the news comes on, there
“Any idea what Monte’s last name is?”
“I just heard his girlfriends calling him Monte.”
“Where’s the house?”
“Two blocks east, one block north. He drives a black pickup truck. She drives a Honda. Gray, the other girlfriend. Never saw the pretty one with a motor vehicle, always riding with one of the other two.”
“You wouldn’t have the address by any chance, would you?”
“You swear on a stack my name won’t appear anywhere?”
“Scout’s honor, sir.”
“You were a scout?”
“Actually, I was.”
“I would’ve liked to be a scout,” said George S. Kaplan. “No colored scouts in Baton Rouge back then. I learned to be prepared, anyway.” Denture grin. He reached for a bureau drawer. “Let me find that address and copy it for you. Do it in block lettering so no one can trace my handwriting.”
CHAPTER37
The house was a flat-face stucco bungalow the color of curdled oatmeal, narrow and tar-roofed and shuttered tight. Cement square instead of lawn, no vehicles parked there, no mail pileup.
Milo and I did a quick drive-by, parked half a mile up. He celled Moe Reed, asked for an assessor’s check.
Owned and managed by a Covina real estate firm, rented to a tenant named M. Carlo Scoppio.
“Looked him up, Loo. Male white, thirty-two years old, no wants or warrants, no NCIC. Owners can’t evict him but they’d like to.”
“What’s the problem?”
“He always pays his rent but does it chronically late,” said Reed. “Like he’s trying to irritate them by squeezing out every bit of delay. They say getting rid of a tenant is a hassle even when you’re faced with a total deadbeat and Scoppio makes sure not to give them grounds. Top of that, he’s a lawyer, they don’t want the aggravation.”
“What are his physical stats?”
“Five nine, one seventy-eight, brown and green. The picture makes him a guy you’d never notice. You anywhere near a fax?”
“Nope, but the stats are consistent with Hood-boy. Where does Scoppio practice law?”
“Haven’t checked yet, but I will.”
“Don’t bother, I can do it. Thanks, Moses, you can climb back up Olympus, now.”
I said,
Milo said, “Smells right but ol’ George really
“Ol’ George seemed pretty lucid to me. More important, you’ve got nothing else and who knows if that rib joint is still in business.”
“Desperation time… always been a favorite season of mine.”
A search for the working address of M. Carlo Scoppio, attorney at law, pulled up nothing. Same for an inquiry at the bar association.
Milo said, “He lied, excellent start.”
I said, “Lawyers can work in other capacities.”
“Hush your mouth, whippersnapper. Let’s go back to the office, return close to five. If the timing’s right, I’ll have a little chat with this charmer.”
Googling
“He didn’t just lie, he puffed himself up,” said Milo. “We’re a little closer to sociopath.” He scanned. “Hablo Espanol… and five other languages. Could be one of those slip-and-fall deals, poor stooges get the whiplash, lawyers get the dough. Maybe paralegal means Scoppio ropes them in.”
Probing for articles on the law firm produced several news pieces about an investigation by the city attorney. All three partners were suspected of setting up phony traffic accidents, working in concert with corrupt physicians, physical therapists, and chiropractors. No indictments had been brought.
No mention of Carlo Scoppio.
Milo tried a contact at the city attorney’s office. The woman had no personal knowledge of the case but looked up the current status. “Appears to be pending, Lieutenant.”
“Meaning?”
“My guess would be insufficient evidence to file. Looks like they used illegals as their stooges, try finding witnesses willing to testify.”
“Does the name M. Carlo Scoppio appear anywhere?”
“Scoppio… no, doesn’t look like-oh, here it is, he’s a para… suspected of being a recruiter. He killed someone? We might be able to use that.”
By four forty-eight we were back on Scoppio’s block, cruising past the bungalow.
Still no sign of the black pickup George Kaplan had described but a gray Honda sat on the concrete pad.
Milo said, “Girlfriend’s here, maybe boyfriend will show up soon.”
Too few cars on the street made getting close risky. I parked four houses up, switched off the engine. Milo positioned a pair of binoculars in his lap, chewed a panatela, paused from time to time to spit shreds of tobacco out the passenger window.
“We could be here for a while, you want to put on music, it’s fine with me.”
“What are you in the mood for?”
“Anything that doesn’t make my ears bleed-well, looky here.”
A black Ford half-ton approached from the south and pulled up next to the Honda.
Milo snatched up the binocs, was focused on the driver’s door as a man exited the truck.
“That’s him-guess what he’s wearing? Gray hoodie.”
Carlo Scoppio walked around to the truck’s passenger side, retrieved something.
Plastic bags. Five of them. Scoppio laid them on the concrete.
Milo said, “Albertsons, ol’ Monte C. does the shopping, how touchingly domestic.”
Scoppio returned to the driver’s side, reached in, honked the horn.
The bungalow’s front door opened and a woman stepped out. Tallish, dressed in a white top and jeans.
Scoppio pointed to the bags. The woman walked toward them.
Milo’s shoulders tightened. “You are not going to believe this. Here, take a look.”
“At what?”
“Her.”
CHAPTER 38
Dual lenses highlighted a pleasant face framed by long rust-brown hair. Late twenties to early thirties, rosy-cheeked, clear blue eyes.
