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At 8:55, a decade-old gray Cadillac pulls up behind the BMW in the supermarket parking lot. A moment later, it starts moving again and rolls past us. McKeever eases onto Main Street behind it. I hadn't seen Charo enter the Cadillac. "I sort of saw her silhouette when they pulled by," he says. "Hopefully we're not tailing some old bastards who just came from the buffet."
McKeever suspects that the Cadillac driver is married (he was twenty-five minutes late) and that this is an extra family car. McKeever thinks they're headed toward a local budget motel, but they cruise past one and pull into a restaurant.
McKeever brakes in the center of the main road, not wanting to enter the restaurant parking lot directly behind the Cadillac. Cars honk. He makes a K-turn into oncoming traffic and pulls up against the curb across from the restaurant. This man is a profoundly skilled driver. I'm still convinced we're following an old couple.
McKeever hops out to "look at the menu." He is utterly unremarkable looking, particularly in tonight's outfit of khakis and a neutral-green button-down. The two times I'd met him before this — once at a diner and once at the train station — I couldn't find him. His backseat is filled with an array of other standard uniforms: a sweatshirt, a t-shirt and a formal suit, as well as a stash of peanut butter, saltine crackers and bottles of Poland Spring water.
He returns. "Found 'em. They're at the bar."
We park facing the bar entrance and sit. It's 9:07. The phone rings. It's the husband again, anxious to find out how the chase is going. McKeever summarizes: "She went a few blocks, changed clothes, drove to a municipal parking lot, got picked up by a guy in a Cadillac and now they're at this bar."
There's a pause. I feel the stab. The husband babbles a disjointed series of questions. What does the guy look like? What's the license number of the car? Can we get video footage? Where are they? McKeever repeats the name of the place and says he'll call later. He hangs up.
"He's flippin' out. He didn't even know what to ask." McKeever seems unfazed. He opens a can of nuts while he calls his brother. "You're what? Playin' bingo? Some of those old dolls are like rocket scientists with the six cards."
We chat about the ethics of his work.
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Some of McKeever's clients seem unstable. He takes a call from a client who regularly has her ex-husband tailed out of curiosity. Now she wants her new boyfriend tailed as well.
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McKeever has no qualms; he says he would hypothetically hire a private investigator to follow his own wife, and repeats his line about being in the business: "The problem is, there's no way to get the information people want otherwise. What can they do? Plead? Cajole? Say 'Come on, tell me?' I'm like a reporter. I only find out what's there. Look, if your husband is just meeting this person for coffee and it's completely innocent, that would be good to know. And if something more physical is going on, I guess you need to know that too."
McKeever takes a call from a woman who regularly has her ex-husband followed, out of curiosity. Now she wants her new boyfriend tailed as well. "Can you follow him Friday night, and maybe Saturday?" she asks. McKeever suggests they begin with a court-record search and hangs up. "Some people get hooked on surveillance," he says. "They're relentless." Relentless at $95 an hour, five-hour minimum.
McKeever tells me about the only time he's questioned his job: years ago, his wife called him to report that someone was following her while she shopped. McKeever drove over and spotted the man. Overtaken by rage, he beat the guy up. "I couldn't sleep for a couple of nights after that," he says. "I had misgivings, because the guy was doing what I do to other people's wives."
It's ten p.m. We're eating yogurt (mine cherry, his strawberry-banana) and watching the shadows in the bar. It's like being at a drive-in. McKeever grabs his camera to record the couple leaving, holding hands as they walk to the parking lot behind the restaurant. The man is in his forties, thinnish and brunet, with glasses. We sit for another minute. The Cadillac doesn't pass by. "Shit." McKeever guns the car across the main road and down a side street, pulling into the oncoming lane to glimpse the cars ahead. The Cadillac apparently turned onto a back road. They're gone. We do our umpteenth K-turn and return to the main road.
McKeever grips the steering wheel, leaning forward, flying back the way we came. "It's a tough call. We could look for them, or we could go back to the car. If the car's gone, that's it." At 10:09, he spots a Cadillac six cars ahead and lets out a whoop. "You're good luck, honey! Yee-haw!"
The Cadillac weaves leisurely toward the motel. "Eeeeee . . . no sale," says McKeever as they pass it. The car winds slowly through the side streets. "They're going parking." The Cadillac pulls up under a dark tree and turns off its lights. We pull in a half-block behind. McKeever doesn't really care about this part. According to him (and the state of New York), proof of a relationship is two people, alone together for a reasonable period of time, showing signs of romantic involvement such as hand-holding. As far as he's concerned, his work was done an hour ago.
McKeever calls the husband and reports the situation. The husband's voice is shrill. He comes up with a relevant question: Are they in the front seat or the back? We have no idea.
A posse of teens walks by, jolting the occupants of the Cadillac. The car pulls onto the road and loops through side streets, cutting across two parking lots. We're far behind, and we lose them. It's hard to tail a car making figure-
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The husband's voice is eerily controlled. Can you run a plate check tomorrow?
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eights without being spotted. We circle around and find the empty car parked on Main Street. No bars or restaurants are around. We park behind them. It's 10:45 p.m.
McKeever talks a bit about his father, a police detective. His wife calls to organize tomorrow's carpool. The husband calls again. He calms slightly when he hears that his wife is no longer making out with Cadillac Man. He wants to know where they are. McKeever gives him the cross streets and hangs up. "Sometimes I'll say, 'I'll tell you the address, but I don't want you to come down here and get crazy, okay?' But the clients hire you to get the information. You can't withhold it."
The couple appears from behind a commercial building. Charo is in her original white outfit. It's 11:30. The Cadillac heads to the parking lot, then makes two strange high-speed turns. Two minutes later, the woman speeds by in her BMW. I wonder if the Cadillac driver saw us, but it doesn't really matter.
McKeever calls the husband, whose voice is eerily controlled. Can you run a plate check tomorrow? McKeever can. We swing back onto the highway. McKeever doubts he'll work for the man again. He will probably never learn what happens to the relationship. "Sometimes they reconcile. And then, sometimes down the line, they want the spouse tailed again. You know — that desirable repeat business." n°
©2006 Arianne Cohen and hooksexup.com
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