by Diana Orgain
The nurse nodded in understanding and left the room, promising to send the pediatrician on call.
I squeezed Laurie and fresh tears ran down my cheeks.
“Littlest! Please be okay. Please don’t be hurt,” I sobbed.
Laurie’s hand entangled itself in my hair and she yanked at it, letting out a howl.
I laughed and let her tug at my hair. “If you’re mad at missing a meal, then you’re probably okay, huh?”
I bundled her in a blanket, nursed her, and waited for the doctor while replaying the accident in my mind. Was there anything I could have done differently? Why did he take off? I know he was just a kid, probably only recently got his license. But how could he abandon us like that?
The door to the room opened and my husband, Jim, appeared. I leapt out of the chair, still holding Laurie, and fell into him. His strong arms engulfed us and made me feel safe for the first time since the accident.
In a rush of words I told him about the hit-and-run. He listened to me while he watched Laurie.
There was a soft rap at the door, followed by the creak of it opening. The pediatrician, a tall man with smooth olive skin and dark hair, stepped in. He had me place Laurie on the exam table, which caused me to go into full sob mode again.
He peppered Jim with questions regarding Laurie’s health, as he examined her. After a bit, he subjected me to the same battery of questions.
He finally said, “I think she’s fine. Of course, we’ll have to monitor her for signs of distress for the next forty-eight hours or so. But newborns are mostly cartilage; it’s probably you, Mom, who’s going to be hurting.”
He handed me a checklist of symptoms to watch for, including: vomiting, diarrhea, and lethargy, and then left the room.
I rebundled Laurie. “What did the police tell you?” I asked Jim.
“Not much. He said the guy in the car in front of you followed the assailant. He ended up losing him, but was pretty sure it was a vehicle from the French consulate’s fleet.”
A vehicle from the French consulate?
What did that mean? Why did he speed off? Why not stop?
“Was the car stolen?” I asked.
Jim shrugged. “I don’t know, the cop barely gave me the time of day. Told me to file an insurance claim and gave me an incident number.” Jim stared at me with a dumbfounded expression—one I’m sure matched my own.
After a moment, he said, “Of course, I didn’t press him much. I only wanted to find out about you and Laurie and how you guys were doing.”
I nodded.
“Why’d you ask if the car was stolen?” Jim asked.
“It was a teenager driving it.”
Jim exhaled. “So it’s some diplomat’s kid.”
“Maybe,” I agreed.
He squinted at me. “Let’s go there.”
“What?”
“Let’s track down the snot nose that hit you and Laurie.”
“Shouldn’t we let the police do that?”
Jim clenched a fist. “They already know it’s a car from the consulate. You think they’re itching to get involved with some diplomat’s pinhead son? If they were, they’d already be over there, right?”
I pulled Laurie close to me and pressed my nose into her soft check. She was asleep but my squeeze caused her little hand to reach out. I placed my finger in her palm and felt her small hand wrap around it.
“You know the police aren’t going to do a darn thing,” Jim continued. “They want us to open an insurance claim. Let us take the hit.”
Anger surged inside of me. “We already took the hit. Literally! Laurie and I.”
Oh God, please let my baby be all right.
The doctor had said to watch for signs of distress. Didn’t I always?
I would be even more vigilant now.
“What about Laurie? I want to get her home. Make sure she’s okay. I want her to be warm and fed and content . . .” My voice caught as a sob bubbled in my throat. “I want her to be okay.”
Jim pulled Laurie and me into an embrace. “She’s okay, honey. She’s gonna be fine,” he said, his voice full of emotion “You heard the doctor: She’s all cartilage.”
“She not all cartilage. She’s a person! A tiny defenseless little person, with a heart and soul and . . .” Tears rolled down my face.
He tightened his grasp around me. Laurie squirmed between us.
“It happened so fast, Jim. One minute you’re there, stopped at a light, and then the next . . . What if . . .”
“I love you guys so much. I can’t stand the thought. All I can do is fight, Kate. I want to find the guy who ran into you. Accidents happen, I know. But you can’t just leave a mother and child in the middle of the road after smashing their car to smithereens.”
I nodded, swallowing back my fears. I picked up Laurie’s discarded dress and handed it to Jim. “Let’s go.”
• CHAPTER TWO •
We agreed that we’d drive by the French consulate on Bush Street and see if anything seemed obvious. Short of a smashed vehicle parked in front I wasn’t sure what we were looking for.
I sat in the back of Jim’s car, hovering over Laurie. Thank goodness we’d had an extra car seat. My car had been towed after the incident and the pediatrician had told me to discard the car seat that had been in the accident, as it was likely the harnesses were damaged.
We drove down Bush Street and spotted the consulate adjacent to the French school and Church of Notre Dame des Victoires. It had begun to drizzle, but when Jim turned the wipers on, there was only enough rain to smear across the windshield.
“Looks like they have a parking garage,” Jim said.
“It’s probably for staff only, right?” I asked.
Jim pulled the car up to the entrance and read the sign. “Yeah. You need an electronic key card to get in. Perfect place to hide a vehicle after a hit-and-run, huh?”
“Okay. Let’s go home.”
I was exhausted not only physically—every emotion in me had been pushed to the brink this morning.
“Not so fast. I want to check things out. I’m going in by foot.”
We parked across the street at a meter.
Jim hopped out of the car and emptied all the change from his pocket into the meter. He frowned and tapped at it. “Busted. This is BS. What a day.”
I watched as he crossed into the parking garage and slipped under the electronic arm. I stroked Laurie’s cheek. She was sound asleep and breathing deeply.
“Don’t be hurt, squirrel. Be like the doc said. Be just fine, okay, little monkey?” I pressed my lips to her forehead and smelled the baby shampoo I’d applied this morning. Had it really only been a few hours ago?
Jim emerged from the parking garage and ran over to the car. He bent down to my window. “You’re not going to believe this: There’s a silver SUV with a smashed-in front end, and it’s missing a bumper!” His cell phone was in his hand and he opened it now. “You got that cop’s number?”
I climbed out of the car.
“Never mind, I’ve got it here,” Jim said, as he scrolled through his recent calls. His lips turned down in distaste as he waited for someone to pick up. “Voice mail,” he said, shaking his head back and forth.
“Leave a message,” I said.
Jim closed his phone. “Why bother? I’m going in.”
“What?”
“By the time the cop gets down here, assuming he’ll even come, the rat could leave.” Jim turned to cross the street.
“No! Wait! Jim, you can’t—”
Jim’s brow furrowed and he said, “Stay here with Laurie.”
“If you’re going in, then me, too. I mean, I saw the guy.”
Jim squinted at me. “Do you feel up to it?”
“Yeah. Why don’t you stay here with Laurie?”
“No way!” He leaned into the car and unfastened Laurie’s carrier from the car seat restraints. “Let’s go together.”
He lifted Laurie’s car seat ou
t of the car and looked down the street for oncoming traffic. We crossed the street in silence.
At the entrance of the consulate, he asked, “So you think you’ll recognize the guy?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Okay. If you see him, point him out to me. I’ll do the talking.”
I laughed despite myself. “What? You think I’m going to say the wrong thing?”
Jim pulled open the glass door. He waited for me to step inside, and as I crossed in front of him he said, “I have no idea what you would say, honey. That’s why I’m going to do the talking.”
We stepped into what looked more or less like a fancy hotel lobby. An elegant French lady about the age of twenty-five stood behind a huge counter topped with red marble.
She tapped her fingernails—which were painted a matching red—on the marble and said in a singsong, “Bonjour.”
Jim handed me Laurie in her car seat and stepped ahead of me and up to the counter.
“You speak English, right?”
The woman smiled and with a beautiful French accent said, “Of course.”
