Wilkinson and I were parked five houses down from the Becker residence. Solis and Madero were at the opposite end of the street, two houses away, so they still had eyes on his front door. “Our guy is on the move,” he said. “He’s in a black Ford Explorer and should be passing you any second.” “All right. Hang back and let us pick him up,” I answered. Wilkinson waited until the Explorer rounded the corner before pulling onto the road, fearful Becker might recognize the Yellow Jacket. It wasn’t the best vehicle for surveillance. The traffic was light on the highway, so we kept our distance, maybe a hundred yards or so behind. Solis and Madero tailed us. We weren’t worried about losing Becker. We knew his destination. Thirty minutes later, we crossed MacArthur Bridge. Belle Isle was literally a nine hundred acre island park in the middle of the Detroit River. During the day, people picnicked and swam, visited the zoo and the botanical gardens, and just enjoyed the outdoors.
