Faye Kellerman

by Street Dreams

  “Then miss the next light and we’ll switch places.”

  He did. It was hard getting over the gearshift without bodily harm, but we succeeded. With the wheel in my hand, I felt better. I adjusted the rearview mirror. I plunked my purse onto his lap. “Ever hold a gun?”

  “I was in the army.”

  “I’m not talking about an Uzi, Yaakov. I mean a handgun.”

  “Yes, I have shot a handgun.”

  “Are you a good shot?”

  “I was a decent shot, but it’s been over ten years. I’m sure I’m rusty.”

  “I’ve got a nine-millimeter Beretta semiautomatic standard police issue in my purse. You can take it out.”

  He retrieved it, studying its features. “Do you have the magazine?”

  “It’s not loaded?”

  “No, Cynthia, it is not loaded.”

  “Check my purse. If I don’t have one in there, we’re out of luck.”

  Rummaging through my purse, he fished out a magazine and shoved it into the chamber. “We’re in luck.”

  “Okay. This is what I’m going to do. I’m going to turn right in two blocks, floor it, pull over, and cut the lights. I’m going to park on the wrong side of the street. The driver’s more likely to miss me that way. Then as the Nova passes, I’m going to try to read off the license plate on the back. Stay low in case they decide to shoot.”

  “Maybe I should read the license plate while you cover me? I have no doubt that you’re a better shot. And if you’re on the wrong side of the street, I’ll be on the correct side to read the numbers.”

  “Except if they start shooting at us, you’ll be closer.”

  “A comforting thought.”

  “Koby, I am so sorry!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll handle this.” He rolled his shoulders. “I’m psyched.”

  “Ready?”

  “Go.”

  I made a quick right and punched the accelerator as I jammed the gears. The car bucked backward, then shot forward with surprising speed. I cut the lights, pulled over, switched off the ignition, and ducked. The Nova sped by, but even so, I got most of the plate and what I didn’t get, Koby filled in. I turned the car’s ignition, did a U-turn without lights, then headed back into traffic.

  Apparently not soon enough. The Nova had other ideas. It must have been souped up, because within moments it was kissing the Toyota’s rear bumper. I pulled a sharp left into a darkened residential area.

  The Nova followed.

  Another right, another left. There was no way the Nova could maneuver that easily. Yet there it was, riding my ass.

  Getting closer and closer.

  I pushed Koby’s head down and smoked the gears. A volley of shots made neat little bullet holes in his trunk and blasted through the rear windshield, shattering the glass.

  “Shit!” I screamed as I strained the engine forward. I screeched out a two-tire right and tried to accelerate, hearing the engine whine, feeling the knocking of the gears.

  “Kus sa mack!” Koby rolled down the window, and using the side mirror for a view, he twisted his right arm and fired a round into the Nova’s hood. I noticed he shot one-handedly and I noticed he shot like a cop—his palm parallel instead of perpendicular to the ground. He obviously had hit something, because the Nova began to smoke. Before he had a chance to reload, I turned right, and the Nova tore away. I pulled over, turned off the ignition, and caught my breath. “Oh God!” I grabbed Koby’s hand. “Oh God, are you okay?”

  He patted his chest with his hands. “No bullet holes. Just a racing heartbeat.”

  I was huffing and puffing. “All right.” Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. “Okay. We’re about five minutes from the station. Once we file the report, it’s going to take a while. There’ll be lots of questions. Are you up for it?”

  He exhaled hard. “I think, yes.”

  I waited a few moments, trying to anticipate what was going to happen. I didn’t like the setup I was seeing. I swallowed hard. “Koby, if it goes down that you fired my gun, it’ll be bad for both of us, especially if you hit someone.”

  “It was self-defense.”

  “Yes, exactly, and once they see the car, it won’t be a problem. But there are much stricter regulations about a civilian discharging a weapon than a cop.” I looked him in the eye. “There’s no way I’m going to let you handle that kind of heat. You drove, I shot. It’s your car. It makes more sense anyway.”

  “But that’s not what happened.”

