I look to the bypath that threads around the construction site and kick around explanations for why he’s come in that way. The road is rarely traveled, even rarer is it used by Task Force members. There’s still swirls of dust hanging in the air above the gravel from Porn Star’s trip along it.
I redirect my gaze to the building where he’s entered. I’m assuming, by the extra hastiness exhibited by the detective, he’s on a mission and will be back outside faster than I can take hold of a camera. I grab one anyway.
Did he set his car alarm? I don’t think he did. Nah, must be my imagination. He would never not do that; I just missed it or something.
After a minute or so, I distinguish the outline of his body through the glass of the exit as he’s returning and fix my eyes immediately on the papers he’s got in his hand when he passes the threshold. The visible top sheet has a large, square-shaped image on it in the upper left corner. Mug shot. I don’t need to see more, just by that multi-shaded block I know what he’s carrying. Connecting it with his infectious energy but detecting no evidence of his protective gear, I sense Porn Star’s about to go have a chat with a shady character as opposed to actually collaring a bad guy.
He’s back in his vehicle. I capture a few pictures, then, hoping to witness the huntsman in action, slip after him out of the lot.
Where were his keys? I recall his hands from moments ago but can’t conjure up a reflection of the metal objects appearing in them. Nor can I recall any motions indicative of them being present -- no palm jiggling, no paws to pockets, no keyless-entry button-pressing. It seems an essential detail but I put the thought on the back burner so I can concentrate on tailing the officer.
I’ve learned some things from following Porn Star that help me shadow him better. The most important? I absolutely positively under no circumstances Cannot Ever dawdle. He speeds. Lower on the list, allowing him more than eight car lengths distance is a guaranteed lose. His blinker usage isn’t dependable therefore I rely on the other signals he provides unintentionally. Like now, I’m sitting one car behind him at the intersection and even though he can go right or straight, I’m positive he won’t be turning. Across we go.
Several parts of the area we’re driving through I suppose would be deemed unsafe. I believe maybe they are dangerous for other people, but these kind of neighborhoods never have much of an effect on me.
We make a right, then a left, and a left, and a right -- so many turns I do declare we’re going in circles. I know we haven’t gone far but it feels like we’ve traveled dozens of miles. Porn Star makes yet another turn up ahead. If memory serves, these skinny side streets eventually lead to a main avenue and a nice district. Sheesh. Why in the world did he drive through Crackville if he didn’t have to?
I copy Porn Star’s turn. He’s stopped about three-quarters way up the road. I slow down. The passenger door opens. Passenger? A foot appears from the vehicle and lands on the pavement. I know those shoes. Eeeeeek! I shriek and swerve into a driveway as Longhead climbs the rest of the way out of Porn Star’s car.
Not good. This. Is bad. After my mini heart attack, I get a picture or two. I back up and discreetly leave the scene. On parting, I’m happy to solve the mystery of Porn Star’s lack of alarm-setting and absent keys: there was another investigator inside his car, protecting it. I’m unhappy I didn’t catch the obvious: it’s unlikely that Porn Star would go meet with a criminal without having a partner. Worse, his backup this time was Longhead. Had it been anyone else, I could’ve stuck around.
