Detective

as he hit the exit ramp. That could mean only one thing: the West Side Highway.
    I slammed my car into a U-turn and sped down Riverside Drive. I had a start on him, ’cause he had to get out of the exit loop, but I had some looping of my own to do. I gave it the gas and took a left fork off Riverside Drive onto a side street that, oddly enough, was also called Riverside Drive. I zoomed down it like a bat out of hell and ran the light at 158th Street, where a zillion roads merged, two others of which, so help me god, were also Riverside Drive. I hung the hard right, and shot down the hill. I swerved under the real Riverside Drive and under the Highway, hung a hard left, and hit the highway entrance just in time to see a lone car whiz by. I was going so fast I nearly veered out and hit him. I hit the brakes hard, wrenched the wheel back the other way, screeched onto the highway, and fishtailed. I let off the brake, and the car straightened out. I risked a glance at the tracking unit. It was him all right. He was right ahead of me, heading south. Great work, I thought. Talk about inconspicuous.
    I dropped back and let him have a good lead, so he could have a chance to stop thinking about the guy at whom he’d undoubtedly shouted, “Asshole!” We passed 125th Street, 96th Street, and 79th Street, which meant he couldn’t be getting off until at least 57th Street. I had a chance to say, “Asshole!” back at him. Not only had he gone all the way north to go south again, but if, as I suspected, he was headed for Tony Arroyo’s place, he had also chosen to take the West Side Highway down and then drive all the way across town, instead of taking the Harlem River Drive and the FDR like a normal person.
    My assumption proved to be correct. Red got off at 57th Street and drove straight to Tony’s building. He pulled into the circular driveway, took out the by now familiar suitcase, and went in. From my vantage point in the street, I could see him through the lobby window talking to the doorman. The doorman called upstairs on the house phone, and, after a brief conversation, waved Red up.
    I would have loved to have gone over and checked out the bottom of Red’s car to see if the kilo of coke was still among the present, but the driveway was brightly lit, and with the doorman standing right there it was out of the question. I had to content myself with staying put and seeing what happened next.
    Red was down in five minutes, without the suitcase. He got into his car and drove off. I let him go. I had his license number and I had his car bugged. I could get him any time I liked. Even with the kilo of coke aboard, he had ceased to be a main concern.
    I sat in the car and waited. Twenty minutes later a familiar looking limo pulled into the driveway. Tony Arroyo came out of the building, carrying the suitcase. He got in the limo and drove off. I pulled out and followed.
    I don’t mind admitting I was scared to death. It was one thing to follow Tony’s limo when he was driving home from a nice night at the casino. It was something else to follow him when he was carrying a king’s ransom in contraband. One might suspect he might be slightly more curious as to whether or not anyone was taking an interest in him.
    I hoped like hell he was heading for a particular address on East 64th Street. First, because it was close. Second, because it would have tied everything up. I would have traced the two separate drug operations from both ends back to where they crossed, to where it had all gone wrong, to where Albrect’s future had suddenly become such an iffy proposition.
    It would have been nice, but it didn’t happen. The limo didn’t turn up toward 64th Street; it headed for the East River. So Rosa’s connection wasn’t Pluto. Well, win some, lose some. If I didn’t get killed, I’d probably find out who was Pluto.
    The limo took the ramp onto the Queensboro Bridge. I followed at what I hoped was a safe distance. Far below me lay the East River, where Guillermo Gutierrez presumably still resided. Better him than me.
    On the other side of the bridge the limo took Queens Boulevard to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, took the B.Q.E. south to the Long Island Expressway, and headed east on the L.I.E. It was a hell of a route to take. I’d have gone through the Midtown Tunnel and been on the L.I.E. in the first place. But it occurred to me that Tony’s driver probably didn’t get paid for his knowledge of the city; he