Look Alive Twenty-Five

by Janet Evanovich

  “Maybe I got carried away,” Vinnie said. “I mean, we’re family, right? Anyway, you probably did me a favor. We had this pain-in-the-ass rat’s nest overinsured.”

  “It was an accident,” I said. “It started with a grease fire.”

  “Yeah, these things happen,” Vinnie said. “I’ll go explain it to Harry.”

  We all watched him scramble back into his Cadillac and drive away.

  “I think I would not like to work for him,” Raymond said. “He reminds me of my mother.”

  The alleys on both sides of the deli building were clogged with chunks of roofing material and window glass, so Ranger and I walked around the block to see the rest of the damage.

  The back door was covered with plywood and crisscrossed with crime scene tape. Puddles of sooty water and pieces of charred wood littered the parking area. We were standing there, taking it in, when the Central GP truck rumbled down the alley and stopped just short of us.

  Frankie got out and looked at the blackened brick. “When did this happen?” he asked.

  “Last night,” I said. “Grease fire.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “We haven’t been inside, but I don’t think there’s much left.”

  “So, I’m guessing you don’t want your order?”

  “Stretch and Raymond are in front. They might need oregano.”

  “I’ll drive around,” Frankie said.

  We watched the truck move on down the alley.

  “He has a nice business going,” Ranger said.

  I gestured at the deli. “Not much to see from the outside. And I suppose it’s not safe to go in.”

  “We’ll get notified when it’s safe to go in.”

  “I got a text from Connie. She has two new files for me. Do you have time to take me to the office?”

  “I have a meeting at three o’clock. Until then I’m all yours.”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  Connie was alone at her desk when Ranger and I walked in.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked.

  “Vinnie is talking to Harry. Lula is out foraging lunch.”

  “It’s early for lunch,” I said.

  “Not for Lula,” Connie said. “I’m glad you’re here. I have two new court skips. One of them is a high bond, high flight risk.”

  I took the two files and flipped the first one open. Ranger was pressed against my back, reading over my shoulder. He was warm, and he smelled nice, and I was having a hard time concentrating on the file.

  “I’ll take these out to the car, and we’ll get right to it,” I said to Connie.

  “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.

  “I have to find Darren Boot,” I said.

  “I’ll come with you,” Lula said. “Where’s this Darren Boot live?”
>
  “By the junkyard. We’ve been there a couple times. He lives with his mother.”

  “Now I remember. They’re the ones with the mushroom farm. And the mother dresses up like Minnie Mouse.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  LULA DROVE THE length of Stark Street, passed the junkyard, and after a half mile we saw the rusted mailbox with BOOT painted on it. The rutted dirt driveway led to a bedraggled bungalow that was surrounded by thigh-high grass.

  Lula parked, and we got out of the Firebird and set out on the narrow path to the front door. A big white chicken ran across the path in front of Lula.

  “Holy heck,” Lula said. “What the hell?”

  All around us we could hear grass rustling and chickens clucking.

  “This is freaking me out,” Lula said. “I only like supermarket chickens. The naked ones with no feathers. And I prefer them shrink-wrapped and air-chilled and previously fed non-GMO shit.”

  I preferred them as frozen and breaded nuggets or else cooked by my mother.

  “Watch where you’re walking,” I said. “You don’t want to step on a chicken or whatever it leaves behind.”

  “That’s a disgusting thought,” Lula said. “I got on my open-toe fashionista gladiator shoes.”

  We reached the rickety front stoop, and I knocked on the door. Minnie Mouse answered on the second knock.

  “Mrs. Boot,” I said. “Perhaps you remember me. I’m Stephanie Plum.”

  Darlene Boot was sixty-seven years old, five feet two inches tall, and had a shape like an apple. Skinny legs encased in black tights. Short curly gray hair held in place by a red and white polka-dotted Minnie Mouse bow with mouse ears. The dress was straight from vintage Disney. Black top and fluffy red skirt with more white polka dots. Short puffy sleeves. Finished off with bright yellow rubber boots that I’m sure were excellent for walking behind chickens.

  “Oh dear,” she said. “I suppose you’re here to repossess Darren.”

  “Is he home?”

  “No. I’m so sorry. He had some errands to run.”

  “What sort of errands?” I asked.

  “He was going to the feed store. It’s somewhere across the river. And then he was going to gas up the truck and get some beer. The chickens like a little beer now and again.”

  “I see you still got the Minnie Mouse thing going,” Lula said.

  Darlene smiled. “Sometimes I wear one of the princess dresses, but I like Minnie the best.”

  “Yeah,” Lula said. “You can’t go wrong with Minnie. Do you know you got a lot of chickens running around out there in your front yard? What’s with that?”

  “It’s our new business,” Darlene said. “The mushrooms didn’t work out, so we’re trying chickens. Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea while you wait for Darren?”

  We stepped inside and froze. Wire cages filled with roosting chickens were stacked everywhere, and a bunch of chickens were meandering around, pecking at the furniture.

  “These are our egg producers,” Darlene said. “We’re real proud of them.”

  “What about the outside chickens?” Lula asked, keeping her eyes on the meandering chickens.

  “We sort of lost control over them,” Darlene said. “We thought it would be nice to let them go free-range, but then we couldn’t find the eggs in the grass, and they kept multiplying. I guess you might say they’re feral chickens now.”

  There was a bloodcurdling squawk from the front yard.

