Street Dreams (35 page)

“Should I slow?”

“No. I told you, just keep driving.”

He swallowed. “Is it the guy I whacked in the back?”

“Maybe. Although I thought he was still locked up in County.”

“The hit-and-run driver from the accident?”

“Could be. We’re driving in the same car. Why
anyone’s
following us is up for grabs.”

“And you can’t see him?”

“No.”

Koby was quiet. It suddenly dawned on me that he wasn’t a fellow cop. It was up to me to guide us both through this. “I’m
a little tense. Sorry if I’m short. It’s probably nothing.”

“It’s fine, Cindy. Just tell me what to do.”

I patted his knee. “Just keep driving, all right? It’s no big deal. We’re on a major boulevard and there’s still enough traffic.”

“Why don’t you call 911?”

“Because I want to make sure I’m right. What I wouldn’t give to get his license number. There’s no front plate. You know,
that’s what I’ll do. I’ll call that in and let some cruiser stop him.”

I took out my cell phone.

The battery was dead.

It had been a long evening.

“Does your cell work?” I asked him.

“I don’t have it with me. I didn’t want intrusions tonight.”

“Sweet thought but unfortunate, because we have a big intrusion. Okay. Time for Plan B. How do you feel about driving in this
situation?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know … sudden turns … screeching tires …”

“This car doesn’t have so much pickup.”

“You know, there’s a way to pop the clutch and press the gas at the same time. It’ll push it to the max.”

“Maybe you should drive.”

“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.”

T
he 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.”