Milo said, “She was brought straight to High-Power. Wimmers handled it himself.”

“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, running shoes, a baggy gray hooded sweatshirt that lent his medium-sized frame the illusion of bulk. A small white rip on the left sleeve matched the hyper-enlarged security photo from the storage bin.

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 gonna exercise,” said Milo.

“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.”