“Hush your mouth, whippersnapper. Let’s go back to the office, return close to five. If the timing’s right, I’ll have a little chat with this charmer.”

Googling m. carlo scoppio pulled up the website of Baird, Garroway and Habib, an East L.A. law firm specializing in personal injury civil suits. Scoppio’s name appeared near the bottom of the staff roster. Paralegal.

“He didn’t just lie, he puffed himself up,” said Milo. “We’re a little closer to sociopath.” He scanned. “Hablo Español… and five other languages. Could be one of those slip-and-fall deals, poor stooges get the whiplash, lawyers get the dough. Maybe paralegal means Scoppio ropes them in.”

Probing for articles on the law firm produced several news pieces about an investigation by the city attorney. All three partners were suspected of setting up phony traffic accidents, working in concert with corrupt physicians, physical therapists, and chiropractors. No indictments had been brought.

No mention of Carlo Scoppio.

Milo tried a contact at the city attorney’s office. The woman had no personal knowledge of the case but looked up the current status. “Appears to be pending, Lieutenant.”

“Meaning?”

“My guess would be insufficient evidence to file. Looks like they used illegals as their stooges, try finding witnesses willing to testify.”

“Does the name M. Carlo Scoppio appear anywhere?”

“Scoppio … no, doesn’t look like—oh, here it is, he’s a para … suspected of being a recruiter. He killed someone? We might be able to use that.”

By four forty-eight we were back on Scoppio’s block, cruising past the bungalow.

Still no sign of the black pickup George Kaplan had described but a gray Honda sat on the concrete pad.

Milo said, “Girlfriend’s here, maybe boyfriend will show up soon.”

Too few cars on the street made getting close risky. I parked four houses up, switched off the engine. Milo positioned a pair of binoculars in his lap, chewed a panatela, paused from time to time to spit shreds of tobacco out the passenger window.

“We could be here for a while, you want to put on music, it’s fine with me.”

“What are you in the mood for?”

“Anything that doesn’t make my ears bleed—well, looky here.”

A black Ford half-ton approached from the south and pulled up next to the Honda.

Milo snatched up the binocs, was focused on the driver’s door as a man exited the truck.

“That’s him—guess what he’s wearing? Gray hoodie.”

Carlo Scoppio walked around to the truck’s passenger side, retrieved something.

Plastic bags. Five of them. Scoppio laid them on the concrete.

Milo said, “Albertsons, ol’ Monte C. does the shopping, how touchingly domestic.”

Scoppio returned to the driver’s side, reached in, honked the horn.

The bungalow’s front door opened and a woman stepped out. Tallish, dressed in a white top and jeans.

Scoppio pointed to the bags. The woman walked toward them.