Russell turned to Victor. “We talked about leaving. We should have left.”

“And the dogs in my car?” Frames asked.

Victor shrugged. “What dogs?”

(ii)

(FRIDAY, 12:33 P.M.)

Coyle drove slowly down the center lane of the parking lot at Brenners Home Improvement looking for Tom Woodhouse’s white Honda. The retired detective had called to say Irwin Partridge was inside the store. Coyle would meet with Woodhouse and then wait until two more units arrived before going inside to make the arrest.

The parking lot was full of shoppers, everybody getting a jump on the weekend. Woodhouse’s car was supposed to be parked near the back of the center lane, but Coyle didn’t see it. Wondering if he misinterpreted the message, he took the next lane, and then the one beside that. Twice he spotted the tops of white vehicles, but they turned out to be different models.

Coyle called Woodhouse. No answer. He stopped and surveyed the parking lot. Doing the arrest in this crowd was going to be a nightmare. Behind him, a driver blared his horn.

Coyle parked in the No Parking zone in front of the store. A unit pulled up beside him. Sergeant Dave Dietz rolled down his window. “You find Woodhouse?”

Coyle shook his head. “We need to do this low-key, or it’s going to be a mess in there. I’ll talk to the store manager and locate Partridge. Once I have eyes on him, I’ll call you.”

Dietz nodded. “Siefert’s on his way.”

Inside the store, Coyle found the manager, a stocky, red-faced man.

“What d’you need Partridge for?” he asked. “We’re a little busy right now.”

“Police business.”

The manager consulted a clipboard. “He’s supposed to be in Kitchens, last aisle. But on a day like this, he could be anywhere. You want me to call him to the office?”

Better not to tip him off. “That’s okay. I’ll find him.”

Coyle made his way through the congested checkout lines and turned into the last aisle. He passed a couple arguing about sinks and a contractor balancing an oven hood on a shopping cart. Midway down the aisle, he saw a clerk in one of the store’s green vests. The man was a hundred feet away, back turned. Coyle walked quickly, unconsciously touching his Glock.

As Coyle reached the clerk, the man turned around to reveal himself as a twentysomething kid. The kid stumbled backward. “Whoa, man, take it easy.”

“You seen Partridge?” Coyle asked.

“Ir-win?” The clerk said the name mockingly. “I think he was here a few minutes ago, but, like, who knows?”

Coyle walked the next aisle, past displays of kitchen cabinets. He peered around for another green vest. None in sight. He called Woodhouse again. No answer.

Don’t screw this up.

He saw he was on aisle Sixteen. He decided to make his way methodically down each aisle.

Fifteen. Fourteen, Thirteen.