I walk the dog this time every evening, around 9:30 p.m. We go down to the south end of the block and come back. Somewhere along the way she does her business and I bag it up. Most nights we have the street to ourselves. But tonight I crest the rise at mid-block and there’s a police car double parked on the west side of the street. No lights flashing. One of the officers is standing casually at the vechicle’s open driver’s side door pulling on latex gloves while his partner converses with a man and woman standing at the back of an Alfa-Romeo convertible double parked pointing north.
By the time the dog and I stroll past the top-down sportscar the meeting is concluded and the officer is putting items in the patrol car’s trunk before climbing into the front passenger seat as the man and the woman load into the Alfa, buckle up and drive off toward Sunset Boulevard, speaking in hushed tones. A few steps more and I’m broadside the cop car, stealing a glance into the back where I see a suspect silhouetted in the backseat.
Questions rise as the black-and-white starts up and fall as it rolls forward past the stop sign pulling a wide u-turn in the intersection to head in the same direction as the Alfa. As I watch it disappear over the rise, a flash in the sky catches my eye, some meteorite’s millisecond streak across the night.
I wish for peace. I always do.