Fed up

felt unfamiliar, and I hated having to rely on the side-view mirrors. Whoever had driven it last had left half-empty coffee cups in the holders. With each passing mile, the trip seemed more and more like the stupidest idea ever. I was hardly Veronica Mars. But by the time I’d decided that the whole undertaking was a mistake, I’d passed the Natural High market and was almost at my destination.
    I parked the van a few houses down from Leo’s place and sank into my seat. Vans used for real surveillance had equipment such as listening devices rather than gardening implements, but I had eyes and ears, I reminded myself. Besides, the old van really did belong to a landscaping company, and if anyone questioned my presence, the Carter Landscapes logo on the side of the van and the garden equipment would show that I was who I said I was. Few landscapers would be working on a Sunday morning, of course, but I could always claim that a resident had been stricken with a crisis of environmental conscience and desperately needed information on rain barrels.
    I felt like an idiot sitting there parked on the street, periodically looking at a clipboard I’d found on the passenger seat and wrinkling my brow in false concentration as I read and reread my parents’ pamphlet on their company. An hour after my stakeout began, Leo finally drove his car out of his driveway and zoomed to the end of the street. No one else was visible in Leo’s car, so unless someone was flattened on the floor, Leo was alone. Following him proved to be nothing like what I’d seen in movies and on TV, probably because the streets were almost empty and because he wasn’t going very far: I just stayed a block behind him and trailed him to a large chain supermarket.
    Disappointed that I hadn’t caught Leo pulling over to burn evidence or stopping to engage in a scandalous love affair, I debated about whether to get out of the van and follow Leo right into the supermarket. Feeling disappointed, I decided that the risk of being seen was just too high, so I stayed in the van and waited for him to emerge from the market. I consoled myself with the thought that I couldn’t be missing much: the probability was slight that he was having a clandestine amorous encounter among the cabbages, the steaks, or the cartons of milk.
    After thirty minutes, I reconsidered: Leo still hadn’t appeared. Then my hopes rose when I caught sight of a police cruiser in a side-view mirror. I watched excitedly as it slowly passed by. Maybe Leo was about to be arrested! Eager to witness the capture of a murderer, I stuck my head out the window, but the cruiser moved past the entrance to the store and continued along.
    A few minutes later, Leo exited the supermarket and pushed a full shopping cart to his car, where he transferred his shopping bags to the trunk and got into the car. The only vaguely suspect action he took was to fail to leave his cart in one of the designated areas, but irresponsibility with regard to shopping carts obviously didn’t prove him guilty of true crimes. As he backed out of his parking spot, I started up the van’s engine and shifted into reverse. Before I’d even put my foot on the gas, however, I was stopped by the presence of a police cruiser right behind me. The lights were flashing. Seconds later, that first cruiser was joined by a second one.
    A uniformed officer slowly approached and through the open window of the van said, “License and registration, please.”
    I smiled brightly at the officer, who looked old enough to be my great-grandfather. I prayed that my winning grin would send him away. “Is there a problem?” I asked as I fumbled through my purse. What was I thinking? Of course there was a problem! Why else was this cop talking to me? I handed him my license, shuffled through papers and maps in the glove compartment, found the registration, and passed it to him. I couldn’t be in that much trouble since this officer looked so ancient and scrawny that I had a hard time picturing him chasing down violent, gun-toting criminals. I could probably knock this man over with one push of my pinky finger.
    Without even examining the registration, he wrinkled his wrinkles and said, “This vehicle had been reported stolen.”
    Crap.
    I hate the kind of robotic pretense at politeness that’s more offensive than honest rudeness, and that’s what I got. It took twenty minutes to straighten out the mess, but the officer did eventually call my