“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.

29

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.