“Sure, sure.” The man complied. “Lieutenant, I had to pack, doing a GTA sting, decoy car’s not far from here, I figured I’d—I called your office first, sir, they said you were here, I figured I’d just…”

Milo reached under the sweatshirt, took the man’s gun. Another Glock. Did a pat-down, found the badge in a jeans pocket.

Officer Randolph E. Thorpe, Pacific Division.

Wallet photos advertised a pretty young wife and three toddlers, Thorpe perched proudly on a Harley-Davidson, a house with a gravel roof in the background. Two credit cards and a certificate of membership in a Baptist church out in Simi Valley.

Milo said, “Okay, relax.”

Thorpe exhaled. “I’m lucky I didn’t soil myself, sir.”

“You sure are. What can I do for you?”

“We talked a while back, sir. About a pay phone on Venice Boulevard? You were looking for a tipster, a suspect named Monte? I think I might’ve found him for you. Not Monte, your tipster.”

Milo returned the gun. “Sit down, Officer Thorpe, and have some lunch. On me.”

“Um, no, thanks, Lieutenant. Even if I hadn’t already eaten, my guts are kind of knotted up.” Thorpe rubbed the offending area. “How about tea to settle them down?”

“I’m okay.” Thorpe looked around. “Is this place dangerous or something?”

“Someone comes toward me, no introduction, obviously armed, I get a little self-protective. You looked pretty intense, friend.”

“The job does that to me,” said Thorpe. “I concentrate hard on whatever I’m doing. My wife says I turn into a robot even when I’m watching TV. Sorry if I—”

“Let’s chalk it up to a misunderstanding. How about some tea for Officer Thorpe, here?”

The woman in the sari said, “Yes, sir.” Back on her feet and looking none the worse. Downright happy, actually. Her faith in Milo’s protective powers validated, yet again.

“Who’s the tipster, Officer Thorpe?”

“Randy’s fine, sir. I can’t be sure, but there’s this old guy, I thought of him a few days after we spoke, he’s a local. I didn’t call you right away because I had nothing to back it up, then yesterday I spotted him approaching that same phone booth, my last day in uniform before the GTA thing. I was on Code Seven, having coffee across the street, he walks right up to the booth, makes like he’s going to call, changes his mind, leaves. Returns a few minutes later, gets as far as picking up the receiver, changes his mind again, leaves. I stuck around but he didn’t come back. It could be nothing, but I figured.”

“Appreciate it, Randy. Got a name?”

“All I know is George. But he lives in one of those old-age homes nearby. Here’s the address.”

“Excellent,” said Milo. “Keep those eyes sharp, Randy. This works out, I’ll put in a good word with the chief.”