anything.
I’d written down the three addresses where Feng had gone after work. They were all within a fifteen- square-mile area surrounding Carol City. I pointed out the crossroad, and James took a right onto Palm Breeze Way. Where they came up with these names I have no clue. The romantic name of the street was quickly disproved by the run-down shacks and shanties that lined the street. Pothole after pothole caused splash after splash and bump after bump and two blocks in I thought we were going to blow the entire suspension. What was left of it. And then, like magic, the rain stopped. The sun peeked through the clouds and steam rose from the pavement.
“Right there. Stop.” A two-story cement-block building, about the size of a convenience store, sat on a solitary lot. Weeds grew up around it, and red and black gang graffiti covered the otherwise colorless structure.
“This was one of his stops?” A gentle rain had started up, filling the temporary reprieve.
“Appears to be. According to the computer.”
James pulled over to the curb into what used to be a small parking lot. He jumped from the truck and ran up to the building, never succeeding in dodging the raindrops. He yanked on the heavy metal door, which refused to open.
Getting back into the truck, he shook the water from his face and hair. Like a dog. “Padlocked. Rusty old padlock. I don’t think the place has been open for years.”
“Well, he was here.”
“Let’s hit the next place.”
“Probably about three miles.”
“We can do this.” He started the truck, and we drove down Palm Breeze Way. The shabby dwellings just got shabbier.
A left on Bianca Drive, another curving left onto Bonita Boulevard, and I saw a small laundry on the right. Chinese letters in the window, and under them the name C HEN’S L AUNDRY.
“So he had to drop off clothes.”
“Disappointing so far, eh, pard?”
He pulled back out on the road, and I glanced in my side mirror. “James, check out your mirror.”
He glanced out. “Is that gray car an Accord?”
“I believe it is.”
“There’s a lot of gray Hondas in Carol City, Skip.”
“Or, maybe Feng is hitting his stops again.”
The car hung back a couple of blocks, then turned off the road, and I lost it. “Must have been someone else.”
“You’ve got his license number.”
I thought for a moment. I’d been intimate with his car. We’d been physical, and I didn’t even have the number. “You must have taken it down, James.”
“Jeez. Great spies we are.” James banged his fist on the steering wheel. “What’s our last stop?”
“This is stupid. Let’s go to the bar you talked about and have a-” I stared hard into the side mirror, making sure of what I saw.
“What is it?”
“Gray Honda. Maybe two blocks back.” There were a couple of cars and another box truck between us. I viewed the Honda as it maneuvered behind the other vehicles.
“How would he know where we were?”
“It’s probably all a coincidence.”
“Where do I turn, pard?”
“Next street. Forty-seventh.”
He turned and picked up speed. Not much, but a little. The engine chugged along. The Little Engine That Could. There were some commercial buildings, then a rundown strip mall with three of the five businesses boarded up.
“Any sign of the graymobile?”
There were none.
“On your right, James. Right there.”
He stepped on the brakes and there was a metal on metal sound. Another problem with the truck. We needed new brakes.
“It’s a day care center.”
“So Feng’s got a kid. He had to pick him up.” James shrugged his shoulders.
I noticed the name. Recognized the name. Tiny Tots Academy. Somewhere Carol Conroy had picked up one of their pencils. I was sure she didn’t have any kids. “Keep driving.”
He did. Swerving to avoid the caverns in the road and trying to maintain a speed at about forty miles per hour. Quick for Forty-seventh avenue. I glanced in the mirror and there it was. No mistake. A gray Honda. It never slowed down at the day care center, but hung back, blending in with the light traffic.
“He’s back, James.”
“Son of a bitch. He knows exactly where we are.”
“I should have brought the laptop. Why didn’t I?”
James took a sharp right, then a left. Then back out to Forty-seventh. “You never thought about him following us.”
“If I had it, we could tell if the Honda was Feng. It would be so easy. We’d just check out his car, and we’d know immediately if it was him.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, pard.” James braked hard, the grinding and squealing painful to my ears. He took a hard right into a parking lot of a small restaurant. Anita’s Place. The sign in the window said closed for family emergency. It was a Mexican restaurant. Just as well. I’m not a big fan of Mexican food.
James opened the door and got out of the truck.
“Hey, man, it’s closed.” I yelled out the window after him.
He didn’t respond, but ducked down, and I lost sight of him. I jumped out of the truck and looked around. No sign of James, no sign of the gray Honda. Nothing. “James?”
Everything was quiet. A couple of cars passed, kicking up a spray, and the gentle raindrops spattered around me. Nothing. “James?”
“Skip, here. Check it out.”
He was nowhere.
“Skip?”
From under the truck.
For the second time in two days I scooted under a vehicle. “What?”
James pointed to the gas tank. “Check it out, pally.”
Feeling the wet pavement through my soaked shirt, I gazed up. Fastened to the metal tank was a gray box, very much resembling a GPS unit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
M y cell phone rang on the way back. The ring was Springsteen, the musical opening to “Born in the U.S.A.”
“Mr. Moore?”
I didn’t recognize the voice.
“This is Carol Conroy.”
I reached over and nudged James. He glanced at me and took his eyes off the road as we hit a crater that went halfway to China. The truck shook like we’d encountered an earthquake. We had to do something about the shocks. “Yes, Mrs. Conroy. What can I do for you?”
“For what I’m going to pay you, I hope you can do a lot.” There was venom in her voice.
