ll didn't blow a valve. Nor did he take down Darryl Tyree. To the best of my recollection, what happened was this.

Slidell 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 alley. 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, Slidell, 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. Slidell 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 cellophane and plastic in cornrows below the cop's right shoulder.

'Freeze!' the standing cop yelled.

The thrashing ratcheted up.

'Freeze, asshole!' the standing cop elaborated.

Muffled protests. Appendages writhed on the pavement.

'Now! Or I blow your junkie balls 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. Rolling sideways, the man broke free, lurched to his feet, and reeled forward in a half-crouch.

Without hesitating, Woolsey jackhammered into reverse, gunned backward, then forward, slamming the Chevrolet across the alley.

Shutter fast, the wrestling cop was on his feet and across the alley. He and his partner hit the man at the same time, slamming him into the side of the Chevy.

'Freeze, you fucking freak show!'

The wrestling cop again cranked one of the man's arms upward behind his back. I heard a thunk as the man's head struck the car roof.

Woolsey and I got out and looked at the man draped over her car. His wrists were cuffed and the standing cop's gun was at his temple.

Breathing hard, the wrestling cop kicked the man's feet apart and frisked him. The search produced a Glock 9-millimeter semiautomatic and two Ziploc baggies, one filled with white powder, the other with small white tablets.

Tossing the Glock and drugs to his partner, the wrestling cop spun his collar. The standing cop caught the baggies and took a step back, keeping his gun barrel trained on the man's chest.

Darryl Tyree regarded us with all-pupil eyes. One lip was bleeding. The ghetto gold chains were knotted, and the cornrows looked like they'd mopped an arena.

Slidell and Rinaldi holstered their guns and approached Tyree. Slidell was still breathing hard.

Avoiding eye contact, Tyree shifted his weight, shifted back, then back again, as though he wasn't sure what to do with his feet.

Slidell and Rinaldi crossed their arms and regarded Tyree. Neither detective spoke. Neither moved.

Tyree kept his eyes on the ground.

Slidell dug out and tapped his Camels, extracted one with his lips, and offered the pack to Tyree.

'Smoke?' Slidell's face looked scalded, his eyes furious.

Tyree gave a tight head shake, wiggling the tiny pigtails at his neckline.

Slidell lit up, inhaled, placed hands on hips, and exhaled.

'Rock and E-bombs. Planning a two-for-one sale?'

'I don' deal.' Mumbled.

'I'm sorry, Darryl. I didn't hear that.' Slidell turned to his partner. 'You get that, Eddie?'

Rinaldi wagged his head.

'What'd you say, Darryl?'

Tyree slid his eyes to Slidell, but what little sunlight entered the alley was at the detective's back. Squinting, Tyree turned his face to one side.

'Suit's not mine.'

'I got just one problem with that, Darryl. The product was traveling in your pants.'

'I been set up.'

'Now who would do a thing like that?'

'I been around. Man makes enemies, you know what I'm sayin'?'

'Yeah, I know. You're a tough guy, Darryl.'

'You got nothin' on me. I'm jus' goin' 'bout my bidness.'

'What business would that be?' Slidell.

Tyree shrugged and kicked a heel at the gravel.

Slidell took a drag, dropped the butt, and gave it a twist with the ball of one foot.

'Who you serving for, Darryl?'

Another shrug.

'Know what I think, Darryl? I think you're into some double-breasted dealing.'

Tyree wagged his head on his long, goose neck.

Slidell let loose a sigh, disappointed.

'These questions too tough for you, Darryl?'

Slidell turned to his partner. 'What do you think, Eddie. Think maybe we're going over Darryl's head?'

'Could try a different approach,' Rinaldi said. 'Learned that in my interrogation workshop. Vary the approach.'

Slidell nodded.

'How's this?' Slidell turned back to Tyree. 'Why'd you do Tamela Banks and her little baby?'

Tyree's eyes showed the first hint of fear.

'I didn't do nothin' to Tamela. We was together.'

'Together?'

'Axe anyone. Tamela and me, we was together. Why I gonna do her?'