  “Yes, you’re right. It’s a lie. They will have me sign an affidavit and I will perjure myself. I want you to do the same thing. If you hit someone fatally, I will take responsibility—”

  “I’m not asking you to do that.”

  “Listen to me!” I held his face. “Please, please listen to me! Please don’t argue. Okay?”

  He didn’t give me the satisfaction of an immediate answer. “I don’t want you to get in trouble because I was rash.”

  “Yaakov, you weren’t rash. You saved our lives! Just … just trust me on this! Please!”

  We were both breathing hard. Finally, he relented. “Whatever you … you think.”

  “That’s what I think.”

  He nodded. “Okay … okay. I drove and you shot. Except that I smell of gunpowder and you do not.”

  Gunshot tattooing. It was unlikely that they’d check my hand, even more unlikely that they’d check his hand, but just in case, I took the gun from him, rolled down the window, and fired off a couple of shots. “When we get into the police station, go to the bathroom. Wash your hands with lots of soap and go clear up to your elbows if no one’s watching you.”

  He nodded. “So I just tell them what happened or …”

  “Tell them exactly what happened, except you were driving and I did the shooting.”

  “That the car was following us and you wanted the license number?”

  “Yes. And I tried to call for backup, for help, but my cell was dead. And you didn’t have yours because you didn’t want the intrusion. Just stick to the facts.”

  “Except that I was driving.”

  “Exactly.” I blew out air. “Yaakov, I’m so sorry—”

  Before I could continue, he grabbed my neck and kissed my mouth—long, slow, and hard. “We’re whole, Cynthia. Nothing … nothing else matters. I say ‘meqseft yasferawal’ in Amharic, I say ‘Gomel’ in Hebrew at beit knesset on Saturday, and in English I say ‘thank you, Hashem, for saving us from catastrophe.’ God has choice of languages. Now let’s get out of here.”

  34

  The adrenaline was pumping full force. So intent on the task at hand, Decker almost missed him when he walked into Hollywood. But his peripheral vision took in the figure sitting on one of the blue hard plastic chairs, his face drawn and tired. With effort, Koby got to his feet.

  “She’s with the detectives, I think.”

  The desk sergeant looked up from his perch. Decker showed him his shield, exchanged a few words to be polite, then counted to five. He blew out air, then looped his arm around Koby. “How are you?”

  “Not so brave as your daughter.”

  “What happened?”

  Briefly, Koby told him what had occurred.

  Decker took in his words and listened intently, but something was off. Not that Koby wasn’t good because he was: straight face, loose posture, and good eye contact. He had probably fooled the detectives to whom he spoke. But Decker knew bullshit when he heard it, specifically because he knew his daughter. He heard her words and her phrases, not Koby’s punctuated speech patterns.

  Decker gave him a hard eye. “Let’s take a walk.”

  Koby eyed him back. “Thank you, but I think I shall stay here.”

  Decker grew testy. “Five minutes.”

  “I’m fine, sir. I want to wait for Cindy.”

  “She’ll be there for hours.” Decker was all business. “Take a walk with me.”

  “I will wait here, sir,” Koby said. �
��And if necessary, I will wait for hours.”

  The lad had spoken.

  This was just great. Decker was now in a pissing contest with his daughter’s boyfriend. And of course, that was the problem. Decker could bully his daughter. He knew all the tricks that parents knew. He knew when to go full force, he knew when to hold back, but eventually he could always make her come around because they had a history together. Koby was not just his daughter’s boyfriend. Koby was a thirty-two-year-old man with lots and lots of survivor skills and—Cindy’s father or not—he’d be damned before he let anyone shove him against a wall.

  It was time to go back to the basics. Build some rapport and that meant finding a common denominator. That part was easy. Decker took a step back, giving him some personal space. He kept his voice low and urgent.

  “Son, you want what’s best for Cindy, I want what’s best for Cindy. If she’s having a difficult time with those guys in there, you can’t help her. But I can. Please. I’m asking you for help for Cindy’s sake. Come outside and take a walk with me.”

