“The baby’s father?”
“Unless Miss Hot Pants was entertaining while Daddy was dealing.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Darryl Tyree. Tamela was shacking up in Tyree’s little piece of heaven out on South Tryon.”
“Tyree sells drugs?”
“And we’re not talking the Eckerd’s pharmacy.” Slidell hit the door handle and got out.
I bit back a response.
A stab of guilt. Over for me, but what about Gideon Banks? What about Tamela and her dead baby?
I joined Slidell on the sidewalk.
“Je-zus. It’s hot enough to burn a polar bear’s butt.”
“It’s August.”
“I should be at the beach.”
Yes, I thought. Under four tons of sand.
I followed Slidell up a narrow walk littered with fresh-mown grass to a small cement stoop. He pressed a thumb to a rusted button beside the front door, dug a hanky from his back pocket, and wiped his face.
No response.
Slidell knocked on a wooden portion of the screen door.
Nothing.
Slidell knocked again. His forehead glistened and his hair was separating into wet clumps.
“Police, Mr. Banks.”
Slidell banged with the heel of his hand. The screen door rattled in its frame.
“Gideon Banks!”
Condensation dripped from a window AC to the left of the door. A lawn mower whined in the distance. Hip-hop drifted from somewhere up the block.
Slidell banged again. A dark crescent winked from his gray polyester armpit.
“Anyone home?”
The AC’s compressor kicked on. A dog barked.
Slidell yanked the screen.
Pounded on the wooden door.
Released the screen. Barked his demand.
“Police! Anyone there?”
Across the street, a curtain flicked, dropped back into place.
Had I imagined it?
A drop of perspiration rolled down my back to join the others soaking my bra and waistband.
At that moment my cell phone rang.
I answered.
That call swept me into a vortex of events that ultimately led to my taking a life.
2
“TEMPE BRENNAN.”
“Pig pickin’!” My daughter gave a series of guttural snorts. “Barbecue!”
“Can’t talk now, Katy.”
I turned a shoulder to Slidell, pressing the cell phone tight to my ear to hear Katy over the static.
Slidell knocked again, this time with Gestapo force. “Mr. Banks!”
“I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow,” Katy said.
“I know nothing about cigars,” I said, speaking as softly as I could. Katy wanted me to accompany her to a picnic given by the owner of a cigar and pipe store. I had no idea why.
