Cold Case

ON A MARCH NIGHT in my first spring in Los Angeles, a rocket took off from Vandenberg Air Force Base and left a glowing, smoky arc in the air high over the Pacific Ocean. It was very large and bright, a new star that kept occupying my thoughts, preventing me from sleeping. So like any other Los Angeles insomniac, I got in my car and drove. I went into the Hollywood Hills, hoping for another glimpse of the rocket, and up to Mulholland Drive along the spine of the Santa Monica Mountains, but I couldn’t keep it in sight. I turned south, downshifting along a darkened North Beverly Glen Boulevard. I could tell that the contrail was dissipating and, fearing that I would miss the rest of the rocket’s ascent, volte-faced to higher ground. And there I was, yo-yoing back north along the stygian corridors of Bel Air Road, an uphill slalom among tree branches and upturned trash receptacles before it appeared again, drifting high in the sky like a fiery white ribbon. I floored it, speeding up the curving ascent until I glimpsed something else in the road. It was a long, glowing r…