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thank me,” she said. “That’s what partners are for.”
    Conti chuckled, and they ate in a companionable silence. Once she was done, Lee was up and out of her chair. “Let’s get going.”
    â€œWhat’s up?” Conti wanted to know. “You’re kind of hyper this morning.”
    â€œThis is the day,” Lee predicted. “This is the day we’re going to nail Popeye.”
    â€œSo what is this? Woman’s intuition?”
    â€œMaybe . . . It’s a feeling, that’s all.”
    They couldn’t attend the 7:00 A.M. roll call. Not and relieve the second team at six. So Lee drove straight to the corner of Colgate and Fairfax, where she pulled into the parking lot.
    A brief radio conversation was enough to bring Conti and Lee up to date. It seemed that though Mrs. Cherko had crossed the street to visit the convenience store, there had been no sign of her son.
    The morning passed much as the previous one had. Conti listened to tunes in the front passenger seat, the temperature continued to climb, and it wasn’t long before they started to sweat. Conti was about to go for some cold soft drinks when a low-slung especiale rolled past. The body was sleek and somewhat reminiscent of the production vehicles from the fifties but covered with gray primer. As if the owner was saving up for a custom paint job. Then Lee remembered. The vehicle Mrs. Fuentes described had been gray as well.
    The car slowed in front of the apartment house and crept past. Could it be Popeye? Checking the situation out?
    â€œDid you see that?” Lee said as she brought the camera up. “A possible rolled by. Let’s see if he comes back.”
    They didn’t have to wait for long. The smoke gray sedan reappeared in the intersection, took a right, and began to creep past the apartment building. Lee continued to click away as the car passed them. “I think Popeye is going to drop in on Mommy,” Lee said. “So pull your shit together and . . .”
    â€œSorry to interrupt,” Conti said. “But we have a 211 at the bank. I see what might be a flash mob out front. At least some of them are armed. We’re going to need backup.”
    And with that, Conti was out of the car and drawing his weapon. Lee shouted, “No! Wait!” But it was too late. Conti was striding across the parking lot by then.
    â€œThis is 1-William-3!” Lee shouted into the mike. “We have a 211 at Colgate and Fairfax with multiple 417s.” Then, knowing what was about to happen, she added: “Shots fired. Request backup.”
    Lee drew the Glock as she bailed out of the car and began to run. Conti was out in the middle of the intersection by then, waving cars off with one hand while pointing his pistol with the other. “Los Angeles Police! Drop your weapons!”
    Beyond Conti, gathered in front of the bank, were a dozen people all wearing black-and-white skull masks. Roughly half of them were carrying long arms, and the rest were waving pistols, as the front door slammed open and a skull emerged carrying a bag.
    Conti fired, and one of the perps did a neat pirouette before collapsing. Lee yelled, “Get down!” but Conti seemed determined to smoke another bank robber. He fired, staggered as a volley of bullets hit him, and fell.
    Lee was in a cold fury as she made her way through a maze of vehicles and emerged with her gun raised. “Los Angeles Police!” she shouted, as half the skulls turned to shoot at her. A bullet nipped at her left shoulder, another whipped through her hair, and a third creased her side. So Lee shot a perp in the face and felt everything slow down.
    It had always been like that for her. According to what she’d read, some ballplayers had it, too . . .
It
being the strange ability to see the round thing coming at them, make the necessary adjustment, and swing the bat just so. And that’s how it