“Only one way to find out, Officer Lopez.”

At six eleven p.m., Jarrel Lopez’s nineteen-inch neck, twenty-inch biceps, and beef-slab thighs made their way inside the gym.

He was out moments later. Trotted to the Fed car. “Nice open setup, mostly martial arts but some regular boxing. Subject’s working the speed bag.”

“A pugilist.”

“He hits like a girl. You want me to buy a one-day trial membership, go in and keep an eye?”

“Rather have you back with your buddies, armed and dangerous.”

“That’s what I told myself this morning, Loo. Nice blue sky, I could use some armed and dangerous.”

By six forty-eight p.m. Gayle Lindstrom was out of the car and Milo had taken the wheel. Checking her makeup, she fluffed her hair, sashayed to the donut shop, emerged with a steaming cup. Her own hoodie, slim-cut and peach velour, did a good job of concealing the wire tucked into the rear of her jeans.

No loan from Aaron Fox, the Bureau had its own toy chest.

Lindstrom said, “This one we call the electric thong.”

“Ouch,” said Milo.

“Not necessarily.”

At seven fourteen, Carlo Scoppio left the gym looking tired, slightly flushed.

Before he reached his truck, a young woman in a peach hoodie walked up to him, smiling but conspicuously nervous.

“Excuse me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I think I’m lost. Is this a bad neighborhood?”

“It can be. Where are you from?”

“Tempe. That’s Arizona. I was supposed to meet someone at Hollywood and Vine. Is that close to here?”

Derisive laughter. “Not exactly.”

“You’re kidding.”

‘You’re pretty far from there—do you have a car?”

“I took the bus. From Union Station. They said get off at Jefferson then transfer to the… I forget. So it’s nasty around here?”

“I wouldn’t be out here alone after dark.”

“Oh, man … can you point me toward Hollywood?”

Laughter. “I can point—it’s that way. North. But you can’t walk it.”

“Is there a bus?”

“No idea—what the—”

Carlo Scoppio stiffened as Milo and six other large men ran toward him shouting. Gayle Lindstrom had her cuffs out, told him he was under arrest. Scoppio swatted the cuffs, made contact with Lindstrom’s forearm, threw her off-balance.

A bass chorus of commands filled the strip mall as Scoppio dropped his gym bag, assumed a pugilist stance. Fists up, ridiculously quaint.

“Policepolicepolice putyour hands where they can be seen hands up yourhands hands up!”

Scoppio blinked. Raised one hand.

Dropped the other to the waistband of his hoodie, reached in, brought out something long-barreled and shiny.

The choir switched hymns: “Gungungungungun!” Scoppio straight-armed his weapon. Milo aimed his Glock.

Same instincts as a few days ago at Moghul, where’d he’d taken years off Officer Randy Thorpe’s life expectancy.

Thorpe had been smart.

Scoppio squinted. His finger whitened.

Milo fired.

So did everyone else.

CHAPTER

44

Dr. Clarice Jernigan said, “This autopsy was fun.”