“Turn off your lights and slow down,” I instructed.

“Whatever, nancy,” Mendez replied, slowing the car to a stop moments later.

He turned out to be a real boy scout. He opened the heavy trunk he had forced me to load, with much difficulty, into the mini cooper.

“Oh, my god.” I doubled over in laughter. “You’re such a weirdo.”

Mendez shrugged, carefully arranging a rope, two black ski masks, black fatigues, binoculars, a hunting knife and a nearly life-sized, and very crudely painted, portrait of Jodi.

“And you call me nancy-boy,” I mocked.

“What’re you waiting for?” he tossed me my fatigues, a menacing threat in his eyes. “Get dressed.”

We crawled commando-style, pausing frequently to argue. When we got to a good vantage point, he reached for the binoculars.

“Uh-oh,” Mendez reported. “This isn’t good. I can read lips and I know exactly what they’re saying.”

“What’re they saying?”

“See for yourself.”

Indeed, they were in some deep conversation. Only without words. They were making out.