“You can be a real pain in the ass, Brennan.”
“You are not alone in that opinion.”
I heard doors slam, then an engine turn over.
“Give me your position.”
“We’re heading east on Tuckaseegee,” I said. “Wait.”
Seeing brake lights, Woolsey slowed to drop back. Tyree made a right. Woolsey sped up and made the turn. Tyree was making a left at the next intersection.
Woolsey raced up the block and rounded the corner. Tyree was turning right at the end of the block.
Woolsey shot ahead and made the turn. This time the Lexus was nowhere in sight.
“Shit!” Simultaneous.
“What?” Slidell.
We were in a neighborhood of meandering streets and dead-end cul-de-sacs. I’d been lost in such residential labyrinths many times.
Woolsey accelerated to the mouth of a small street entering from the left.
No Lexus.
As Woolsey sped up the block, I checked driveways and parked cars.
No Lexus.
At the next intersection we both looked left then right.
“There!” I said.
The Lexus was parked two-thirds of the way down on the right. Woolsey made the turn and slid to the curb.
“—the fuck are you?” Slidell sounded apoplectic.
I put the phone to my ear and gave him the address.
“Don’t do anything! Nothing! Not a goddamn thing!” Slidell shrieked.
“OK if I order out for Chinese? Maybe have some spring rolls delivered to the car?”
With a click of my thumb, I cut off the explosion.
“Your friend’s got some thoughts on our coming here?” Woolsey asked, eyes sweeping the street.
“He’ll warm to the idea.”
“He a tad rigid?”
“Skinny’s nickname doesn’t come from the size of his shorts.”
I took in my surroundings.
Save for a slab of plywood nailed here and there, the houses looked like they’d gone through few changes since their construction sometime during the Great Depression. Paint was peeling, rust and dry rot were running a footrace.
“Your boy’s probably not here for a Rotary meeting,” Woolsey remarked.
“Probably not.”
“Who is he?”
I explained that Tyree was the drug dealer linked to Tamela, her baby, and her missing family.
“I can’t help thinking everything’s related,” I said. “I have no proof, but my gut feeling is that Tamela holds the key to the whole situation.”
Woolsey nodded, eyes roving, assessing.
A man emerged from a house two doors over from the one Tyree had entered. He wore a do-rag and a black silk shirt flapping open over a dingy white T. Next came a woman in hip-hugging jeans, her belly hanging out like a large, brown melon. Both looked like they could use a stretch at Betty Ford.
I glanced at my watch. Seven minutes since I’d cut Slidell off.
A rusted-out Ford Tempo rolled past us, slowed opposite Tyree’s Lexus, then accelerated and disappeared around the far corner.
“Think we’ve been noticed?” I asked.
Woolsey shrugged, then reached out and jacked up the AC. Cold air blasted from the blower.
Time check. Eight minutes since I’d disconnected with Slidell.
A group of black teens, all with baggy pants, back-turned visors, and gangsta struts rounded the corner and moved up the sidewalk in our direction. Spotting Woolsey’s car, one elbowed another, and the group formed a scrum. Seconds later, they performed handshake acrobatics, then continued in our direction.
Reaching us, two of the teens hopped onto the hood, leaned back on their elbows, and crossed ankles ending in designer Nikes. A third circled to Woolsey’s door, a fourth to mine.
I noticed Woolsey’s hands drop from the wheel. Her right arm stayed lightly cocked, hand tense beside her right
