It’s a smart kind of signal, the kind of thing spies did during the Cold War. Adjusting the blinds in a window just so, putting a piece of tape in a certain place on a particular telephone pole, moving a flower pot to a different spot on a porch—all subtle signals to a select few who know what they mean. Agent Scott told me the folded side mirror meant he wanted a meeting; the chalk mark indicated the meeting was urgent and should be that same night.

No one comes out of the Waffle House or saunters up to the Chrysler. Still keeping an eye on the car, I call Ethan. No answer—he’s probably still teaching. When his voice mail beeps, I leave a message. “Hey, had to run some errands. Wilson’s at home but should be fine. I’ll take him on a walk this afternoon, get him some exercise.” I think about what else I should say—sorry we fought this morning, I’m tracking the Sureños, don’t worry about Finn. “See you later,” I say, and hang up.

Next I call Frankie. He answers after five rings. “What?”

“Nice to hear you too,” I say. “How’s the bar?”

“How’s the bar? It’s a disaster, chica. If I’m not trying to get Gus’s blood out of the grout in the kitchen, I’m looking at a hundred grand to replace the appliances.”

“I’m sure my uncle had the bar insured.”

“You ever had to deal with insurance agents on something like this?”

“Do you want to get the bastards who did it?”

“You have no idea. Wait. Tell me you aren’t doing whatever it is Ethan says you do. Bird-hunting. Fuck, that’s not it.”

“You mean bird-dogging?”

“That one. Tell me you’re not bird-dogging the Sureños.”

“Not anymore. Who do you know on the Atlanta PD? One of Uncle Gavin’s cops.”

“Detective Panko. A few others. Why?”

I’ve been distracted during my phone call and didn’t see the man come out of the Waffle House across the street, but suddenly I realize someone is standing next to the Chrysler. I lift my binoculars to my eyes and the man jumps into my vision. He’s Latino, mid to late twenties, wearing a hairnet and a black apron with the Waffle House logo on it. Probably a cook, given the hairnet. He crouches to look at the front tire.

“Suzie?” Frankie says in my ear. “You there?”

I watch the man stand and pull a cell phone out of his pocket. He talks briefly to someone, then puts the phone back in his pocket. “Call Panko and tell him you know where the Sureños are,” I say to Frankie, watching the Waffle House cook move the side mirror back to its normal position. “Or at least where they’re gonna be by nine o’clock tonight.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN