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“When you’re done, look for the FTA,” Connie said.
The first guy was a repeater. Darren Boot. Forty-two years old. Lived with his mother in a ramshackle house by the junkyard. A couple times a year they would get crazy drunk, and Darren would go off and do something stupid. This time he’d stolen a cop car and driven it through the front window of a 7-Eleven.
The second guy was a drug dealer with gang ties. He had family and “business associates” in Guatemala and an arrest record. He’d run a light and had been pulled over by police. They found a bale of cannabis in the trunk of his car, and a suitcase filled with cocaine. In the struggle to cuff the gang guy, one of the cops suffered a groin injury and the gang guy got a broken nose and lost a couple teeth.
Ranger took the file from me and read aloud.
“Walter Jesus Santiago, AKA Wally San, AKA W. J. San, AKA Jesus Santiago, AKA Tarzan. And I saved the best for last. AKA Forest Kottel.”
“I guess we should try to find Mr. Santiago,” I said to Ranger.
“He gives an address of Bartlett Street. That’s one block over from Stark. He’s a self-employed entrepreneur, so either he’s at home or else he’s at the port in Perth Amboy picking up a bale.”
Ranger cut across town and cruised down Bartlett. The first five blocks were similar to Stark, but were more residential and pervasively Hispanic. Buildings were red brick, three- and four-story, some in better shape than others. The graffiti was more colorful than the Stark Street graffiti. I attributed this to more recent writing. Signs for the grocery stores and bars were in Spanish. A couple buildings on the fifth block were pockmarked with gunshots, but the first four blocks seemed relatively safe.
Santiago lived on the third block. We parked, entered the building, and took the stairs to the second floor. Two apartments. Santiago lived in the rear-facing one. Ranger knocked on the door, and it opened with the security chain in place. A young man looked out at us, and I was pretty sure it was Santiago. I could only see two inches of him, but he resembled the mug shot in his bond folder.
“Walter Santiago?” Ranger asked.
“Nah,” he said. “He don’t live here.”
“Can I come in?” Ranger asked.
“Sure,” the guy said.
The door closed, and we could hear the bolt slam into place. Ranger took a step back and said, “Bond enforcement.” He gave the door a hard kick and BANG! The bolt snapped loose, and the door crashed open.
It appeared to be a two-room apartment. The main room had a small kitchen area to one side, a huge flat-screen TV on the opposite wall, a massive black leather couch, and two matching recliners facing the TV. The window looking out at the back alley was open, and I could see Santiago on the fire escape. A moment later he was gone.
“Clear the apartment,” Ranger said, crossing the room. “I’ll go after Tarzan.”
I ran to the window and watched Ranger vault over the fire escape railing. He grabbed the bottom of the railing with one hand, hung for a beat, and dropped to the ground. Tarzan had climbed down the ladder and was only a few steps in front of Ranger. Ranger closed the gap, grabbed Tarzan by the back of his shirt, and threw him to the ground. In seconds, Tarzan was cuffed and back on his feet.
I went back to the bedroom and made sure no one was in the closet, under the bed, or in the bathroom. I closed the window, and closed the door as I left the apartment. Ranger was on the sidewalk, waiting for me, when I came out.
“Nice work,” I said. “You should be the one named Tarzan.”
“It’s been a while since I chased someone down. I spend most of my time behind a desk now.”
It was obvious that he also spent time in the gym because his body was perfect, and he hadn’t broken a sweat capturing Tarzan. My body had to make do with good genes, because I hated the gym. My favored exercise was walking the length of the mall to get to Cinnabon. So far, I was holding my own, but I suspect the future might be ugly.
Ranger loaded Tarzan AKA Santiago AKA Forest Kottel into the back seat of his SUV, and we drove him to the police station. We dumped him off, I got my body receipt, and we went back to the office to turn the receipt in to Connie.
“Thanks,” I said to Ranger. “I couldn’t have captured him on my own. I’m no good at breaking down doors. I can’t jump over fire escape railings. And I probably couldn’t have caught up to him on the ground.”
“You would have done the capture your way,” Ranger said. “You would have told him you were selling Girl Scout cookies, and while he was thinking about Thin Mints and Samoas, Lula would have knocked him over and sat on him.”
“Sometimes it works,” I said.
“I have to get back to the office,” Ranger said. “You can come back with me, or I can send one of my men to follow you around.”
“Send one of your men. I want to go after Darren Boot.”
* * *
¦ ¦ ¦
Lula was sitting on the couch when I walked into the bonds office. I gave the body receipt to Connie, and I took a piece of the pizza that was on her desk.
