28
A green ’70s-model muscle car parked on the street started up as we drove out of Wilkes’s neighborhood. It was still a few cars behind Shea when I turned left onto Camelback Road.
“Looks like we got company,” I said.
Byrd glanced back. “The ’71 Nova? You think they’re following us?”
“One way to find out.” I made an abrupt turn south on Scottsdale Road just as the turn arrow switched from green to yellow. I glanced in my rearview. Shea squeaked through just as the light went red.
“They still tailing us?” I focused on the heavy congestion around Scottsdale Fashion Park. From behind us came a squeal of brakes and a blaring of horns.
“Yup. You think it’s the guy who shot up your house?” asked Byrd.
“Freddie Colton drives a Pontiac Trans Am.”
“Maybe it wasn’t Colton last night. You s
