Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

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’ll never know if Woolsey was reaching for a gun or reaching for a badge. At that moment Slidell’s Taurus rounded the corner, pulled 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 Slidell stormed toward us two cruisers pulled in behind the Taurus. Woolsey and I got out of the car.

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

Woolsey stuck out a hand. Slidell 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?” Slidell 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?”

Slidell 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, Slidell gave Woolsey’s hand a perfunctory shake. Then Rinaldi and Woolsey shook.

“What’s your interest here?” Slidell 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’ll do for now.”

“Uh-huh.” Slidell 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’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, Doctor Brennan, I was busting scum while you were still 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.

Slidell spun on her.

“Now you’re offering tips on how I should do my job?”

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 DARRYLTyree. 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 Chevrolet across the alley.

Shutter fast, the wrestling cop was on his feet and across the alley. 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-millimeter semiautomatic and two Ziploc baggies, one filled with white powder, the other with small white tablets.

Tossing the Glock and drugs to his partner, the wrestling cop spun his collar. 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 all-pupil eyes. One lip was bleeding. The ghetto gold chains were knotted, and the cornrows looked like they’d mopped an arena.

Slidell and Rinaldi holstered their guns and approached Tyree. Slidell was still breathing hard.