When I got to a cross street, I went right again. Soon I’d be reaching some strip malls and fast-food joints. I got stopped at a light and was strumming my fingers on top of the steering wheel when a faded red Miata convertible screamed through the intersection, top down.

“Son of a bitch,” I said.

In the driver’s seat was a young woman with long blonde hair. Next to her, waving his arms in the air above the windshield, was Jeremy Pilford.

As soon as the light changed, I made an immediate left, cutting off a pickup coming my way and earning myself a horn honk and an upraised middle finger. I could see the Miata about a hundred yards ahead. There were two cars between us, and that was fine. I didn’t want to be spotted. I didn’t want to initiate a chase. If the girl tried to lose me, someone could end up dead.

At least she was showing enough good sense not to drive like a maniac. She was sticking to the limit, and she needed both hands to drive. One was on the wheel, the other working the gearshift. When she changed lanes, she signalled. It was her passenger who was displaying some recklessness, continuing to wave his hands in the air, pushing himself up, his butt nearly to the headrest, poking his head above the glass.

The car moved back into the curb lane, hit the blinker, and turned in to a hamburger place. Not one of the major chains, but an independent joint called Green & Farb Burgers and Fries, named, so went the tale, after the two men who founded the place in the fifties. The locals called it Grease & Fat, which might have sounded like a negative, but sometimes that was exactly what you wanted.

By the time I reached it, they’d found a parking spot around the back of the building and were inside. I parked my Honda across the rear end of the Miata, blocking it in. It was one of the first ones, from the early nineties. The folded-down roof was faded and torn in places. I was betting the plastic rear window, once the roof was up, would be yellowed and nearly impossible to see through.

I phoned Ms. Plimpton’s house. She answered on the first ring.

“Yes?”

“You can stand down.”

I heard wrestling over the handset, and then Gloria came on. “Jeremy?”

“It’s Cal. I found him. I’ll bring him home shortly.”

“Where is he? What did he—”

“I’ll be back soon.”

I slipped my cell back into my jacket, got out of the car, locked it, and went into the restaurant. It wasn’t busy, and Jeremy and the girl were standing by the counter. It looked as though they’d already ordered. I hung back, out of sight behind a pillar, and waited until they had their food and were seated.

At that point, I went to the counter and watched as someone loaded up a wire basket with frozen fries, then lowered them into the fryer. The grease sizzled and spat. I asked the young guy at the cash for a coffee.