“My wife and infant were rear-ended by a consulate vehicle a few hours ago on Lombard Street. The driver never stopped.” He pulled out his cell phone and clicked to the photos. He pushed his phone toward her. “The SUV is parked in your lot. Can you get the driver out here for me?”
Her eyes widened at the photo, her face showing first shock then dismay. “Mon Dieu! Un moment. S’il vous plaît.”
Clenching the phone in her hand she pushed away from the counter.
“No. Not with my phone,” Jim said sharply. He stuck his hand out.
She looked caught off guard, but nodded politely and handed the phone back to Jim.
She disappeared down a corridor.
“You didn’t have to yell at her.”
“I didn’t yell at her. I stopped her from walking away with the only evidence we have and accidentally deleting it.”
“Well, we know—”
“Listen, honey, I love you but this is exactly why I’m the one that’s going to do the talking. These people are not your friends. They’re not your buddies. They’re obviously the kind of people who have no regard for smashing into a woman and child and taking off. So we’re agreed, right? I’m doing the talking.”
I gathered air in my cheeks, blew it out in a huff, and nodded. Giving up control is difficult for me, but it seemed an easier route than arguing with Jim right now.
The woman returned with a man by her side. He looked to be in his late thirties. He had a square jaw and strong, straight nose. His dark brown hair was smoothly combed back and held in place with lots of spray or mousse. He wore a blue shirt that was unbuttoned one or two buttons too many. Dark curly chest hair peeked out as he swaggered toward us.
Before they reached us, Jim turned to me and quietly asked, “Is that the guy?”
“No. The driver was much younger. Like seventeen or eighteen.”
When he approached us the man immediately extended his hand to Jim. “Monsieur, I am Jean-Luc Gaudet, the Deputy Consul General. Mademoiselle tells me you were a victim of a hit-and-run.”
Jim looked at Jean-Luc’s hand but didn’t shake it. “My wife and infant daughter were in the car. Is that bashed-up SUV yours? The one with the missing fender?”
Jean-Luc seamlessly turned his outstretched hand into a gesture, shifting his palm faceup and motioning us toward a corner of the lobby that held some leather chairs and a small table covered in magazines.
We moved toward the chairs as Jean-Luc said, “The vehicle is registered in my name.” He pointed to the leather chairs, indicating for us to take a seat. “Please.”
Jean-Luc and I sat; Jim remained standing. I cradled Laurie’s car seat bucket in my lap. An older couple entered the building, and Jean-Luc watched them as they made their way to the reception counter. He and the woman from reception exchanged glances, then the woman broke loose from us and returned to the reception area.
I tried to move Jim with my eyes, looking from him back to the empty chair and raising a pleading eyebrow.
Jim shook his head and mouthed, “Not our buddy.” He broke eye contact with me and stared at Jean-Luc.
Jean-Luc rose to match Jim’s stance. “Please accept my apologies. You’ve obviously been through some terrible trauma today. Unfortunately, I didn’t go anywhere today, so I wasn’t driving the vehicle.”
Jim’s eyes narrowed. “Right. Nice. Okay, someone on your staff obviously was. Someone has keys, access, whatever. Or are you saying it was stolen and conveniently parked back in your garage?”
Jean-Luc blew air from his lips in an exaggerated puff. He fixed his face in an expression of confusion and raised his hands and eyes as though searching for an answer from the ceiling.
Watching him play dumb made me want to rip out every last chest hair and shove them up his nose.
Jim clenched first his jaw then his fist. “My wife and baby had to be assisted out of our vehicle by the other party that got hit. They had to wait for the ambulance on a bed of ice plant, abandoned! My daughter’s only three months old!”
Jean-Luc’s face was unreadable.
Jim continued, “I just picked up my wife and infant from the emergency room. They got emergency rooms in France, right?”
“Pfft. Emergency room?” Jean-Luc’s eyebrows creased. “Why? Because of a little bump? They don’t look hurt—”
Jim closed the distance between him and Jean-Luc. “You interested in a visit to the emergency room today?”