  “What the heck was that?” Lula asked.

  “We also got some feral cats,” Darlene said. “Big ones.” Especially Miss Kitty, Suzy, and Apple Puff.

  “Maybe we’ll come back some other time,” I said to Darlene, giving her my card. “Tell Darren we were here, and we’ll be happy to give him a ride to the courthouse, so he can get his court date rescheduled.”

  “That’s real nice of you,” Darlene said. “I’ll pass it along.”

  Lula and I stood on the stoop and looked at the path to her car. There was some blood and feathers on the path, but no chicken.

  “Do you think it’s safe to walk there?” Lula asked me. “What if that feral cat is still hungry, and he’s lurking in the grass? Or what if the chickens are planning a counterattack?”

  “Like a chicken army?”

  “Exactly! Chickens aren’t smart. They got a brain the size of a pea. They could attack us by mistake.”

  “I’ll chance it,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I could take on a chicken.”

  “I saw you get attacked by a goose once, and you were screaming like a little girl.”

  “That was a goose. Entirely different.”

  We started down the path, and a big red rooster rushed out of the grass at Lula and pecked her big toe. Lula shrieked, put her foot to the rooster, and punted it about twenty feet in the air.

  “I’ve been pecked!” she yelled. “I’ve been pecked.” She drew her gun, and fired off a shot.

  “What are you shooting at?” I asked her.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Reflex action.”

  I looked down at her foot. “I don’t see any blood.”

  “He caught me by surprise. Lucky thing for him that he flew away and didn’t get shot.”

  “He didn’t fly away. You kicked him about a quarter of a mile. He might have done some fluttering on the descent.”

  A Rangeman SUV was idling behind Lula’s Firebird. I didn’t recognize the man at the wheel, but I waved and he waved back.

  “It’s strange not to be heading for the deli now,” Lula said. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with myself.”

  “I’m going back to the office. I want to do some research on Leonard Skoogie and Victor Waggle.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Lula said. “I’m gonna do some research on my ancestry. I might sign up for one of those DNA kits they advertise on television. It would be fun to know more about my roots. Do you know all about your ancestors?”

  “My father’s side is Italian as far back as we can trace. His relatives were all farmers. Not especially successful. Always too many kids and not enough land. My great-grandparents Plumeri immigrated when they were in their twenties. They came over as indentured servants. The name was shorted on Ellis Island. My other great-grandparents met after they were already in America. My great-grandmother came with her parents. My great-grandfather stowed away on a boat and was arrested when it docked in Perth Amboy. I’m told there was some bribery involved, and he managed to walk away.”

  “What about on your mother’s side?”

  “Hungarian, mostly. There might have been some border crossings. My great-grandfather Mazur deserted from the army. We aren’t sure which one. Apparently, it was a topic no one would discuss. He hopped a boat and came to America. My great-grandmother was pregnant at the time and unmarried. The story goes that she followed my great-grandfather and put a gun to his head to marry her.”

  “And they lived happily ever after?”

  “Grandma Mazur said my grandfather told her they fought like cats and dogs.”

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about. You know all kinds of interesting things. All I know is that my momma was a ’ho, and I followed in her footsteps. Just about all the women in my family were professional. I don’t know anything past that.”

  Lula parked in front of the bonds office, and the Rangeman SUV pulled in behind her. I waved at Ranger’s man on my way into the office, and he gave me a thumbs-up.

  “It’s like you’re the president or something,” Lula said. “It’s a wonder they don’t follow you into the bathroom and check behind the shower curtain.”

  Connie was standing at her desk with her purse in her hand.

  “You got here just in time,” she said. “I was going to lock up. Vinnie is at physical therapy, and I have to go downtown
to bond someone out.”

  Physical therapy was code for a nooner. Or in this case an afternooner.

  “Is it okay if I use your computer?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Connie said. “I should be about an hour. I’ll be back to close up.”

  Lula settled onto the couch with her iPad, and I went to Connie’s desk. I ran Skoogie through a couple programs but didn’t turn up anything new.

  “Here’s something weird,” Lula said. “I’ve been surfing around, checking up on my fame as a celebrity sandwich maker. There’s a unflattering video of me waiting tables. And there’s a couple newspaper articles and some local television pieces on how people have been disappearing and leaving their shoe behind at the deli. I asked for more on the subject, and I got a video someone made about the deli kidnapping. It’s like an amateur reality-show thing. There’s five of them. And one of them looks like Hal.”

  I looked over at her. “How much like Hal?”

  “A lot like Hal.”

  Lula brought her iPad over and passed it to me.

  I was dumbstruck. “This is Hal,” I said.

  I scrolled back, looked at all five, and also recognized Wayne Kulicki. The videos had been uploaded by someone named Hotshot. They were grainy night shots showing a man walking out of the deli’s back door, carrying a garbage bag. There was a blinding flash of light and the next scene was a single shoe on the asphalt parking lot. This was followed by a visual of crime scene tape and police doing their job investigating.

  I called Morelli.

  “Lula stumbled across some YouTube videos that seem to be recording the deli kidnappings,” I said.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. I recognized Hal and Wayne Kulicki. You’ll want to look at this.”

  “I’m just getting into my car to leave for the day. Are you at the office? I’ll head over.”

  “I’ll wait for you.”

  I called Ranger and told him about the videos.

  “I got them,” Ranger said, moments later. “That’s Hal.”