The man stepped back, al owed Woolsey to pass, slid the shades down his nose, and fol owed the progress of her buttocks.

Slidel was saying something, but I wasn’t listening.

Where had I seen that face?

My brain struggled toward pattern recognition.

In person? In a photo? Recently? In the distant past?

Slidel was stil talking, his voice tinny through the cel phone.

Seeing my expression, Woolsey turned back toward the Cup. The man had disappeared inside.

“What?”

I held up a finger.

“Hel-lo?” Realizing he’d lost it, Slidel 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. Ful 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?” Slidel .

“What?” Woolsey.

“Can you fol ow 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 hel ’s happening?”

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?”