Jim’s face was inches away from the man, his meaning clear.
Jean-Luc’s head turned toward the reception desk. The woman was staring at us wide-eyed. The couple she was helping mirrored her expression.
Jim said, in a whisper that only Jean-Luc and I could hear, “My wife can identify the driver.”
It was the final blow.
Jean-Luc lowered his eyes and cleared his throat. “Un moment. S’il vous plaît.”
He stepped toward the woman at reception and said something to her in French. She nodded and retreated down the corridor. He shook hands with the couple she had been helping. The older gentleman put a hand on Jean-Luc’s forearm and pulled him close. Laughter erupted from them.
“Jerk,” Jim said.
I glanced at Laurie and gently rocked the car seat back and forth. Her hand fidgeted but other than the small movement she was sound asleep.
“What was with the emergency room stuff? Were you threatening the guy?” I asked Jim.
The receptionist returned and handed a card to Jean-Luc. He approached us and handed the card to me. “Madam, please take my card. Our insurance information is on the back. We’ll gladly pay for the repairs to your car and any bills you have from the hospital. Please accept our apologies.”
We left the consulate in silence and crossed the street to Jim’s car. I loaded Laurie into the back and secured the car seat carrier to the base.
I decided to ride in the passenger seat next to Jim instead of in the back next to Laurie. He seemed to need me more than she did at the moment, since she was still asleep and he was fuming.
I fastened my seat belt and waited. Jim didn’t start the car.
“I would have liked to squeeze his neck until his head popped off,” Jim said.
I put my hand on his thigh to soothe him. “Honey—”
“Then kick his head over the roof.”
A nervous giggle escaped me. “That’s awful!”
But hadn’t I wanted to rip his chest hairs out?
Jim shrugged. “Is it? I think a hit-and-run is awful, cowardly. And then that guy trying to cover it up—it’s reprehensible.”
The doors of the consulate opened and two ladies exited. Both tall and slender, one a brunette, the other blonde. They were chatting and when they reached the sidewalk they turned away from each other and parted ways. I watched the blonde walk toward us.
“Hey, that’s Nancy Pickett from
Channel Five,” I said.
Jim nodded. “The other one was Kimberly Newman.”
Nancy Pickett, a serious investigative reporter, was the one always sent out to do a story during the eye of the storm or to report on the city’s latest drug bust. As recently as last night, she’d been covering a major pet food chain store scam and had received an honorable mention from a neighborhood merchant organization for saving the lives of countless dogs.
Kimberly Newman, on the other hand, was a high-society girl turned weather woman, turned part-time journalist. She was always pictured on the news or in the paper and on the web at the tony Pac Height parties on someone’s arm. I think her most recent conquest was a San Francisco city supervisor.
What were Nancy Pickett and Kimberly Newman doing at the French consulate?
• CHAPTER THREE •
To Do:
1. Call Dr. Clement for appointment. What if Laurie’s brain is scrambled? The ER doc didn’t test for brain damage, did he? Is there a test for that?
2. Call insurance.
3. Reschedule holiday photos.
4. Christmas tree, cards, shopping, decorating. Shoot! Behind again! NOT efficient.
5. Find stupid kid that hit us so I can give him a piece of my mind!
6. Finish background checks Galigani gave me.
7. Forget it, focus on catching up first!
Once home from the consulate, I dialed Mom and then my best friend, Paula. I got voice mails and left messages. Jim and I decided on soup for dinner although neither one of us had much of an appetite.
I hovered over Laurie even more than usual, then finally upon Jim’s urging went to bed early. Jim stayed up watching the news with Laurie. At one point in the night I got out of bed to check on them and found Jim singing and rocking Laurie. She was mesmerized by him, smiling and happily banging his face with her hands. I retreated back to bed, relieved that she wasn’t showing any signs of distress listed on the sheet the emergency room pediatrician had given me.