Evidence

“I’m just saying.”

“Keep doing that, Gayle.”

“What?”

“Being a little bundle of human Prozac-okay, here we go.”

Scoppio hadn’t appeared but a gaunt, furtive, sandy-haired man wearing a backpack walked around to the back, checked out Scoppio’s pickup truck, jogged to the door. Binocs revealed a face ravaged by pustulant eruptions. Constant, jerky movement was the dance of the hour.

“Your friendly neighborhood meth man,” said Lindstrom. “Speedy delivery.”

The door cracked. The dealer was inside for ninety seconds, hurried off.

Milo picked up the radio. “For those who can’t see, our subject just bought dope, probably meth, could be tweaking right now. So factor that into the danger level.”

Multiple assents from the field.

Four minutes later, Carlo Scoppio walked out.

He’d changed from business casual to jeans, ru

In his hands, a gym bag.

Unremarkable man with sloping shoulders, a soft, square face, dark curly hair. Roller-coaster eyes.

He shook himself off like a wet dog. Ran in place. Bobbed his head. Headed for his truck.

Lindstrom said, “To me that’s definite tweaking. Hopefully there’s nothing nasty in that bag.”

“Maybe he’s go

“Mr. Literal.”

“I’m getting too old for symbolism.”

Scoppio’s truck rolled out of the lot.

Lindstrom said, “Ready?”

“Hold on, Gayle.”

“You’re calling it.” Her hands bounced on the wheel. “Though I should point out that if he does get too far ahead-”

“Yes, dear, whatever you say, dear, I’ll wash the dishes, dear.”

“You and me in domestic bliss,” said Lindstrom. “I’m sure my partner would find it as humorous as yours would.”

Milo laughed. “Now we go.”

Carlo Scoppio passed the freeway on-ramp, continued south to Washington, headed west. Just past Vermont, he pulled into a shabby strip mall. Plenty of vacant spaces, but a donut shop and a coin laundry were doing okay. So was Dynamite Action Gym, the name co-written in Thai lettering, the wide-open door showcasing bright light.

The truck parked in front. Scoppio got out, entered.

Lindstrom said, “Guess literal takes it.”

Milo picked up his radio. “Anyone look like a gym rat?”

The head fugitive cop said, “Gotta be Lopez.”

“Where is he?”

Another voice said, “I’m here, Loo, a block south.”

“What’re you wearing?”

The head cop said, “What he always does, the sleeveless sweat, showing off those guns of his.”

Snickers from the field.

Lopez said, “You got it, flaunt it.”

Milo said, “How about going inside and flaunting. If it’s safe, scope out the subject.”

“If it’s an open situation should be easy, sir. If it’s one of those membership things, a front-desk block, it could be tough.”

“Only one way to find out, Officer Lopez.”

At six eleven p.m., Jarrel Lopez’s nineteen-inch neck, twenty-inch biceps, and beef-slab thighs made their way inside the gym.

He was out moments later. Trotted to the Fed car. “Nice open setup, mostly martial arts but some regular boxing. Subject’s working the speed bag.”

“A pugilist.”

“He hits like a girl. You want me to buy a one-day trial membership, go in and keep an eye?”

“Rather have you back with your buddies, armed and dangerous.”

“That’s what I told myself this morning, Loo. Nice blue sky, I could use some armed and dangerous.”

By six forty-eight p.m. Gayle Lindstrom was out of the car and Milo had taken the wheel. Checking her makeup, she fluffed her hair, sashayed to the donut shop, emerged with a steaming cup. Her own hoodie, slim-cut and peach velour, did a good job of concealing the wire tucked into the rear of her jeans.

No loan from Aaron Fox, the Bureau had its own toy chest.

Lindstrom said, “This one we call the electric thong.”

“Ouch,” said Milo.

“Not necessarily.”

At seven fourteen, Carlo Scoppio left the gym looking tired, slightly flushed.

Before he reached his truck, a young woman in a peach hoodie walked up to him, smiling but conspicuously nervous.

“Excuse me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I think I’m lost. Is this a bad neighborhood?”

“It can be. Where are you from?”

“ Tempe. That’s Arizona. I was supposed to meet someone at Hollywood and Vine. Is that close to here?”

Derisive laughter. “Not exactly.”

“You’re kidding.”

‘You’re pretty far from there-do you have a car?”

“I took the bus. From Union Station. They said get off at Jefferson then transfer to the… I forget. So it’s nasty around here?”

“I wouldn’t be out here alone after dark.”

“Oh, man… can you point me toward Hollywood?”

Laughter. “I can point-it’s that way. North. But you can’t walk it.”

“Is there a bus?”

“No idea-what the-”

Carlo Scoppio stiffened as Milo and six other large men ran toward him shouting. Gayle Lindstrom had her cuffs out, told him he was under arrest. Scoppio swatted the cuffs, made contact with Lindstrom’s forearm, threw her off-balance.

A bass chorus of commands filled the strip mall as Scoppio dropped his gym bag, assumed a pugilist stance. Fists up, ridiculously quaint.

“Policepolicepolice putyour hands where they can be seen hands up yourhands hands up!”

Scoppio blinked. Raised one hand.

Dropped the other to the waistband of his hoodie, reached in, brought out something long-barreled and shiny.

The choir switched hymns: “Gungungungungun!” Scoppio straight-armed his weapon. Milo aimed his Glock.

Same instincts as a few days ago at Moghul, where’d he’d taken years off Officer Randy Thorpe’s life expectancy.

Thorpe had been smart.

Scoppio squinted. His finger whitened.

Milo fired.

So did everyone else.

CHAPTER 44

Dr. Clarice Jernigan said, “This autopsy was fun.”

“Real hoot,” said Milo.

The pathologist’s office at the crypt could have been anywhere.

No specimens swimming in formaldehyde, no morbid humor. Potted Peruvian lilies and cactus sat atop a low, white bookshelf, along with cheerful family photos. Jernigan and five healthy-looking kids and a husband who looked like a banker.

She said, “I mean fun from an intellectual puzzle perspective. Your Mr. Scoppio had twenty-eight bullets in him from five different firearms, with at least four wounds theoretically fatal. I don’t need to pinpoint which one did him in, because frankly, who gives a damn, he’s a sieve. But if I was writing this up for Journal of Forensic Science, I’d tag the frontal head wound. Big-caliber bullet, went straight through the cortex and dipped down into the brain stem.”

“Three five-seven?”

Nod. “Yours?”

“Mine’s nine-millimeter.”

“Like two other shooters. No rifle fire. How come? Fugitive guys always bring assault rifles.”

“The officer didn’t have a clear shot.”

“Shootout at the O.K. Mall… well, if your nine-millimeter impacted anywhere above the rib cage, you can award yourself honorable mention. If you got him in the legs?” Shrug.

Milo didn’t fill in the blank.

Jernigan said, “In terms of why he faced off against such heavy firepower, that’s Dr. Delaware ’s bailiwick.” To me: “I’m comfortable with suicide by cop. How about you?”

I said, “Works for me.”

“I’m going to write that his inherent psychiatric issues were helped along by amphetamine intoxication, ’cause we want to lay everything at this bastard’s feet, make sure no ACLU types start bitching and moaning.”