“Okay.” She sounded relieved that I was ending our conversation. “Talk to you later.” As we each disconnected, I rolled down my window for the approaching police officer.

“Good evening, Officer,” I said.

“License and registration, please,” he said.

“Sure, of course.” As I opened the glove compartment I said, “Did I do something wrong, Officer?” Where the hell was the registration? The inside of the glove box looked like a wastebasket.

“You know you got a taillight out?” he asked.

Oh yeah.

“No,” I said. “You’re kidding. I had no idea. The car was just in for a service, probably a month ago.” I’d located a small plastic dealership binder. Surely the registration must be in there. I rifled through. Bingo!

“Whatcha doing around here?” the officer asked, using a flashlight to examine the registration paper I’d just handed him.

I didn’t even know where “here” was. “I guess I’m a bit turned around,” I said.

“I’m waiting for your license,” he said, still hanging on to the registration. “So, you’re lost?”

“Yeah,” I said, shifting in my seat to get at the wallet in the back pocket of my new khakis. The pants were so new, it was hard to wriggle my wallet out. “Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for the closest McDonald’s? Is there one near here?” I finally freed it and got my license out.

He told me where he thought I’d find the closest one, then started scribbling down some information from the two official bits of paper I’d handed him.

“I’m going to have to write you up,” he said. “And you’re going to have to get that brake light fixed. Tomorrow.”

“You bet,” I said.

He spent about another five minutes with me, handed me my ticket, and went back to his car. I turned the car around, hoping that a U-turn here wouldn’t amount to another infraction, and drove back to the street where I’d lost track of Angie a few minutes earlier.

If I could drive past the McDonald’s, I thought, see that she was okay, make sure that Trevor’s car was nowhere to be seen, I’d pack it in. I’d head home.

The McDonald’s was right where the cop said it would be, its golden arches visible nearly a mile away. It was on the left, and as I approached I put on my blinker, pulled into the turning lane. I figured I’d do a sweep through the parking lot, and if everything looked satisfactory, I’d call it a night.

I drove down the west side of the restaurant, the windows to my left, the cars parked on an angle to my right. And there was the Virtue, pulled in between a couple of small cars, neither of which was a black Chevy.