Faye Kellerman - Street Dreams

My fingers dived into his kinky black hair as I moved his mouth lower. “Very convincing.” I sucked in my breath when he hit the right spot. “Oh Lord, yes, I am definitely persuaded.”

We eventually made itto dinner, then hit a ten o’clock movie. The cinema was followed by drinks at a small jazz club, talking and talking until the wee hours of the morning. We had been together for over twelve hours, and though I was zapped, I politely declined Koby’s offer to bunk down at his place. I didn’t have to work until the afternoon, but I wanted to wake up in my own bed, on my own time. He didn’t look insulted. On the contrary, I felt he needed breathing room as well.

We were quiet on the way home, tapped out on ideas, and happy to let the stereo provide the background noise. We were sailing on Sunset back into Silver Lake, his car finally missing a light and gliding to a stop. There were no other vehicles about us, no cross-traffic in sight.

But there was a lone pedestrian crossing the street. A woman-hunched and wrapped in a heavy black coat. She was clutching a purse to her chest.

I was suddenly alert. I looked at my watch: three in the morning.

“Poor thing,” Koby whispered. “Can’t we take her to a shelter?”

“I don’t know if she’s homeless,” I told him. “No shopping cart, no bags… just a purse. She’s also wearing sheer stockings, and in this light, her ankles look normal.”

“Ankles?”

“Most of the homeless women have terrible ankles from walking in ill-fitting shoes. And also, the poor health.”

“Hooker?”

“Not one that I recognize. To me, it looks like she had a fight with a boyfriend, and he kicked her out of the car. Look at the downcast gait.”

“Then perhaps we can take her home. It’s dangerous out here.”

Before I could agree, the horrid scene played out in slo-mo. A Jeep Cherokee SUV, tearing against the light, smashed into her, five yards before the safety of the sidewalk. As the body flew upward, a Dodge Caravan minivan crossed the intersection, just in time for the Jeep to smack it broadside, flipping it over. As the woman fell back to earth, she was hit a second time by the minivan, spinning and bouncing on its roof, the van careening totally out of control until it crashed into a power pole. Electricity sparked. The noise was deafening. The woman had been propelled clear across the boulevard and had landed on the asphalt with a thud. The Jeep did a two-tire screeching turn, speeding off to freedom.

“Shit!” Koby screamed. He punched open a dashboard door, extracted a pair of latex gloves, and snapped them over his hands. He was out of the car before I could unbuckle my seat belt. “Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move!” he yelled out to the passengers in the wrecked minivan. He was running over to the woman’s inert body.

I raced out of the car, cell phone in my shaking hand.

“Go to the van and tell them not to move!” Koby ordered me. He was leaning over the pedestrian, checking her neck for a pulse. The face was unrecognizable pulp, her body as limp as a rag doll. I bit back bile and ran over to the van, calling 911 as my eyes gawked at the smoking hunk of sheared steel and tangled wires, the entire mess reeking of spilled gas and oil and the metallic stink of burned flesh. Inside, the air bags had deployed, but even so, there was so much blood, guts, and moaning that I nearly fainted at the grisly sight. But as soon as the operator came over my cell, I was surprised by my calm tone, telling him the precise location while requesting paramedics and the fire department stat.

After I hung up, with my mouth still agape, I stared at the carnage inside, unsure how to proceed. I just kept repeating over and over for the passengers not to move, hoping that the panic in my voice wasn’t noticeable. When Koby finally appeared at my side, I exhaled audible relief. Immediately, he went to work, his voice as soothing as lapping waves, as he told the passengers-two men, two women, a couple of kids, and a lifeless baby-not to move while he assessed the damage. Blood was spurting from the arm of one of the women. He tore off his shirt and tied up the artery. Though the night was cold, he was sweating and breathing hard. “You call 911?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got a first-aid kit and blanket in the back of my car.”

“I’m on it.” I rushed over to the car, my boot heels clacking against the street, then popped the trunk, taking out the kit as well as a flashlight and a blanket. He had another set of gloves in the kit, so I put them on, then brought the supplies to him and shone the light into the car.

“You brought the flashlight. Someone was thinking. Shine it here.”

“What about the pedestri…?”

“Gone. Ah, you’re gloved. Press down here, okay? No, not there… here.”

The wail of sirens in the background. At this hour, the noise could be heard blocks away. As I applied pressure to a leaking vessel with my left hand, I called 911 again with my right. Then I tucked the phone between my shoulder and cheek, so I could free up the other hand to direct light to where Koby was working. He was trying to liberate the infant-thankfully, he had found a pulse-but a web of razor-sharp metal was in his way.

“This is Officer Cynthia Decker from LAPD. I just reported a fatal hit-and-run traffic accident. I need to hook up with radio dispatch so I can give out pertinent information to all cruisers near the scene.”

My neck was constricted, screwed up into a god-awful position to secure the phone, and the muscles began to throb. Adrenaline was shooting through my system, choking my breathing with pounding heartbeats. Still, when the police RTO came on the line, I had found my voice.

“Reporting a hit-and-run with fatalities. The vehicle was a late-model Jeep Cherokee, dark in color, last four digits of the license plate-Henry-five-two-three, again, Henry-five-two-three-last seen heading northbound on Terrazzo Avenue. All officers in the area respond immediately. Requesting additional units to the scene of the accident-Terrazzo and Sunset.”

I waited until the operator repeated the information. When she did, I hung up, put the phone down, and rolled my neck. Koby was wrist deep in blood, dressing horrid gashes with gauze from the kit. It was like plugging up the proverbial dike with a finger.

The sirens grew louder. I could see flashing lights in the reflection of the shattered window glass. The EMTs arrived less than three minutes after my first call, though it had seemed much longer. When they pushed me out of the way, I wanted to say thank you. Koby spoke rapidly while continuing his work, informing them about the infant, then requesting to speak to the doctor on the ambulance phone. When my date started conversing in medical lingo, I walked away, trying to figure out how to be useful.

With great trepidation, I walked over to the thrown body and held my mouth. I regarded her-discarded, her limbs broken and distorted. Her skull had been cracked open and brain was oozing out. The urge to puke was almost as strong as the urge to pass out. I jerked my eyes away from the corpse just as an unmarked car pulled up. Two people got out, flashing their badges. They needn’t have bothered, because I knew both of them by more than just name.

Hayley Marx was a fellow officer in Hollywood, the closest thing I had to a friend in the Department. We used to eat dinner together twice a month, but now our schedules conflicted. We kept meaning to make time, but never got around to it. She looked great, her tall frame svelte in a black pantsuit. She’d grown out her blond hair so that it now brushed her earlobes, softening her face.

The man she was with was the last guy on earth I wanted to see. Detective Scott Oliver worked Homicide under my father’s leadership. Once, they had been colleagues, and there remained festering resentment over my father’s promotion, further aggravated by my idiotic fling with Oliver. It was over almost before it started, but I was told by sources close to both of us that he wasn’t thrilled. God only knew why. I wasn’t a day at the beach.