Martinez laughed. “I rear-ended some poor harried housewife. I was driving a bunch of kids to a birthday party in my wife’s Volvo and got distracted by all the commotion.”

“You get any money out of it?”

“No, it was my fault. But the woman I hit didn’t do anything against me. Who’s going to start up with a cop?”

“The perks of the job.”

“You got it.” Martinez smoothed his mustache. “This cause that Sparks gave money to—Peoples for Environment Freedoms Act. You think Sanchez is just pocketing the money or is there actually some kind of cause?”

“He mentioned something about buying politicians. Maybe he’s buying off cops to look the other way at his chop shop.”

“Why would Sparks give money to something like that?”

“Maybe the doctor didn’t really know where his bucks were going,” Webster said. “Maybe he thought he was giving money for environmental freedom.”

“Whatever that is.”

“Telling the government to piss off,” Webster said. “Strange as this may seem, I could see an independent thinker like Sparks getting caught up in a thing like that. Y’all talk to any doctors recently, Bert? They’re real upset ’bout government telling them how to run their practices. Maybe this environmental cause struck a nerve.”

“What cause are you talking about?”

“Getting rid of the left-wing regulation shit.”

“Meaning?”

“Grease Pit mentioned helmets,” Webster said. “Maybe they’re trying to repeal the helmet law.”

“And you see a man like Azor Sparks giving large sums of money to something like that?”

“Passions run high, Bert.” Webster shrugged. “You saw the card he printed for himself. Maybe he fancied himself a bad actor.”

“Don’t see it.”

Webster shrugged. “I’m just throwing out possibilities.”

In the distance, a two-year-old navy Lincoln with tinted windows was inching up the mountain road. It was heavy with poor traction, fishtailing as it maneuvered the curves.

“Odd car to drive up here.” Martinez spit his gum out the window. “Pull off, Tom.”

Webster slowed, swung the ’Cuda onto a small, rocky ledge, the tires churning up gravel. He killed the ignition. They both watched the Lincoln pass, chugging up the mountain at unimpressive speed.

Webster said, “Do it?”

“What the hell?”

Webster made a U-turn, keeping lots of distance between the ’Cuda and the Lincoln. Martinez wrote down the license plate, was about to call it in. Then he remembered they weren’t in the unmarked.

Webster said, “I’ve got a cellular in the glove compartment.”

Martinez opened the door, took out a compact phone, and pressed a couple of buttons. “What am I doing wrong?”

“No reception?”

“Nothing.”

“We’re probably too far out,” Webster said.

Martinez’s face was tight in concentration. Stuck in Lodi with no radio contact. Not good.