Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

“What?”

I held up a finger.

“Hel-lo?” Realizing he’d lost it, Slidell was trying to regain my attention.

I was about to disconnect and return to the restaurant when the man reappeared, white paper bag in one hand, keys in the other. Crossing to a black Lexus, he opened the rear door, placed the food on the seat, and slammed the door.

Before sliding behind the wheel, the man turned in our direction.

No shades. Full frontal view.

I studied the features.

Remove the cornrows and curly little pigtails.

Synapse!

The temperature seemed to drop. The day compressed around me.

“Holy shit!”

“What?” Slidell.

“What?” Woolsey.

“Can you follow that guy?” I asked Woolsey, pointing the phone at the Lexus.

“The guy with the cornrows?”

I nodded.

She nodded back.

We bolted for her car.

28

“BRENNAN!”

I clicked my seat belt and braced against the dash as Woolsey made a U-ey and gunned it up Clarkson.

“What the hell’s happening?”

Slidell’s voice had the agitated sound of someone in jammies calling 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?” Slidell.

“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 following,” 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?” Slidell bellowed.

“He may lead us to Tamela Banks.”

“Stay the fuck away from Tyree. That Looney Tune’ll 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 Slidell call 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 mall.”

I didn’t favor that with a reply.

“I want you to pull 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?” 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 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 full 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 Bell’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.