Bare Bones (28 page)

Slidel ’s voice had the agitated sound of someone in jammies cal ing out to things going bump in the night.

I put the phone to my ear.

“I just spotted Darryl Tyree.”

“How do you know it’s Tyree?”

“I recognized him from Gideon Banks’s Polaroid.”

“Where?”

“Picking up takeout at the Coffee Cup.”

“That way,” I said to Woolsey, pointing up Morehead.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Slidel .

“Tailing him.”

The wheels screeched softly as Woolsey whipped left onto Morehead, ignoring the sign prohibiting such a turn. I could see the black Lexus a block and a half up. Tyree didn’t respect traffic controls, either.

“Don’t tip him that we’re fol owing,” I said to Woolsey.

She gave me a “thanks for the advice” look and focused on her driving, hands clamped at ten and two o’clock on the wheel.

“Jesus H. Christ. Are you crazy?” Slidel bel owed.

“He may lead us to Tamela Banks.”

“Stay the fuck away from Tyree. That Looney Tune’l cap you without breaking a sweat.”

“He won’t know we’re on him.”

“Where are you?”

I braced as Woolsey made another turn.

“Freedom Drive.”

I heard Slidel cal out to Rinaldi. Then his voice went jumpy, as though he were jogging.

“Jee-zus, Brennan. Why can’t you and your friends just go to the mal .”

I didn’t favor that with a reply.

“I want you to pul over right now. Leave this to detectives.”

“I’m with a detective.”

“Who?”

“Terry Woolsey. She’s got a badge and everything. Visiting us from South Carolina.”

“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?” Slidel .

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 smal 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?” Slidel sounded apoplectic.

I put the phone to my ear and gave him the address.

“Don’t do anything! Nothing! Not a goddamn thing!” Slidel shrieked.

“OK if I order out for Chinese? Maybe have some spring rol s 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’l 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 bel y 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 Slidel off.

A rusted-out Ford Tempo rol ed 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 Slidel .

A group of black teens, al 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 hip.

I glanced at the gangsta who’d stationed himself on my side. He looked about fifteen and slightly larger than a pet ferret.

The ferret indicated I should lower my window. I ignored him.

The ferret spread his feet, folded his arms, and gave me a hard sunglasses stare. I held the stare a ful five seconds, then turned away.

Ten minutes.

The ferret’s counterpart was older and accessorized with enough gold to refinance WorldCom. He tapped the knuckle of an index finger on Woolsey’s window.

“Wassup?” His voice sounded muted inside the closed-up car.

Woolsey and I ignored him.

The kid draped a forearm crossways on Woolsey’s window, bent, and leaned his forehead on it.

“Yo, white sisters. You lookin’ to do some bidness?”

When the kid spoke, only the right half of his face rode along, as though the left suffered from Bel ’s palsy, or had sustained an injury that deactivated the nerves on that side.

“You lookin’ fine, pretty mamas. Lower the glass so’s I can talk wit’ chew.”

Woolsey flipped him the bird.

The kid pushed upright with both palms.

Woolsey made a shooing motion with her left hand.

The kid took one step back and gave Woolsey the ghetto glare.

Woolsey glared back.

Eleven minutes.

Bracing his feet, the kid wrapped both hands around Woolsey’s side mirror and turned to her. One half of his mouth smiled. His eyes did not.

I’l never know if Woolsey was reaching for a gun or reaching for a badge. At that moment Slidel ’s Taurus rounded the corner, pul ed over, and lurched to a stop behind us.

Though not on the upper end of the IQ curve, the little creeps harassing us could make a cop car a hundred yards off. As the doors of the Taurus flew open, the point men slid from Woolsey’s hood and started moving up the block. Throwing me one last up-yours glance, the ferret joined them.

The tough guy on the driver’s side straightened, formed a pistol with his right hand, and pantomimed a shot at Woolsey. Then he drumslapped the car’s hood several times with his palms, and swaggered off after his buddies.

As Slidel stormed toward us two cruisers pul ed in behind the Taurus. Woolsey and I got out of the car.

“Detective Slidel , I’d like you to meet Detective Woolsey,” I said.

Woolsey stuck out a hand. Slidel ignored it.

Woolsey held the proffered hand in the air between them. In my peripheral vision I saw Rinaldi emerge from the Taurus and stick-walk toward us.

“This the detective you’re talking about?” Slidel jammed a thumb toward Woolsey. His face was raspberry and a vein in his forehead was pumping a gusher.

“Calm down or you’re going to blow a valve,” I said.

“Since when do you give a rat’s ass about my valves?”

Slidel turned his scowl on Woolsey.

“You’re on the job?”

“Lancaster.”

“You’ve got no jurisdiction here.”

“Absolutely none.”

That seemed to disarm him some. As Rinaldi joined us, Slidel gave Woolsey’s hand a perfunctory shake. Then Rinaldi and Woolsey shook.

“What’s your interest here?” Slidel yanked out a hanky and did one of his face mops.

“Dr. Brennan and I were having breakfast. You know. Catching up. She asked for transportation to this location.”

“That’s it?”

“That’l do for now.”

“Uh-huh.” Slidel swiveled to me. “Where’s Tyree?”

I indicated the house behind the black Lexus.

“You’re sure it’s Tyree.”

“It’s Tyree. He went in about fifteen minutes ago.”

“I’l send backup to the rear,” Rinaldi said.

Slidel 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.” Slidel 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, Slidel ,” 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.” Slidel ’s voice dripped sarcasm.

“Think about it,” I snapped.

“Look,DoctorBrennan, I was busting scum while you were stil changing pumps on your Barbies!”

“You didn’t break any land-speed records finding Tyree!”

“We might want to keep our voices down,” Woolsey said.

Slidel spun on her.

“Nowyou’reoffering tips on how I should do my job?”

Woolsey held Slidel ’s gaze. “There’s no sense in giving your col ar a heads-up.”

Slidel 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?” Slidel 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.

SLIDELL DIDN’T BLOW A VALVE. NOR DID HE TAKE DOWNDARRYLTyree. To the best of my recol ection, what happened was this.

Slidel 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 al ey. 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, Slidel , 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. Slidel 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 cel ophane and plastic in cornrows below the cop’s right shoulder.

“Freeze!” the standing cop yel ed.

The thrashing ratcheted up.

“Freeze, asshole!” the standing cop elaborated.

Muffled protests. Appendages writhed on the pavement.

“Now! Or I blow your junkie bal s 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. Rol ing 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 Chevrolet across the al ey.

Shutter fast, the wrestling cop was on his feet and across the al ey. He and his partner hit the man at the same time, slamming him into the side of the Chevy.

“Freeze, you fucking freak show!”

The wrestling cop again cranked one of the man’s arms upward behind his back. I heard a thunk as the man’s head struck the car roof.

Woolsey and I got out and looked at the man draped over her car. His wrists were cuffed and the standing cop’s gun was at his temple.

Breathing hard, the wrestling cop kicked the man’s feet apart and frisked him. The search produced a Glock 9-mil imeter semiautomatic and two Ziploc baggies, one fil ed with white powder, the other with smal white tablets.

Tossing the Glock and drugs to his partner, the wrestling cop spun his col ar. The standing cop caught the baggies and took a step back, keeping his gun barrel trained on the man’s chest.

Darryl Tyree regarded us with al -pupil eyes. One lip was bleeding. The ghetto gold chains were knotted, and the cornrows looked like they’d mopped an arena.