Inherit the Dead

at the driver. Or the plate. The Toyota raced past him, narrowly missing getting creamed by a milk truck.
    Damn.
    Perry stood in the rain, staring, then gave the honking, irritated drivers around him an irritated wave and got back into his car. His cell phone buzzed. He pulled around and stopped on Clinton. A text—Henry? With something new? He pulled it out.
    dad—what time do u think u’ll b here? n.
    Nicky. Oh, God, Nicky!
    Perry checked his watch. Almost ten. If he headed over right now and traffic was with him, he could still get to the café before she did.
    He typed, Baby, I’m soooo sorry—I’m in Brooklyn on a case, so not far away. Should be done in an hour. Rain check (haha) until a little later? Lunch? And ice cream? I love you—Dad. He had to retype some words more than once, his thumbs were so clumsy. He hated texting. Then why didn’t you call her, he asked himself. Instead of answering, he started his car and made his way toward Fort Greene.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
    Your hands are shaking on the steering wheel while you sit on the goddamn Brooklyn side street trying to catch your breath, the vision of the PI charging out of his car coming toward you like some goddamn madman replaying in your head, along with the sound of cars hitting brakes and blasting horns, and for a minute how you thought it was over, all your hard work over, all your hopes and dreams over. Fuck.
    But no way you could let that happen, so you just pressed the gas pedal against the floor without thinking, without looking, praying the whole time, praying to God as you turned the car into the oncoming traffic, gritting your teeth as that goddamn milk truck came at you, hearing the crash in your mind and bracing for the impact, eyes half closed when the truck swerved at the last second, just clipping your back fender, but you held on, kept the car steady as it bumped back over the divider and you cut across two lanes of traffic, more horns like wild geese quacking, and you just kept going, driving without thinking, speeding, turning down one street then another, around corners and now, finally, finally, you sit and wait for your pulse to slow and your breathing to return to normal, the panic you felt only minutes ago replaced by rage that fuels you as you start the car again and pick up the trail, backtracking through the Brooklyn streets, thinking you cannot lose him, will not lose him, because everything depends upon it and you know you’re close—you can feel it in your flesh and bones.
    So you drive up and down the streets searching, your heart in your throat and burning hatred in your soul, and together they keep you going until you see it, that junk heap of a car with the license plate you have memorized, making its way down the Brooklyn street, and you thank God because He is obviously on your side.
    This time you keep enough distance because you can’t risk his spotting you again, because you think this might be it, exactly what you have been waiting for, and you steel yourself because if you are right, if this is the moment, you must be ready to act, must be ready to kill.

14
DANA STABENOW
    T raffic had eased, and no one felt the need to curse at Perry or flip him off as he drove. Still, he had the same itch between his shoulders since losing the tail, one eye on the rearview mirror as he made his way into Fort Greene.
    Washington Avenue was a wide street of mostly five- and six-story brownstones and a few big old houses with front yards featuring black metal fences and garden gnomes wading hip deep through the swiftly melting remains of last week’s snowfall. The address Henry had given him, 354, was one of the old houses, the door painted bright red with a fanlight and brass fittings and a coachman’s lights placed precisely at each corner. He knocked with the feeling that there were eyes on him from behind every lace curtain on the street.
    The woman who answered the door was dressed in designer jeans and a boat-necked, three-quarter-sleeve sweater in a crimson that nearly matched the door. She had skin the color of eggplant, teeth like JFK, and hair like Michelle Obama’s. The only things sixtyish about her were her eyes, guarded and suspicious, carrying a memory that had neither forgotten nor forgiven the fire hoses and the attack dogs.
    She had herself planted in the doorway like a glacial erratic, andshort of dynamite he didn’t see any way outside of honesty to move her from it. “I’m as white as you can