Chris was amazingly good at following people. I should have known, since he’d spent so much time following me. Half the time I didn’t even know he was there until he started pounding on a door or showing up at the dojang or hanging out in my driveway. It was creepy.

We followed the Mustang as it stopped to get gas, pulled into a drive-through, and paused while Heriberto talked to some girl who leaned inside the driver’s open window, then popped out laughing and squealing. Heriberto was having an evening of it, and we were along for the ride.

Chris hardly spoke at all while driving. His mouth was pressed down into a grimace, and as the sun fell completely below the horizon, he took his sunglasses off and tossed them onto the dash.

I’d started the ride by saying things like, “He turned right,” and, “He’s slowing down,” but quickly realized that wasn’t necessary. Chris was in the zone. I might as well have not even been in the car with him.

Finally, Heriberto pulled into a neighborhood. It wasn’t the worst-looking neighborhood I’d seen, but it wasn’t anywhere I’d want to break down alone. There was a feeling of being watched, as if each window had eyes on the other side. As if every “regular” was memorized and catalogued. I’d never felt so much like an outsider in my life.

It was harder to keep a distance from Heriberto here. Chris went straight when he turned, and puttered around a few blocks to waste time. I kept my eyes open for a black Monte Carlo but saw none. Of course, I’d only ever seen that car parked somewhere near the Hollis warehouse hideout, so it wasn’t too surprising not to find it here. Not surprising, but still disappointing. If that Monte Carlo didn’t belong here, what did Heriberto have to do with the hit-and-run?

Short answer: maybe he had nothing to do with it.

Even shorter answer: waste of time.

After a few minutes that seemed like forever, Chris doubled back and turned down the side street Heriberto had turned down. He wound around until we saw the yellow Mustang, parked on a curb just outside an apartment building.

“There,” I said, pointing. “Do you see it?”

“I think everyone sees it,” Chris answered. Sure enough, there was a crowd on the front porch. Most of the people must have been from around there, because other than Heriberto’s car, there was only one car sitting in the driveway.

There seemed to be a party going on, most of the people clutching drinks, loud laughter and faint music wafting through the warm evening air. Heriberto was sitting on the top step, a beer on the ground between his feet, a woman wrapped around him from behind.

He looked up when we passed, and we locked eyes.