She rented a black Mustang and drove to the address in Pacoima that was on the driver’s license that said Juan Javier Martinez but carried Ortega’s photograph. On the first pass she used her cell phone to make a video of her progress through his neighborhood. Her recording showed which houses had dogs tied in the yard or dog bowls in back, which had toys or bicycles, which had too many cars parked on their lawns or around them to be single-family dwellings, which routes were clear at night and which might be blocked by cars cruising or groups of young men congregating. She searched for police units and police activity. She drove far away and parked, then came back through an hour later, and an hour after that, each time filling in or modifying her earlier observations. She made six trips, stopping only at dawn, when people were getting up to go to work.

She performed reconnaissance runs during the next three days, observing the lives people were living around Ortega’s house. After the third day, she had made enough observations. During the time she’d been watching the house, she hadn’t seen anyone enter or leave. No curtain was moved. No mail was delivered to the mailbox on the front of the house. And on Wednesday, when all the houses nearby had their black, green, and blue trash bins out at the curb for the trucks to pick up, there were no bins at Ortega’s. The house was empty. She would have to go in and see what she could find inside.

She drove to the airport and returned the Mustang she had rented because of the chance that it had become too familiar, and exchanged it for a black Chevrolet Traverse 1LT with a 310-horsepower engine. She had a strong feeling that she might have to leave Ortega’s house in a hurry. She used black electrical tape to change some of the numbers on the plates.

She reached the house at 2:30 a.m., parked the car around the corner, and walked the perimeter of the building. It was a small house painted light yellow with a small porch at the front and a broad, dusty yard in the back with one large tree, surrounded by a chain-link fence. She moved from window to window.

When she reached the side window, she stopped. She pushed her small flashlight against the glass, shielded it with her hand, and turned it on.

What she saw inside was a shotgun. He had it rigged as a spring gun. It was an insidious device, but even worse, it could mean that he had left his house because he knew someone was coming for him. The thought hit her so powerfully that she put her back to the wall and stood still, looking outward at the road, the other houses nearby, and the street while she reconsidered this visit.