The 4Runner moved at normal speed through moderate traffic, keeping to a mere five miles per hour above the speed limit, which in Miami is considered tourist speed, slow enough to justify a blast of the horn from the drivers who passed him. But Oscar didn’t seem to mind. He obeyed all the traffic signals and stayed in the right lane, cruising along as if he had no particular place to go and was merely out for a relaxing after-dinner drive.

As we came up on the 79th Street Causeway, Deborah picked up the radio. We’re passing 79th Street, she said. He’s in no hurry, proceeding north.

Ten-four, Doakes said, and Deborah glanced at me.

I didn’t say anything, I said.

You thought the hell out of it, she said.

We moved on north, stopping twice at traffic signals. Deborah was careful to stay several cars behind, no mean feat in Miami traffic, with most of the cars trying to go around, over, or through all the others. A fire engine went wailing past in the other direction, blasting its horn at the intersections. For all the effect it had on the other drivers, it might have been a lamb bleating. They ignored the siren and clung to their hard-won places in the scrambled line of traffic. The man behind the wheel of the fire engine, being a Miami driver himself, simply wove in and out with the horn and siren playing: Duet for Traffic.

We reached 123d Street, the last place to cross back to Miami Beach before 826 ran across at North Miami Beach, and Oscar kept heading north. Deborah told Doakes by radio as we passed it.

Where the hell is he going? Deborah muttered as she put down the radio.

Maybe he’s just driving around, I said. It’s a beautiful night.

Uh-huh. You want to write a sonnet?

Under normal circumstances, I would have had a splendid comeback for that, but perhaps due to the thrilling nature of our chase, nothing occurred to me. And anyway, Debs looked like she could use a victory, however small.

A few blocks later, Oscar suddenly accelerated into the left lane and turned left across oncoming traffic, raising an entire concerto of angry horns from drivers moving in both directions.

He’s making a move, Deborah told Doakes, west on 135th Street.

I’m crossing behind you, Doakes said. On the Broad Causeway.

What’s on 135th Street? Debs wondered aloud.

Opa-Locka Airport, I said. A couple of miles straight ahead.

Shit, she said, and picked up the radio. Doakes—Opa-Locka Airport is out this way.

On my way, he said, and I could hear his siren cutting on before his radio clicked off.