Street Dreams by Faye Kellerman Page A

he could blink, they were running down
     his cheeks. “If anything had happened to you …”
    “But nothing did happen to me.” She leaned into his body and threw her arm around his chest. “I love you, Peter.”
    “I love you, too.” His body was quivering with what might have been, his nerves raw and tender. He was still angry, of course,
     but not
quite
as angry. The bastard had been good for something other than plugging him with holes.
    God had His reasons.
    “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you, love you, love you.”
    “Thank you. It’s nice to be appreciated.”
    Decker burst into laughter, hugging her fiercely. He remained entwined with her, neither of them talking, allowing the contact
     of skin against skin to speak volumes. Holding her … feeling the rhythm of her heart until he heard her breathing slow and
     lengthen as she drifted into sleep. Gently, he disentangled himself and rose from the bed.
    “Where’re you going?” she said sleepily.
    “I’m getting dressed.”
    “It’s not light yet.”
    “I’m meeting Cindy for breakfast.” He stretched lethargy from his aching bones. “I might as well get an early jump. I’ll take
     Hannah to school.”
    “Are you sure …” Her voice was already in dreamland.
    “I’m sure.”
    “And later on, you’ll help me with Omah?”
    “What?”
    “My grandmother?”
    Oh,
that
. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Anything you want.”
    “I didn’t die. Stop being so nice.”
    He felt himself chuckle. It was a legitimate expression of joy. Though still burdened by his abject failure—that wasn’t going
     to disappear overnight—he felt lighter than he had in months. In an instant, a searing holocaust of hatred was reduced to
     … well, maybe a bonfire, burning hot and bright, but controllable. Her confession had opened a pressure valve, and for the
     first time in weeks, he could see again with impartial eyes.
    He took a bullet for me.
    Potent words. They gave him a whole new perspective on things. Now, maybe,
maybe,
he could concentrate enough to do his friggin’ job.

6
    I was running late, going over the canyon and into the Valley: poor form because Dad had made a special effort to meet me. By the time I got
     to the deli, it was past nine, and Dad was already sitting in a booth, sipping coffee, reading the Calendar section of the
Times.
My father was a handsome guy with a full head of hair, although there was lots of white where once it had been orange. His
     mustache still had color. It was full and bushy and made him look like the macho guy he was. His cheeks were smooth and without
     shadow as in a recent shave. He had on a white shirt and a dark blue tie. His brown eyes went from his watch, then over the
     top of the newspaper. When he saw me, he put down the paper and smiled. But there was irritation in his expression.
    I slid in on the opposite side, gasping for breath. “Sorry I’m late.”
    Dad took off his glasses. “No problem. Bad traffic?”
    “Not really. Just a late start.”
    At least, I was honest. I picked up a menu and buried myself in the process of selection. “How’re you doing, Lieutenant?”
    “Fine. I heard you had quite a night.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Dad looked at me with skeptical eyes. “The baby?”
    “Who tells you these things?” I snapped. “Do you have spies planted in each station house?”
    He checked his watch. “We’ve been together eighty-three seconds and already you’re sniping at me.”
    I felt my face go hot and covered it with a laugh. He was right. “I’m sorry. Let’s start again.” I leaned over and pecked
     a kiss on his forehead. “Thanks for taking time to meet me. You’re very busy and I appreciate it. And I’m sorry I’m late.
     How are you?”
    This time, Dad’s smile was genuine. “I’m fine, thank you very much. You look nice.”
    “This old thing?” I was wearing a dark blue blouse over blue trousers and a camel jacket.
    “Well, you put it