Evidence (46 page)

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.”

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.

While
Scoppio worked the wonderful world of personal injury, the house he’d shared
with Lara Rieffen and Doreen Fredd got tossed by Moe Reed, Sean Binchy, and a
Sheriff’s crime scene tech.

No
remnant of Fredd’s residence, no blood beyond a few pinpoints under the
bathroom mirror, probably shaving-nick spritz. No indication anything violent
had ever taken place in the bungalow. The tech swabbed and pulled up prints and
left.

Binchy
and Reed found the gun box right where Rieffen had said it would be. Resting on
top was a black plastic case housing the .22 S&W, serial numbers filed off
but probably accessible chemically.

Binchy
drove the gun to the ballistics lab. The final report would take time, but the
analyst saw enough to opine that the bullets from Backer and Escobar came from
the same weapon.

Reed’s
meticulous room-by-room produced an arsenal under the bed: three rifles, a
shotgun, boxes of ammunition. Maybe Rieffen had been telling the truth about
bad dreams.

Both her prints and Monte’s showed up on the murder
weapon. The longer-barreled gun inserted in Doreen Fredd’s vagina could be any
of several in the collection but a Charter Arms Bulldog did show up, fitting
Dr. Jernigan’s guess.

The
top drawer of a desk in a spare bedroom held newspaper accounts of the lynx
hair episode, along with Rieffen’s med school acceptance letter, well thumbed.
Baggies of prescription tranquilizers and crystals of what looked like
methamphetamine showed up in a bottom drawer.

A
pantry cupboard was filled with heavy-duty muslin bags crammed with packets of
bills.

Reed
calculated the total three times. $46,850.

“Checked
both credit cards for expenditures since they got back from Washington, Loo.
They’ve been to dinner three times, he’s a bad tipper, total charges were
$146.79. Nothing else substantial pops out on the cards, just a hundred or so
in piddly charges. But I did find some matchbooks from three Indian casinos in
his nightstand, so that could account for the rest.”

“You’re
slipping, Moses.”

“Sir?”

“Those
dinners, what’d they eat for dessert?”

“Hopefully
humble pie, Loo.”

At
four fifty-six p.m. two middle-aged Hispanic women in casual clothes rode away
from the law firm in a battered Nissan, followed by a younger blonde,
identified as Kelly Baird Englund, daughter of the senior partner and a lawyer
herself, in a powder-blue Jaguar convertible. Seconds later, Daddy Bryan Baird,
corpulent in a bad blue suit, waddled to his black Mercedes. Ed Habib, in no
better haberdashery, steered his black Lexus LX haphazardly while talking on
the phone, followed by Owen Garroway, patrician in pinstripes, handling his
black Porsche Cayman with aplomb.

“Black’s
the new black,” said Gayle Lindstrom.

No
sign of Carlo Scoppio and that hadn’t changed by five fifteen.

Lindstrom fidgeted. “Maybe he tried to contact
Rieffen, couldn’t reach her, somehow found out she was in lockup.”

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.”

“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.