Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum #25)(54)

“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.”