“I’ll send backup to the rear,” Rinaldi said.
Slidell nodded. Rinaldi walked to the second cruiser. He and the driver exchanged words, then the cruiser reversed up the block and disappeared around the corner.
“Here’s what you two are going to do.” Slidell bunched the hanky and shoved it into a back pocket.
“You’re going to get into this nice lady detective’s Chevrolet, and you’re going to drive away. Go to a nail salon. Go to a yoga class. Go to a bake sale at the Methodist church. I don’t care. But I want plenty of geography between you and this place.”
Woolsey folded her arms, the muscles in her face rigid with anger.
“Look, Slidell,” I said. “I’m sorry if I bruised your delicate sense of propriety. But Darryl Tyree is in that house. Tamela Banks and her family may be with him. Or they may be dead. In either case, Tyree may be able to lead us to them. But only if we nail his ass.”
“I never would have thought of that.” Slidell’s voice dripped sarcasm.
“Think about it,” I snapped.
“Look,
“You didn’t break any land-speed records finding Tyree!”
“We might want to keep our voices down,” Woolsey said.
Slidell spun on her.
“Now
Woolsey held Slidell’s gaze. “There’s no sense in giving your collar a heads-up.”
Slidell looked at Woolsey like an Israeli might a Palestinian gunman. Woolsey didn’t blink.
Rinaldi rejoined us. Over Woolsey’s shoulder I noticed a curtain move in a front window of the house in front of which Tyree had parked.
“I think we’re being watched,” I said.
“Ready?” Slidell asked Rinaldi.
Unbuttoning his jacket, Rinaldi turned and waved a come-on to the uniforms in the remaining cruiser. Their doors swung out.
At that moment the front door of the house whipped open. A figure shot down the steps, sprinted across the street, and disappeared down a walkway on the opposite side.
29
SLIDELL DIDN’T BLOW A VALVE. NOR DID HE TAKE DOWN DARRYL Tyree. To the best of my recollection, what happened was this.
Slidell and Rinaldi started humping up the block, legs pumping, ties flying backward. The two uniforms blew past them in seconds.
As the four cut toward the houses on the opposite side of the street from the Lexus, Woolsey and I exchanged glances, then scrambled into the nice lady detective’s Chevrolet.
Woolsey hammered up the block and took the corner in a tire-screaming turn. I braced between the door handle and dash. Another hard turn and we were boogying down an alley. Gravel flew from our tires and pinged off Dumpsters and rusting car chassis moored at angles to our right and left.
“There!” I could see Rinaldi, Slidell, and one of the cops about ten yards down.
Woolsey accelerated then hit the brake. Lurching forward then back, I did a quick read of the situation.
Rinaldi and one uniform stood with feet spread, guns trained on a rat pack of arms and legs on the ground. Slidell was doubled over, hands on knees, taking in long drafts of air. His face was now something in the violet family, Rinaldi’s the color of morgue flesh.
“Police!” Rinaldi panted, gun aimed in a two-handed grip.
The two men on the ground flailed like a pinned spider, cop on top, quarry beneath. Both were grunting, their backs dark with sweat. I could see gravel and fragments of cellophane and plastic in cornrows below the cop’s right shoulder.
“Freeze!” the standing cop yelled.
The thrashing ratcheted up.
“Freeze, asshole!” the standing cop elaborated.
Muffled protests. Appendages writhed on the pavement.
“Now! Or I blow your junkie balls off!”
Grabbing a wrist, the wrestling cop levered one of the prone man’s arms backward. Another protest, then the thrashing diminished. The wrestling cop reached to unhook cuffs from his belt.
The cornrows jerked, and the body bucked wildly, catching the wrestling cop off guard. Rolling sideways, the man broke free, lurched to his feet, and reeled forward in a half-crouch.
Without hesitating, Woolsey jackhammered into reverse, gunned backward, then forward, slamming the