'That's nice, isn't it, Eddie. I mean, being together's a great thing, don't you think?'

'All you need is love,' Rinaldi agreed.

Slidell turned back to Tyree.

'But you know, Darryl, sometimes a woman gets wandering eyes, know what I mean?' Slidell gave an exaggerated boys' club wink. 'My way of thinking, being together means being together. Sometimes a man's gotta bring his gal back into line. Hell, we've all been down that road.'

Tyree flopped his head to one side. 'Beatin' on a woman is messed up.'

'Maybe one little slap? A punch to the kidneys?'

'No, man. I ain't into that shit.'

'How about beating on a baby?'

Tyree kicked out with one heel, his head flopped to the other side, and his eyes dropped to the ground.

'Shi-i-t.'

Slidell's brows shot up in mock surprise.

'We say something to offend you, Darryl?'

Slidell turned to his partner.

'Eddie, you think we offended Darryl? Or do you think Mr. Tough Guy's got a secret he don't want to share?'

'We all have skeletons,' Rinaldi played along.

'Yeah. But Darryl's was a tiny one in a great big nasty woodstove.' Directed at Tyree.

'I didn't do nothin' to Tamela.'

'What happened to the baby?'

'Baby jus' dead.'

'And the woodstove seemed like a touching memorial?'

Another heel kick.

'Man. Why you tryin' to do me like this?'

'We're real sorry, Darryl. We realize this little setback might delay your making Eagle Scout.'

Tyree shifted his feet.

'Maybe I do a little bidness. That don't mean I know nothin' 'bout Tamela.'

'A little business? We just nailed you with enough blow and E to send my three nephews through Harvard.'

Slidell took two steps forward and put his face inches from Tyree's.

'You're going down hard, Tyree.'

Tyree tried to back up but the Chevy kept him trapped within breath range of Slidell.

'Know how long baby killers last in the joint?'

Tyree twisted his face as far to the side as his neck would allow.

'I'd say about three months.' Over his shoulder to Rinaldi. 'That sound about right to you, Eddie?'

'Yeah. Maybe four if you're tough.'

'Like Darryl.'

'Like Darryl.'

I could take it no longer.

'Please,' I said. 'Do you know where Tamela is?'

Tyree tipped his head and glanced over Slidell's shoulder. For a moment his eyes fixed on mine. It was only a moment, but it was enough. I felt like I was looking into the dark, empty void of hell.

Wordlessly, Tyree turned away.

'Please,' I said to the side of his face. 'It's not too late to help yourself.'

Snorting air through his nose, Tyree shifted his feet and gave a who-gives-a-shit shrug.

A terrible thought kept recycling through my brain. Tamela and her family are dead. This man knows.

This man knows a lot.

As I watched Tyree being led off, a cold, sick feeling overcame me.

===OO=OOO=OO===

At the MCME, Tim Larabee's office door was open. I suspected he'd been lying in wait for me. He called out as I passed.

'Hear you're bucking for a spot on NYPD Blue.'

I stepped into his office.

'Word is you wanted to do an orifice search on Tyree. Slidell had to restrain you.'

'Slidell was in no shape to restrain anybody. I thought I'd have to do CPR on him.'

'Tyree tell you anything useful?'

'He's innocent as the Little Flower.'

'That the kid saw the Virgin at Lourdes?'

I nodded.

'Cute analogy.'

'I was taught by nuns.'

'Hard to break the habit.'

Eye roll.

'Now what?' Larabee asked.

'Once they've completed intake, Rinaldi and Slidell are going to grill Tyree, play him off against Sonny Pounder. One or the other will roll over.'

'My money's on Pounder.'

'Good bet. The question is, how much does Sonny know?'

Larabee's face got the look of a kid bursting with a secret.

'Guess who's in storage?'

Larabee's way of referring to a decedent's sojourn to the morgue. Temporary storage.

'Ricky Don Dorton.'

'Old news.'

'Osama bin Laden.'

'Better than that.'

I gave him a come-on gesture with my fingers.

The name was the last I expected to hear.