Hicks had moved the Altima so that he had a clear view of the garage and the road that it abutted, with an unobstructed line of sight in both directions. Ziggy was in the back with his laptop, an open line to Chase’s phone audible through the device’s speaker. Hicks had decided against driving past the property again for fear of alerting anyone inside to their presence, and was not about to park in a spot where it would be obvious that they were watching. Instead, he had decided on oblique observation from this position, with Chase scouting on foot. The apartment buildings that faced the garage were screened first by a line of trees that had been planted by the municipal authorities, and then by a hedge that marked the boundary between the sidewalk and the ill-kempt lawns on the other side. The coverage would make it more difficult for anyone in the safe house to notice an observer, but, as Chase had noted, he would still look like a trespasser to anyone inside the apartments. He would take advantage of the cover, but wouldn’t overstay.

“You see anything?”

“Property on the left looks empty,” Chase said. “No sign of anyone inside.”

“And on the right?”

“Movement on the top floor. One—check that—two people, possibly more.” There was silence, save for the sound of Chase’s breathing. “You want me to take a closer look?”

Hicks bit his lip. “You think you can get into the back without being seen?”

“I don’t know.”

“Cameras?”

“None that I can see from here.”

Hicks decided against it. Chase was confident, but Hicks concluded that the close work would be something that he ought to do himself. He was about to tell Chase to walk around the block to see if he could get a look from the other side of the building when he spoke again.

“Eyes out, boys. There’s a car coming your way. White van, two occupants—license plate—shit, hold on—license plate is MBW 801.”

“What about it?”

“It’s the second time I’ve seen it. I saw it from the car before I got out.”

Hicks saw the van rolling toward them. It was an old Renault Master.

“Ziggy,” he said.

“I got it.”

Ziggy took a digital camera from his rucksack and held it between the seats. The van picked up a little speed as it approached them. Hicks pretended to be looking at his phone, but glanced up just as it went by. He got enough of a look to tell that the driver was a big white guy with blond hair and the passenger was female, late twenties to early thirties.

“Run the plates,” Hicks said.

“Already doing it.”

Hicks watched in the mirror as the Renault turned right and disappeared from view.

“You see it?” Chase said over the phone.

“We did. Watch to see if it comes around again.”