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 were a manager of an apartment building. You didn’t have to live in the building and listen to the constant squabbles, but you were 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 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.

Chapter Twenty-One

He had a head start, but it was a small one. Plus, I was 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 V6 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, and 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 in 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 got behind me. Nevertheless, I did get a few more glimpses, enough to put together my own little “artist’s rendering” in my mind. His hair was light brown, almost blond. Thick features. A strong jaw. Kind of a pug nose. Big hands on the Nova’s steering wheel.

We dodged each other for a few more minutes until finally Randy made his big move and jumped the shoulder onto an exit ramp. I’d anticipated his move and was already on the exit ramp. So after his poor man’s Evel Knievel routine, he ended up right in front of me.

Randy led the way into Detroit proper. I soon found myself in not-so-pleasant neighborhoods. Streets with the requisite cars up on blocks, garbage lying around the street. Lots of Detroit citizens standing around on the sidewalks, hands in their oversized shorts. Looking around, waiting for something to happen. Anything to happen.

I started to worry about what Mr. Watkins’ plans might be. It was certainly easier to kill someone in Detroit than it was in Grosse Pointe. And if his behavior was telling me anything, it was telling me that Randy had played a part in the murder of Nevada Hornsby and his deckhand. This was not good news. He may have killed before, which meant he may kill again. And here I was cornering him like a rat in a cage.

As if reading my thoughts, the Nova pin-wheeled into a narrow alley, yours truly a second or two behind him. I flew down the narrow passageway. I could see a big truck maneuvering a garbage dumpster into place.

But no Nova.

I started to brake just as I passed a small opening on my left. I quickly realized I’d made a bad tactical mistake as the rear end of the Nova shot out of the narrow alley I’d just passed. The Nova clipped my rear end, and the Taurus careened into the brick wall. All I heard was screeching metal and the sound of glass breaking. The car rocked to a stop, and I tried to get my bearings. The Taurus had slid around, and I was now facing the way I’d come.

And there, in the middle of the road, was Randy Watkins. Lifting a gun and pointing it at the most obvious direction possible.

I dove for the floor just as the sound of shots ripped through the alley. The shots came fast, one right after another. More glass broke. I heard a ricochet that sounded exactly like it does in the movies. I scrambled along the floor, trying to get to the passenger door. If Randy was coming, I didn’t want to get trapped in the car. I found the passenger-side door handle and pulled, but nothing happened. I reached up but it was already unlocked. I pulled the release and threw my weight against the door. Nothing. It wouldn’t budge. I panicked, hurling myself against it, over and over again, ignoring the searing pain in my shoulder, my mind screaming at the idea of any moment seeing the pug face of Randy at my window, shooting at me like a fish in a barrel. I kept pounding at the door, finally felt it give, and then I tumbled out onto the pavement.

At the same time, I heard the most beautiful sound of all. Tires squealed, and I nearly wept with joy. I saw the Nova roar out of the end of the alley and around the corner.

My heart was racing, and I suddenly wanted to be sick. I staggered around the car, my legs weak, my shoulder sagging as if I’d knocked it out of alignment.

Steam poured out from underneath the Taurus’ hood, and the engine made a bunch of strange popping sounds that could only be the automotive equivalent of a death rattle.