The windows were sliding aluminum-framed panels, tightly closed and rendered blank by lined drapes. Up close, I knew the aluminum would be pitted. The porch was small. To the right of the front door, there was an upholstered chair covered in floral cotton, blue and green blossoms on a ground of red. To the left of the door there was a houseplant, probably fake. I crossed the street at an angle, waiting until I was out of range to pause and look back. No sign of the inhabitants. The rear of the house suggested more space than I’d imagined. I was guessing three small bedrooms, one bathroom, living room, kitchen, and utility porch.

The neighborhood seemed quiet, made up almost entirely of single-family homes that had probably been built in the 1940s. A few of the cars parked at the curb were new; maybe two out of fifteen. The rest were three to five years old and in good shape. Most were American-made. This was not an area where banged-up vehicles were parked three-deep in the driveways. The houses were well-maintained and most of the lawns were tidy, given that dead grass is so much easier to control.

I returned to my car and drove around the block, this time parking on a side street to the north and perpendicular to Trace. For a while, I sat there and thought about life. I needed a vantage point from which I could keep an eye on the house. With luck, Christian Satterfield would arrive or depart, thus allowing me to confirm his whereabouts. Here’s the problem with stationary surveillance, otherwise known as a stakeout: Most people arrive at a destination, park the car, and get out. Almost no one with a lawful purpose sits in a vehicle staring through the windshield at a building across the street. Sit in a car for any length of time and you look suspicious, which means somebody’s going to call the cops and then your cover will be blown. The trick is to think of a legitimate reason to be loitering—a proposition more slippery than one would imagine. In the past, I’d feigned car trouble, which is only effective as long as some Good Samaritan doesn’t approach and offer assistance. I’d also faked a traffic survey, which I managed to extend for two days until I spotted my prey. Here, there was no point in pretending to count cars, because mine was the only moving vehicle I’d been aware of since I arrived.

I locked the car and proceeded on foot. As I approached the corner, I spotted two small businesses: a convenience store on one side and a bar and grill called Lou’s on the corner opposite. The mailman, with his rolling cart, was just ahead of me on the far side of the street. Despite the chilly weather, he wore blue shorts, a matching blue shirt with a USPS patch on one sleeve, and what looked like a pith helmet. The mailboxes were stationed along the sidewalk, so instead of having to approach each house on foot, all he had to do was open the box and insert the relevant bundle of bills, magazines, and junk mail for any given address.