  Koby looked away. Then abruptly, he picked up his leather jacket. Decker held the door open and they took a few steps away from the station house onto Wilton Place. At this time of night, there was no car or pedestrian traffic. The darkness was gloomy, the air damp and gelid. Decker gave off a shudder from the chill.

  “Let’s talk in my car. It’s warmer.”

  Koby regarded him suspiciously.

  “What?” Decker narrowed his eyes. “You think I’m going to roust you?”

  “I don’t trust cops.”

  “You’re dating one.”

  “She is not a cop; she is Cindy.”

  “And I’m her father.”

  “Even more reason not to trust you.”

  Decker glared at him, then shifted his eyes away and broke into laughter. “Okay. Then we’ll freeze our asses off and talk out here.”

  The silence between them matched the silence on the street.

  Koby ran his hand over his face. “My God … I’m sorry.”

  “No, no”—Decker threw his hand on his shoulder—“I’m being pushy because I’m anxious. Koby, I’d like to talk in my car because it’s more private and it’s warmer. But if that’s not what you want, I’m fine here.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  Decker pointed to his vintage black Porsche 911 Targa parked by the curb. Koby’s eyes widened. “That’s your car?”

  “No, that’s my hobby. I usually drive a ’99 Toyota Camry, but I wanted to get here in a hurry and this baby moves.” Decker clicked the unlock button on the remote and held out his arm. “After you.”

  Koby went into the passenger’s side. Decker sat behind the wheel. He said, “Son, I am going into the interview room. I’m going to hear what my daughter has to say. Now in order to help her, I need to know the truth. Whatever you tell me stays between the two of us.”

  Staring out the windshield, Koby said, “I told you what happened.”

  “No, you told me an approximation of what happened. Koby, I’d die for Cindy. I certainly would have no qualms about lying for her. We’re on the same side. But to help her as much as I can, I’ve got to know what really happened—in your words, not Cindy’s.”

  Koby ran his hands down his face, then blew out air. “It was like I told you—”

  “No, it wasn’t—”

  “Let me finish … please.”

  “Sorry,” Decker said. “Sorry. Go on.”

  “It was like I told you.” Koby spoke softer this time. “We were driving when Cindy noticed a car following us. We pulled over to get the license, and then as we pulled out, the car came after us and opened fire. We fired back. …” He regarded Decker. “I fired back. She was driving. I did the shooting.”

  “With her gun?”

  “Yes, of course—a Beretta nine-millimeter semiautomatic. I don’t own a gun.”

  “Go on.”

  “When it was over, she said it will look bad for her if they find out that I fired her weapon. If there is death or injury in the other car, I would get into bigger trouble than she would. So we switch places in the story. I don’t want to do it. I tell her that I will take responsibility. She begged me to listen to her. So I listened.”

  “She was right.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I know how the system works. I’m telling you she was right.”

  “I don’t need her to cover for me.”

  “Actually, what you both need is to get out of this as cleanly as possible.”

  “I hide behind her skirt,” he whispered. “It’s emasculating!”

  “Fuck that!” Decker told him. “You helped my little girl! To me, you’ve got a fine set of baytzim in your jeans, and right now I’m the only one you have to impress. The rest is bullshit!”

  Koby looked at him. “You know Hebrew.”

  “Selected words.”

  “I should be talking to the detectives, not her.”

  “Koby, she’d still be talking to them because she’s the cop.” Patience, Decker told himself. “She did the right thing. But even if she was wrong—and she’s not—but even if she was, it’s too late. So let’s move on, okay?”

  He rubbed his forehead. “What next?”

  “First let me ask you a couple of questions,” Decker said. “Why was she driving your car?”

  “We switched places after she noticed the tail. She said she knew how to pop the clutch to get maximum pickup if we have to make a quick exit. I think she wanted to drive, so I don’t argue.” Koby ran a finger across the hammered metal dash. “Over the years, I’ve found it is not so good to argue with women you like.”

  “I’ll second that.”

  “I really, really like”—he regarded Decker—“I love her, Lieutenant. I cannot tell her no.”

  Decker smiled. “You’re in trouble, guy.”

