Webster laughed. “We’re proceeding ’bout as fast as the infamous white Bronco.”

“Son of a bitch should have shot himself,” Martinez groused. “Saved us all a shitload of money. Millions of dollars flushed down the crapper and for what? He’s turning right, Tom.”

“I see him. He’s heading west.”

The Lincoln moved swiftly down the broad, pine-lined boulevard, past small, worn ranch houses resting on an area rug’s worth of land. The neighborhood had hosted thousands of citrus trees with their sweet blossoms and succulent fruit. Not many had survived the transition from agriculture to suburbia. Only a couple hundred stalwarts favored the land with their aromatic perfume, sweet edibles, and delectable shade during the sweltering West Valley summers.

As the road stretched westward, the homes gave way to apartment buildings, factory showrooms, and lots of corner gas stations and strip malls. Farther west, the area once again became open space as the boulevard neared the foothills.

Martinez said, “He’s going toward the Santa Susanas.”

“From one mountain range to another.” Webster pulled out a stick of gum and popped it in his mouth. “Maybe Waterson and Sanchez are partners in a chain of chop shops. Sanchez does the dirty work, Waterson does the finances. An interesting albeit farfetched concept. But whoda thought Sparks would involve himself with a bunch of bikers.”

Waterson entered the West Hills area, slowed, then turned on his left-hand blinker, heading straight into a tree-lined residential area.

Martinez said, “Pass him up.”

“Why?”

“Because the ’Cuda doesn’t have enough cover in such a quiet neighborhood. Pass him up.”

Webster kept the ’Cuda going straight, watching the Lincoln turn in his rearview mirror. “Now what?”

“Turn left at the next opportunity.”

Webster did as told. “Backtrack?”

“You know what? I think I know where he’s headed.” Martinez punched open the glove compartment, pulled out a street map. “We’re about a mile away from Sparks’s house. Go straight about…half a mile, then turn right on Orchard, left on Vine, then left on Alta Vista. Betcha we’ll find the car there.”

Webster raised his brow. “You sure you want to lose him at this point?”

“We’re too visible to follow him, Tom. After what happened to Sparks, he may even think that someone’s out to get him. Just trust me on this.”

They rode the next few minutes in tense silence. As Webster neared the Sparks house, he slowed the ’Cuda, took in the neighborhood. Large two-story homes on what seemed like big parcels of land. But the construction was only serviceable at best. Composite wood-sided housing or thin, textured stucco jobs. All of the homes were roofed in adobe-colored Spanish tile, giving the blocks uniformity. Giant carob trees shaded the streets. Dirt sidewalks.