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Sadie’s car seat into the Snap N Go stroller—perhaps, in my opinion, the most important invention since the disposable diaper—and draped my diaper bag over the handlebars. The little girl was right—I did not look much like a parole officer, or an investigator, for that matter. I prefer it that way. Nine times out of ten, rather than impede my work, having a baby or child along ends up being helpful. Children act as a nice little smoke screen when I want to interrogate a witness—people are rarely defensive when questioned by a woman with a couple of kids hanging off her. Other women, in particular, are put at ease by it. A cute toddler has gained me access to homes whose thresholds, had I been on my own, I wouldn’t have been allowed even to cross, never mind been given a glass of milk and a plate of homemade oatmeal raisin cookies once inside. I’m careful not to put my kids in harm’s way, however, and if once or twice I’ve had to pierce a juice box and hand it into the backseat while tearing down Venice Boulevard in pursuit of a suspect, well, I do my best to exceed the speed limit by only what is reasonable under the circumstances. I’m very careful. Okay, so when I was pregnant with Isaac I did get shot, but I’ve learned a lot since then.
    The woman who answered the door was honey-skinned with a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She wore her hair ironed into waves. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and was carrying a young child on her hip. The little girl was about three or so, with eyes so round and wide she could have been a model for a Keene drawing, that is if the Keenes had ever painted African American children.
    “Can I help you?” she asked.
    “Sister Pauline?”
    She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Can I help you?” she repeated.
    “My name is Juliet Applebaum, and I’m a private investigator representing a woman who is incarcerated in Dartmore. My client’s newborn baby is in foster care with the Lambs of the Lord, and she has some concerns about the organization. She thought you might have had experience with them.”
    “Who’s your client?” She held the door with her hand, not even allowing me to see into the apartment.
    I tried to size her up. I didn’t want to reveal Sandra Lorgeree’s identity if there was any chance of trouble. In prison, the web of debts owed and grudges held is very complicated. I needed to treadcarefully. “I don’t think I’d better say, Ms. . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name.”
    “Hubblebank.”
    “Ms. Hubblebank. I have to preserve my client’s privacy.”
    “What about my privacy? Why you think I should tell you anything if you won’t even tell me who you working for? How I know you not just working for the Lambs of the Lord, trying to set me up?”
    I paused and chewed thoughtfully on my lip. “You’re right. It’s not fair to expect you to give me information with nothing in exchange. How about this. You let me bring my baby in out of the sun, and we’ll sit down and talk. I’ll tell you all about what happened to my client, and if you feel comfortable, you can share your story with me.”
    Pauline looked at Sadie and her face softened. “How old is she?”
    “Four months.”
    “She big.”
    “Don’t I know it.”
    “This one big, too. She only twenty-two months old.”
    “She’s not even two yet? I was sure she was three!”
    Pauline shook her head, smiling. “No. Not even close. She big because I nursed her. All my friends thought I was crazy, but my mama put all us kids to her breast, and I knew I wanted that for my babies. Breast milk’s the best thing for them. You giving your baby breast milk?”
    I motioned toward my inflated chest. “Can’t you tell? This is
not
my normal look, I promise you. I nursed all three of my kids—my boy until he could
talk
. He was so hard to wean I was afraid I’d end up pumping bottles until he was in high school.”
    “I never did that. That pumping