  “I know. It is not good to feel so strong about a woman.” Koby leaned forward onto the dash and regarded the empty street scene. “Ye-isat gize. What can I do? I am weak.”

  To be in love was to be weak. … Cultural differences … or maybe not. Decker gave him a pat on the back. “Had you ever fired a handgun before?”

  “I was in the army.”

  “Ah, right. They might paraffin you.”

  “I washed my hands with soap up to the elbows.” He sat back in the seat and stared upward. “Cindy told me to do it.”

  “She’s my daughter, all right.” Decker organized his thoughts. “Now that I know what went on, I can help her. You did the right thing.”

  Koby blew out air. “She will be mad that I told you.”

  “She’ll get over it. You did what was best for her.”

  “I hope you are right.”

  “I know I’m right. I don’t tell you how to administer CPR, you don’t tell me about LAPD.” Decker paused. “Actually, I could tell you how to administer CPR. I was a medic in Vietnam.”

  Koby turned to him. “I was a medic, too.”

  “How old were you when you went in?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “A youngster. I was nineteen. Two years?”

  “In Israel, the service is three years for boys, two for girls. It was bad over there in Vietnam, no?”

  “Yes, it was very bad.”

  “You were in combat?”

  “Yes. My tour ended right before the Easter offensive. I wasn’t in the front lines, although they usually sent us with the infantry in teams of six to eight men. I did dustoffs—rode the chopper in, then evacuated the wounded after the raids. It could have been worse.”

  “For me as well. I was in Lebanon toward the end, so the fighting wasn’t as fierce. Still, it was right after the Berlin Wall fell and the Soviet Union was still a presence. Between the USSR and Syria and Iran, Hezbollah was very well armed. Lots of border skirmishes. They kept me up north for a while … near Ma’alot, where Arafat—yemach sh’mo—and his Fatah thugs shot up a busload of school
children on a field trip. So tension was high but not nearly as bad as Gaza. I was there for six months, dodging booby traps from Hamas and the PLO, trying to prevent them from blowing up civilians. It wasn’t as bad as today—for some stupid reason, the world thinks it wise to arm the PLO—but it had its moments.”

  He paused, then gave a half smile to Decker.

  “Upon reflection, with all that’s going on in the world, this is not so terrible.”

  “It’s all perspective, my man.” Decker shook his head. What crazy times! “Your car’s going to be impounded. I’ll make sure a cruiser takes you home. You have any other source of transportation for getting to work?”

  “A bike. I’m fine down the hill. Up is not so good.”

  Decker smiled. “Call a cab and go rent a car tomorrow. I’ll make sure you’re reimbursed one way or the other. Wait outside. I’ll go in and send around a black-and-white for you.”

  “I’d like to wait for Cindy.”

  “She really is going to be tied up for hours. I’ll take care of her.” Decker clenched his jaw. “Believe me, Koby, I’ll take good care of her—of both of you.”

  Koby eyed him. “You’re not a man to cross.”

  “I’m very protective of my children.”

  “I’m sure that is true, Lieutenant Decker. Still, I wait for Cindy.”

  Decker regarded the face—the determined eyes, the stubborn mouth. He wasn’t going to budge until he saw her. Decker had thought Koby was decent. Seeing how he reacted in a crisis improved the impression considerably.

  “How about this? How about if I get her so she can say goodbye to you?”

  “I will wait all night for her. But I go when she says okay. How does that sound?”

  Decker nodded. “Fair enough. I’m cold. Let’s go back inside.”

  The coffee sat in my stomach like battery acid—a combination of fatigue and neurotransmitters racing through my system. I had gone over the events about a dozen times. By the look on Justice Brill’s face, he still wasn’t satisfied. Both he and Lieutenant Stone were being gentlemanly, but I had the distinct feeling they were sick of my face.

  Brill said, “So it was what? An ’80s Nova … ’90s?”

  “Around 1990,” I answered. “Bronze paint but peeling. Primer around the driver’s door. Illegally darkened windows. I seem to recall a dented front bumper and grille.”