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A FEW HOURS after losing Antonio Deason in traffic, Rob Trilling and I were back in SoHo, watching his apartment again. Our new plan wasn’t much better than our last one. Trilling had a cheap tracker he intended to slip onto the inside of the car’s bumper. He wasn’t super familiar with this model of car, but he was convinced he’d find a place where the magnetic back of the tracker would stick.

This tracker was not an official NYPD piece of equipment. We didn’t want to risk explaining a potential loss of a tracker on an unofficial case. Instead, I’d sprung for a tracker that worked off a smartphone app. It wouldn’t be nearly as effective as one of the NYPD trackers, but maybe it would give us an edge in our next surveillance.

Terri Hernandez was gathering more information on the weekend’s murders. With everything she had learned, she now strongly suspected they had been committed by the same killer who’d orchestrated the faux suicides and accidents among the retired NYPD cops.

I knew how territorial the precinct detectives could be about homicides. I’d experienced it myself. I also knew there weren’t many who could stand up to Terri Hernandez when she started to insist on things. It was one of the reasons I enjoyed working with her so much.

I turned to Trilling. “You sure you know how to work that thing?”

“Piece of cake. The app’s installed on my phone. Should go like clockwork. I only need forty-five seconds to plant it securely.”

“I hope we get it. I don’t know if that was some kind of car service that dropped the Porsche off earlier or what. Either way, I think the car will eventually end up back here in front of his apartment. Even if only for a few minutes.”

Trilling said, “Obviously, because he shot us the bird as he drove away, Deason knows we’re looking at him.”

“Yeah, I have a feeling our clumsy attempt at interviewing him might’ve tipped him off.”

Just then, the Porsche rolled down the street past us and parked in front of the building. Antonio Deason hopped out and headed into the building without looking back.

As Deason disappeared into the building, Trilling got out of my car and hustled up the street, then paused for just a few seconds by the Porsche. He bent down like he was looking at something on the ground, then slapped the tracker under the car near the rear bumper.

Trilling casually stood up, walked past the car, lingered in front of a store, then came back to my Impala. He held his phone out to show me the app.

Trilling said, “Looks like it’s working perfectly. Next time he leaves, as long as we’re within a quarter mile, we’ll know exactly where he’s at.”

“I don’t think he’s going to be inside long. The way he parked and hustled into the building makes me think he’s leaving again soon. Let’s sit tight and see what happens.”

About ten minutes later, Antonio Deason walked out of his building’s front door, dressed in a nice sport coat. He was talking on his cell phone. He walked directly to the car and got down on his knees. He spoke on the phone again, then stood up and moved to the rear of the Porsche. He reached under and pulled the tracker off.

Deason looked up and down the street. Then he dropped the tracker on the ground and mashed it with the heel of his shoe.

Trilling said, “I guess we go to plan B.”

“This whole case is a plan B. Not typically the best way to go about police work. But in this instance, we’ll go with your other idea and we really will hope for the best.”