“Thanks.”

“That girl can shoot too,” he said. “The one on the front of the Register with you.”

“She saved my life,” I said, proud of Remy.

He beamed at me. And I headed through the turnstile.

I needed to be on the road.

If Vankle’s schedule held, I had about thirty minutes to get over to Personal Best Fitness.

50

When I got to the address for Personal Best, I saw Vankle’s Camaro parked two doors down.

But before I went in, I did a loop around the gym, seeing that it was just a storefront facing 30th Street with no back door.

I parked about eight cars down and pulled out my binocs.

Scanning through a propped-open front door, I saw Steele Vankle, talking to a woman at a tiny desk inside the door. His blondish-red hair was pulled back into a pony, and he held a duffel over one shoulder.

I got out of my truck. Crossed the street and entered the place. I wasn’t sure yet how I was going to play this.

Could I use what I knew about him and Pelo, and he’d sing about Hartley?

The door closed behind me, and I glanced straight ahead. Vankle stood with his back to me. Up close I could see he was about five-nine with a muscular body—a tank top and athletic shorts on. His hair was slightly redder than in his picture online.

“Mr. Vankle,” I said, and he turned. He’d put down his duffel already, and his blue eyes darted to the door behind me.

“I just want to—”

Vankle picked up a medicine ball. One of those heavy types about eighteen inches in diameter. He tossed it at me.

“Jesus,” I said, ducking out of the way. The ball hit me in the side, and Vankle charged at me, knocking me off balance.

The two of us landed messy, and I rolled him like I was trained. Reached back for my bracelets and cuffed him. Left hand first. Then as I reached to wrap up his right, he wriggled free and rolled away from me, the cuffs hanging off one wrist.

He brought himself to his feet and flew out the door that I’d just come in through.

“The fuck?” I said, chasing the guy out the door.

We ran down 30th toward Barston Street, with Vankle about twenty feet ahead. At the corner, he turned. He was in good shape, but I brought my arms to my sides, pumping them and keeping him close.

Around the next corner I saw him take to a ladder that ran up the side of a building.

The cuffs clanked off each rung, and he hustled, arm over arm.

I did the same, giving chase.

Up on the roof, Vankle stood about thirty feet ahead of me. The building was older, and he was cornered.

“I just want to talk, Mr. Vankle,” I said. Two dozen feet between us. “I promise.”

Vankle’s hair had fallen from the tie that once held it, and he looked a half bubble off plumb. His cool blue eyes were huge, and a mane of messy curls framed the perimeter of his oval face.