Dead Wood - By Dani Amore Page 0,36

day. But a few apartments managed to infiltrate the market and the mysterious Randy had apparently set up shop at one.

I parked the Taurus and went to the main door which had a little grid with four buttons and four plexiglassed spaces on which three names were written. The fourth was blank.

I pressed the first button on the list. There was no answer. I tried the second button. According to the nametag, it belonged to an A. Tanikas. A moment later, a voice rattled through the tin speaker.

“Yeah?” A man’s voice. Older.

“I’m lookin’ for my buddy Randy.”

“So?”

“Yeah, he lives here but there’s no answer and his nametag is gone. Don’t tell me he moved out – he owes me ten bucks.”

“Talk to the manager.”

“Where?”

“See that blue house across the street?”

I turned. Sure enough, there was a little blue bungalow crammed between two apartment buildings.

“Thanks,” I said to the speaker, but Mr. Tanikas had already returned to his present activities. I pictured a retired guy doing a crossword puzzle. But who knew, he could have been a senior engineer at Ford, working on a top-secret engine that would revolutionize the auto industry. You had to be careful with assumptions.

I crossed the street and knocked on the blue bungalow’s front door. Nice spot if you’re a manager of an apartment building. You don’t have to live in the building and listen to the constant squabbles. But you’re close enough to keep an eye on things.

The door opened and I came face to face with the man who possibly held the answers to my questions. He was a small, fine-featured older man wearing khakis and a cardigan. Imagine Ward Cleaver in his early seventies.

I said, “I’m looking for my buddy Randy – he used to live in one of those apartments over there.” I jerked my head toward his apartment building.

“Randy Watkins?” the old man said and I nearly hugged him. I finally had a last name.

“Yep, that’s him,” I said.

“Whaddaya mean he doesn’t live there anymore? He owes me a month’s rent!”

“Well,” I said. “I just assumed, what with his nametag gone.”

“Aw, fuck,” he said and there went my Ward Cleaver image. “He never wanted his name there. Said he never got any mail anyway. I put one up once, but the stupid bastard just took it down. Waste of ink and paper from my Label Maker.”

Mr. Cleaver narrowed his eyes at me. “Thought you said you were friends.”

“Well, he owes me some money—”

I saw the Friendly Cardigan Man’s eyes slide off my face and look over my shoulder.

I turned around.

A black Nova.

I got a quick look at the driver and he got a quick look at me, and then he slammed the car into gear and roared around the corner.

Mr. Cleaver said something I couldn’t make out and then I was running for the Taurus. I fired it up, slammed it into gear and took off after the Nova.

Twenty-one

He had a head start, but it was a small one. Plus, I’m no expert on cars, but the old Novas weren’t necessarily the fastest cars on the road. And the Taurus, despite its rep as a classically boring middle-of-the-road suburban white guy car, had a V-6 with 230 horsepower. Which I was confident could outgun the old Nova in a test of brute strength.

I gambled that he would head toward Detroit. It made sense. There’s a tangible sense of lawlessness in the city. Not enough cops, really, really bad criminals all over the place. If you’re in a car chase, and if you’re a criminal yourself, the best place to go is Detroit. There’s much less chance you’ll ever be found than if you hightail it out to the suburbs.

So I took a chance and headed straight from the village toward I-94, right up Cadieux. I caught up to my friend in the Nova on the entrance ramp. I got on his bumper and I could make out his head and shoulders. He was a big guy, and judging from the quick glimpse I’d gotten at the apartment building, I was pretty sure I’d never seen him before.

We played cat-and-mouse on the freeway. Randy Watkins had apparently seen every Sylvester Stallone movie ever made because he tried every trick on the book. Using a semi-truck as camouflage. Speeding up, braking down hard. Veering toward an exit ramp, then veering back at the last minute. I tried to get up and get a better look at him, but he always swung back or