He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t remember him at all. But I was searching for him and there’s no official file for it. . . .” He trailed off.
“You knew he was coming for you.”
“That would make sense. And somehow Sam is involved. I don’t get it.”
“Maybe he’s, like, a mentor. Maybe you hooked them up.”
We watched as Heriberto lit up another cigarette. He checked his watch.
“Why is he still just standing there?” I asked.
“Smoke break?” Chris responded.
But after another minute or two, a kid wheeled his bike up the sidewalk, jumping off just as he got near Heriberto and letting it fall into the grass. The kid was wearing a too-big jacket, a strange choice given how warm it was outside.
The kid looked over each shoulder, uneasy, then sauntered over to Heriberto, a put-on cocksure bounce in his step. They talked for a second, and then the kid glanced at us. Chris started the car and backed out of the space we were in.
“What are you doing?”
“We’re making him nervous. I’m just moving, that’s all. Don’t stare at them.”
But I couldn’t help it. I waited for Chris to ease past them and then I turned in my seat, sinking down so I was peering out from under the headrest. Satisfied that we were gone, the two went back to talking. Then they shook hands and did one of those quick bro hugs, and if I hadn’t been looking for it, I would have missed it altogether. In the handshake, the kid had pressed something into Heriberto’s palm; in the hug Heriberto had shoved something into the kid’s jacket pocket.
“Oh, wow,” I said, turning to face forward again. “You were following a dealer. Heriberto is a dealer.”
WE WATCHED FROM a side street. Which wasn’t easy, given the distance. But we had no choice. We needed that distance.
Heriberto only stuck around for another half hour. But in that half hour, three more boys stopped and chatted with him. He pressed himself into the shadows every time. Once, when someone wearing the T-shirt of the community center uniform pulled into the parking lot, Heriberto quickly swiveled around and knelt in the grass, busily yanking at weeds.
He even waved at the guy in the community center T-shirt.
He was good.
Not good enough, apparently. But good.
I was starving, and just getting ready to suggest we leave, when Heriberto met with his last kid—one who approached from the passenger side of a silver Lincoln. That deal was short, with Heriberto casually leaning into the car, looking for all the world like someone who was just having a chat.
After the Lincoln pulled away, Heriberto tucked another cigarette into his mouth and walked to his car—a sweet yellow Mustang that shone like a mirror.
“Nice car for an equipment manager,” I mumbled.
Chris grunted in agreement. He turned his key in the ignition.
“Let me guess.”
“Yep,” he said, waiting for the Mustang and two other cars to pass, and then pulling out after him. “We’re going to follow him.”
Chris was amazingly good at following people. I should have known, since he’d spent so much time following me. Half the time I didn’t even know he was there until he started pounding on a door or showing up at the dojang or hanging out in my driveway. It was creepy.
We followed the Mustang as it stopped to get gas, pulled into a drive-through, and paused while Heriberto talked to some girl who leaned inside the driver’s open window, then popped out laughing and squealing. Heriberto was having an evening of it, and we were along for the ride.
Chris hardly spoke at all while driving. His mouth was pressed down into a grimace, and as the sun fell completely below the horizon, he took his sunglasses off and tossed them onto the dash.
I’d started the ride by saying things like, “He turned right,” and, “He’s slowing down,” but quickly realized that wasn’t necessary. Chris was in the zone. I might as well have not even been in the car with him.
Finally, Heriberto pulled into a neighborhood. It wasn’t the worst-looking neighborhood I’d seen, but it wasn’t anywhere I’d want to break down alone. There was a feeling of being watched, as if each window had eyes on the other side. As if every “regular” was memorized and catalogued. I’d never felt so much like an outsider in my life.
It was harder to keep a distance from Heriberto here. Chris went straight when he turned, and puttered around a few blocks to waste time. I kept my eyes open for a black Monte Carlo but saw none. Of course, I’d only ever seen that car parked somewhere near the Hollis warehouse hideout, so it wasn’t too surprising not to find it here. Not surprising, but still disappointing. If that Monte Carlo didn’t belong here, what did Heriberto have to do with the hit-and-run?
Short answer: maybe he had nothing to do with it.
Even shorter answer: waste of time.
After a few minutes that seemed like forever, Chris doubled back and turned down the side street Heriberto had turned down. He wound around until we saw the yellow Mustang, parked on a curb just outside an apartment building.
“There,” I said, pointing. “Do you see it?”
“I think everyone sees it,” Chris answered. Sure enough, there was a crowd on the front porch. Most of the people must have been from around there, because other than Heriberto’s car, there was only one car sitting in the driveway.
There seemed to be a party going on, most of the people clutching drinks, loud laughter and faint music wafting through the warm evening air. Heriberto was sitting on the top step, a beer on the ground between his feet, a woman wrapped around him from behind.
He looked up when we passed, and we locked eyes.
I quickly looked away, sliding down in my seat a little and raising my hand to fiddle with my hair, obscuring my face with my arm. I was sure he’d seen me. And if he’d been paying attention at the community center, he would recognize me. He would recognize us. And our car. We shouldn’t have followed him. But it was too late for that now.
Chris drove with purpose, but I could see his eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror every so often. When we were back on the highway, he hit the steering wheel with his fist.
I jumped. “What?”
“Waste of time,” he said, mirroring my earlier thought.
“Did you recognize the house at all?”
He shook his head. “And I couldn’t get a good enough look at anyone to see if I recognized any of them, either. Nothing.” He sighed. “I’ve got nothing.”
“That’s not true,” I said. Bubble gum, pearl, blue. Bronze, silver, foamy sea green. JSB946. “You have a license plate number. I have it memorized.”
“What do I need his plate number for? I already know who he is, where he works, and what he drives.”
“Not his,” I said. “The plates on the car in the driveway.”
CHRIS DROPPED ME off at my car in the community center parking lot, promising me he’d go home for the night, as one of his headaches was coming on again. The community center’s evening programs were getting started—people were heading in with their workout bags and dance uniforms. It was dark outside. We’d been at this forever. No wonder he had a headache.
“The database isn’t going anywhere,” I said, writing down the license plate number on a napkin I found in his glove box. “You can check tomorrow.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t. The pain was so bad he was squinting one eye.
“I still can’t believe you got the number. We drove by fast, and you barely looked out the window.”
I didn’t need to look too hard, I wanted to say. The number—the colors—came to me. As they always did. “Guess I’m just good,” I said with a smirk.
“Yet you don’t want to go into the police acad—”
I wadded up the napkin and held it up. “You say it out loud and I eat this. And you never get the number.”
“As much as I’d like to see you eat that napkin, my head hurts too much to argue. Good night, Nikki.”