The Little Beast was still parked two doors down from the Donnellys’. The front passenger-side door was locked. I waited a few seconds for Steve to unlock it. When I didn’t hear the automatic door click, I shielded my eyes and peered through the pitch-black window.
Empty.
I’d left Steve specific instructions to not leave it unattended. He didn’t know what happened to unattended vehicles in this area. I did.
A couple of black teenagers with low-slung pants were sitting on a porch behind me. They were passing a cigarette back and forth. I was pretty sure it wasn’t tobacco. They were staring at me, trying to figure me out. For the first time, I wondered if my bright aloha shirt wasn’t as inconspicuous as I’d thought. It didn’t scream “Joe Biden.” But it was definitely screaming.
“How you kids doing?” I said.
They didn’t respond.
“Joe!”
Barack waved from halfway down the block. He had a big-gulp cup. Steve was carrying a takeout bag.
“That guy was trying to break into your car,” one of the teen boys shouted to them. The kid could have been fifteen or sixteen. His hands were buried in the pockets of his hoodie.
Barack handed them each five bucks. “Thanks for watching it. But I know this guy. We’re cool.” Barack had the keys, and he unlocked the doors. “Get in, Joe.”
I was opening the passenger door when a polished Ford Galaxie rounded the corner. I tensed up as it rolled slowly down the street, rims spinning. I could feel the bass pumping from the speakers rattling my fillings. It reached the intersection and sped off.
“Is there something bothering you, Joe?” Barack asked.
I didn’t have a racist bone in my body. But I did have a healthy fear of ending up in the crossfires of a gang shootout. I’d been in war zones before, but many of them paled in comparison to Riverside. Though the neighborhood had a relatively small footprint, it accounted for a hugely disproportionate amount of violent crime in the city.
I stammered out a few sounds that only vaguely resembled words, trying to find some way to articulate my concerns about the area without coming across as a bigoted crank. Before I completely embarrassed myself, he mercifully cut in.
“Chill. Anyone messes with you, they’re messing with me. And I’ve got two words for you: predator drones.”
He hopped in back.
“The DEA warrant looked legit,” I said, sliding into the front seat. “I don’t know what to do about that just yet. I hadn’t expected another agency to get involved.”
“They don’t go after low-level users.”
“We could get in touch with them. If they were sharing information with the Wilmington PD, we should have heard about it.”
“Esposito’s trying to brush us off,” Barack said. “Maybe she’s giving them the cold shoulder too.”
“Dan would know…except I’m not going to reach out to him until we know more. He might not help us anyway.”
“If he’s your friend, he’ll find a way. That’s what friends do.”
I ran a hand through my hair. I was due for a trim soon.
“I did learn that Grace hasn’t seen the duffel bag,” I said. “Oh, and there’s a watch missing, too.”
“Expensive?”
“Doubt it,” I said. “Finn never went for the flashy ones. The cheap ones, they don’t last that long, so he was always buying a new one every couple of years. I don’t know what his last one looked like.”
Steve started the SUV. Its 6.2-liter V8 roared to life.
“So the Amtrak workers, they all buy their own watches?” Barack asked.
“You think Mariano Rivera would take the mound with a glove that wasn’t his?” I said. “Back in the day, the railroads required engineers and conductors to carry them. They had to be accurate and reliable—there were watch inspectors who checked everything out, even. These days, they can use whatever watch they like, as long as it’s in good working condition and displays the time down to the second. Lot of conductors go for vintage pocket watches. Most engineers use wristwatches.”
“You sure know a lot about trains.”
“I don’t know jack squat about trains. I know a lot about Amtrak. There’s a big difference. I’m not a foamer, for Pete’s sake.”
“Speak English, Joe.”
“A rail fan,” I said. “A foamer. It’s usually not a complimentary term. They’re also called trainspotters, railnuts. Hoggers.”
“Hoggers?”
“Don’t you start, Barack.”
A tight-lipped smile spread across his face.
“You guys get me something to eat?” I asked.
“Those vegetables not fill you up?” Steve asked.
Even he was giving me a hard time now.
I squeezed the bag in my hand. It was thawing out, and dripping into my lap. “About that…”
I explained the strange encounter and handed the woman’s business card to Steve, who called in a request for a background check on her. Just to be safe.
“You’ve got a little bruising under your eye,” Barack said.
That’s what happens when you take a sandal to a stiletto fight, I thought. I rummaged through the fast-food bag. Whatever grilled chicken breasts they’d gotten for themselves were long gone. They’d saved me three breaded chicken fingers.
“No dipping sauce?” I asked.
“There’s ketchup in there,” Barack said. “They had barbecue sauce, but I know you can’t handle anything hotter than honey mustard.”
I told Steve to start the car.
“Where are we going?” Barack asked. “Off to interview a witness? Examine a crime scene? Shake down some heavies?”
I shook my head. “We’re going to get me some danged barbecue sauce.”