A Cutlass cut in front him. Webster braked hard, throwing them both backward. He rolled down the window and screamed. “You fuckin’ asshole! I’m gonna kill you!”

The Cutlass quickly moved out of the lane and dropped back into traffic. Martinez was ashen.

“That son of a bitch!” Webster muttered.

Patiently, Martinez said, “Slow down, Tom. Now!”

Finally, Webster braked. Breathing hard, he said, “Spot the Lincoln?”

“No.” Martinez’s heart was pounding at his breastbone. His eyes moved like radar, scanning through the traffic in front of him. Then he looked out at the side mirror. “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” He jerked his head around. “It’s behind us.”

“Where?” Webster said.

“Right-hand lane, about…six, seven car lengths behind.”

Webster’s eyes went to his rearview mirror, then slowed the ’Cuda to a speed less than the flow of traffic. “I don’t see it.”

“It’s there, take my word for it.”

Webster braked again. Within moments, the Lincoln came into view. He grinned. “Gotcha, baby!”

Martinez sat back, let out a deep breath. “You almost got us killed.”

Webster said nothing. Then he started to laugh. A moment later, so did Martinez. He hit his partner’s shoulder. “Son of a bitch! Drive like that again, you’ll never father another child.”

The ’Cuda cruised at a safe speed, allowing the Lincoln to gain distance until they were neck-and-neck. Martinez gave Waterson a quick once-over through the luxury sedan’s rolled-up window. Dark jacket, tie, and sunglasses. Stubby fingers gripped onto the wheel. Full cheeks, white hair, liver lips.

Martinez said, “Drop back about a hundred feet. Not too quickly. Move nice and easy. We don’t want him to suspect anything.”

Webster did as told. “Why would Waterson suspect anything, let alone a tail?”

“Because guilty people always suspect something. Mark my word, Tommy. Hanging around Sanchez, Waterson’s hiding something. I believe in guilt by association.”

“Hang around scum, you become scum.” Webster thought about the statement. “Sort of a social Lamarckian concept, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Maybe he’s only doing his duty as executor of Sparks’s estate.”

“What duty?”

Webster said, “Maybe Sparks left Sanchez money for the cause. Waterson could just be the delivery boy.”

“Waterson as Sanchez’s delivery boy?” Martinez smiled. “Remind me never to hire you as a chauffeur or a casting director.”

“You put it that way, it don’t make much sense.” Webster paused. “Did the family read the will yet?”

“I don’t know.”

From the 5 South, Webster hooked back on the 405 South. As he tailed the Lincoln, he suddenly noticed the flash of Waterson’s right-hand blinker.

Martinez said, “He’s getting off at Devonshire.”

“I see it.”

“Not so close.”

“I know, I know. Take it easy.”

“Sorry. I just don’t want to mess up at this point.”