Street Dreams Read Online Free PDF Page A

magnificent eyes: big and round and
     pale whiskey in color, set under arched black eyebrows and topped with an awning of
long,
dark lashes.
    Why did guys have the best lashes?
    He wore blue scrubs, his hair hidden under a paper cap. He was holding a tray of vials, tubes, needles, and slides. Some of
     the tubes were filled with blood, others empty. I had been so focused on the baby, I hadn’t heard him come in.
    Marnie said, “I just got paged to Four West. She can’t be left unsupervised.”
    “Why not? Is she a felon?”
    “I’m not kidding, Koby. You
cannot
leave her alone with the baby. When you leave, she leaves.”
    “I will watch her like a marine.”
    Marnie was already walking away. “Your charm’s going to fail you one day, Koby. Then what will you have?”
    “I think I will have my job,” he retorted. “From you it is shown that charm is not necessary for the position.”
    “Ha, ha, ha!” She scurried out of the room, and through the glass window, I saw her racing down the hallway.
    He set the tray down on a metal table and directed his jeweled eyes down to my face. “So you are the one who found treasure
     in the snake pit?”
    “I’m the one who pulled her out of the Dumpster. How did you know?”
    “The paramedics told me the story.” He checked the clock, then signed a clipboard attached to my baby’s bassinet. “I need
     to take her blood.”
    “She’s sleeping so soundly.”
    “I have a light touch. Perhaps she will sleep through the entire procedure. If you continue to hold and rock her, it will
     make it easier.”
    I made a face. “Where do you take the blood from?”
    “From the heel.”
    My eyes crawled upward to his badge. Though Marnie had called him Koby, his name tag revealed him to be YAAKOV KUTIEL—R.N., M.N., M.P.H. CRITICAL CARE NEONATOLOGY . Yaakov was my stepbrother’s legal name, although my dad usually called him Jake or Jacob. Yaakov was a name associated with
     Jews or Russians. The man didn’t appear to be of either stock. “How is she doing?”
    “Very well, although she did have some drop in temperature from exposure.” He took several slides out from their protective
     wrappers, marking each one with a number on its label. “Not too much of a drop because, the EMT tells me, she was covered
     up with the garbage bags.”
    “Yes.”
    “She was crying when you found her, no?”
    He enunciated his words in the clipped cadence of those from Africa.
    I told him yes, she was crying.
    “So she had plenty of oxygen in her little lungs.” Out came a blue-capped needle. “She was fresh from the womb, you know.”
    “I know. The cord was still attached.”
    “The EMTs tell me that someone didn’t bother to wipe off the amniotic fluid, just pushed her out and dumped her.”
    “Now that’s not entirely true,” I balked. “I wiped her face with a sterile napkin.”
    “Perhaps they were referring to her body.” He unwrapped a small glass tube. “It is good you found her so soon. Always babies
     lose weight after birth.”
    “Miracles happen.”
    He let out a soft laugh. “Sometimes they happen to you.” He stood close to me, peeling back her little pink blanket and exposing
     a tiny foot. “Has someone found her mother?”
    “Not yet, but we will … hopefully.”
    The nurse furrowed his brow. “We?”
    “Yes, we … I’m a police officer.”
    A slight raise of his eyebrow, though he said nothing.
    “I see they didn’t tell you the complete story.”
    “No, that is true.”
    “I was riding solo last night. A busboy flagged down my cruiser when he heard the crying,” I said. “I was thinking about doing
     a door-to-door search for her mother tomorrow morning before I go back on duty.”
    “A dedicated cop.”
    I said, “It’s the way I was made.”
    “Dedication is good.” He examined the heel, swiped it down with some yellow cleansing liquid, then gave it a quick stick,
     squeezing it with gloved hands to extract droplets of blood. The