“Once we get him, is there any doubt he’ll turn on her? And Bobby did kind of talk to me. From the grave. That’s a form of talking, right? And look, he was right, Bobby, I mean. I guess fibby-fooing about the gun was a little naughty, but I had to, I was so scared I’d never close the case, my boss can be so mean, when he yells at me it makes me feel bad. And hey, that worked, too, and now I can get hold of that nasty old gun and it won’t be used to make anyone else dead, please tell me I’m a good person, Dr. Delaware.”

I was still laughing when we reached the car.

He wasn’t.

I said, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter, life is grand. I’m just focused on playing one-card Monte.”

CHAPTER

43

Baird, Garroway and Habib, Attorneys at Law, occupied a triple-wide storefront on Soto, window glass painted black, promises of quick settlements in five languages emblazoned in bright yellow paint. As Reed had pointed out, walkable from the County Hospital complex.

S.A. Gayle Lindstrom said, “No need to chase ambulances very far.”

She sat at the wheel of a Chevy sedan financed by federal income tax, wore a white tank top, tight jeans, wedge sandals. Hoop earrings sparkled. More makeup than her usual quick morning dab, including too much frosted pink lipstick.

Milo said, “New side of you, Gayle.”

“I love being a girl.”

He slouched in the front passenger seat. I had the rear to myself. The car was impeccable but it smelled of vanilla, as if someone had partied with cookie dough.

The man his employers knew as M. Carlo Scoppio had remained inside the law firm since arriving, save for a ten-minute smoke break out in the rear parking lot. No chance to take him as he puffed away; three other nicotine freaks indulged themselves close by.

Several times Scoppio had walked people on crutches to the firm’s front door. A couple of the limpers actually seemed to be disabled.

At three p.m., when the roach coach honked “La Cucaracha,” Scoppio wasn’t part of the small crowd surging for snacks.

“Maybe he’s brown-bagging,” said Lindstrom. “Saving his hard-earned blood money for a rainy day.”

Seven cops from the fugitive apprehension squad were positioned at various spots in the neighborhood. The location wasn’t ideal for stakeout: Heavy traffic on Soto would make a quick dash across the street hazardous, and light pedestrian traffic killed the chance of sidewalk surveillance. The lot where Scoppio had smoked was blocked to the north by deeper buildings, one way in and out, a cracked driveway. To the east coiled a warren of residential side streets, to the west was the thoroughfare, freeway-close, the on-ramp in sight, raising the risk for a high-speed chase. Though at four thirty p.m., any lam artist would encounter bumper-to-bumper.