Dietz called. “You found him? You need us to come in?”

“No. Just hold on.”

At Twelve, he approached a woman in a green vest demonstrating a power drill to a young couple. “Have you seen Irwin Partridge?”

She shrugged. “Break room an hour ago. He’s around.”

“You all wear the green vests?”

“We kind of have to.” The clerk stared at Coyle. “Why do you want to know?”

Coyle showed his badge.

The woman turned away from the couple. “Irwin wears his vest over one of those insulated jackets. He works out in the storage shed and gets cold.”

Coyle ran to the next aisle and the one after that, scanning the length. On aisle Seven, he saw a green vest at the far end, partially covering a black insulated jacket. Coyle watched the clerk stack PVC pipe on a shelf. He imagined walking down the aisle, taking out his gun halfway, waiting until he was behind the clerk to say Partridge’s name. Should he call Dietz?

Suddenly a hand was laid on his shoulder. Coyle jumped. Turning, he found an elderly shopper. “I’m looking for clocks.”

Coyle shook his head. When he looked back down the aisle, the green vest was gone. He ran the length of the aisle, a sprinter in a maze, past shoppers and carts. At the intersection of a crossing aisle, he slammed into a customer, knocking the man backward into a display of spray paint, cans clattering to the floor.

By the time Coyle recovered, the green vest was gone. Coyle looked toward the dark storage shed. He moved slowly, until he saw the green vest facing a rack of metal fence posts. When he was ten feet away, Coyle raised his gun and shouted, “Police. Put your hands where I can see them.”

The green vest continued pulling metal posts down from the rack. When Coyle moved closer, he saw the earbuds the clerk wore. He pulled the man around. It wasn’t Irwin Partridge.

“The fuck you do that for?” the clerk shouted. Then he saw Coyle’s gun. “Who are you?”

Coyle held up his badge. “I’m looking for Irwin Partridge.”

“He’s not here. He left.” The clerk’s eyes stayed on Coyle’s gun.

“What do you mean, he left?”

“What do you think I mean? He drove away. Here, I’ll show you.”

The clerk led Coyle to the shed’s loading dock, which had a view of the parking lot. “Irwin goes to his car to smoke. Nissan 240Z. Puke green. Always in the last space, first row. See. It’s not there now.”

“When’d he leave?”

“I don’t know. Few minutes ago, I guess. What’d you want him for?”

Coyle ignored him.

“We done?” the clerk asked, louder.