person. As I entered the rectory, he stood up from his chair and opened his arms to the prodigal son. His hair was completely gray now, but the blue eyes behind his thick glasses were still young. There had been a time when I was sure Father Pat was ten feet tall. The physical reality was that he was half of that and resembled in build a well-fed friar. As he squeezed me tight, my holster pressed hard into him; fora moment his face wrinkled in distaste at his recognition of the weapon, but then he patted my shoulder and his smile returned.
He turned and made eye contact with a young Hispanic man wearing vestments who I guessed was the latest fresh-faced pastoral intern. “This is the Michael Gideon,” he said. “You might have heard me mention his name a time or two.”
Barbara, the church secretary, had followed me into Father Pat’s office and stood there beaming and nodding, but the young priest didn’t know me from Adam. Or Eve.
“This is ‘baby Michael,’” Father Pat said, “the gift left on our doorstep.”
“Oh, that Michael,” the intern said.
“Yes,” Father Pat said. He turned his eyes on me and said, “Your
“I thought Lisbet named the newborns.”
“She encourages the detectives to come up with a name. It’s her way of getting us emotionally involved.”
“Does it work?”
I didn’t say, but Della already knew the answer. It’s easy to depersonalize a baby Jane Doe, but not as easy to forget a forsaken newborn that you’ve given a name.
“Has anyone called the Saint?” I asked.
I offered up Lisbet Keane’s nickname for what it was, a term of respect. An outsider had earned the begrudging high opinion of the coroner’s office and the LAPD.
“I just finished talking with her,” Della said. “She’ll pick up Rose after the coroner releases her.”
Before Lisbet had come on the scene, newborns had been cremated and placed in a mass grave in East LA. A decade earlier, Lisbet had seen a news spot on an abandoned newborn and felt called upon to attend to the baby’s burial. While she was negotiating for a plot, two other dead newborns turned up. Though only a college student at the time, Lisbet had decided she would somehow find the money to bury all three. In the years since she had gathered up every abandoned newborn and seen to their burials. Lisbet’s caring didn’t stop with the dead—she had been the driving force behind establishing California’s Safely Surrendered Baby Law. In only a few years, most of the country had followed California’s example, and as a result nationwide there are now fewer throwaway newborns.
“I’ll call her later,” I said.
Even saints need to make a living. Lisbet was a freelance graphic artist, a job that allowed flexibility for her unusual calling. As far as I was concerned, she was too young and too attractive to be a saint.
I looked at Rose and said in a voice kinder than my own, “Don’t worry, your adopted mom will soon be picking you up.”
“Amen,” Della said.
My eyes turned to the rail of Angels Flight spanning the heights. The railway didn’t operate in the evening, but I hoped that sometime during the night it had made a special ascent.
CHAPTER 4:
THE CRY IN THE WILDERNESS
From inside the rectory office, I heard a familiar and comforting voice announce loudly enough for me to hear, “Well, we can’t keep one of LA’s finest waiting, can we?”
Father Patrick Garrity, known by everyone as Father Pat, was the pastor at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament on Sunset Boulevard. When people think of the Sunset Strip, they don’t usually envision a church, but for more than a century the church has been a part of a neighborhood better known for its sinners than its saints.
“Get in here, Michael,” Father Pat shouted. “I’d like to embarrass you in front of a few people.”
I have never visited Father Pat without him telling the story of our first meeting to at least one person. As I entered the rectory, he stood up from his chair and opened his arms to the prodigal son. His hair was completely gray now, but the blue eyes behind his thick glasses were still young. There had been a time when I was sure Father Pat was ten feet tall. The physical reality was that he was half of that and resembled in build a well-fed friar. As he squeezed me tight, my holster pressed hard into him; fora moment his face wrinkled in distaste at his recognition of the weapon, but then he patted my shoulder and his smile returned.
He turned and made eye contact with a young Hispanic man wearing vestments who I guessed was the latest fresh-faced pastoral intern. “This is the Michael Gideon,” he said. “You might have heard me mention his name a time or two.”
Barbara, the church secretary, had followed me into Father Pat’s office and stood there beaming and nodding, but the young priest didn’t know me from Adam. Or Eve.
“This is ‘baby Michael,’” Father Pat said, “the gift left on our doorstep.”
“Oh, that Michael,” the intern said.
“Yes,” Father Pat said. He turned his eyes on me and said, “Your
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