“Have a nice day, Mrs. Bestler,” I said.

“Don’t take any wooden nickels,” Mrs. Bestler sang out.

According to Butchy Salazar’s bond agreement, he was renting the top half of a two-family-house on Allen Street. For years now, Butchy’s worked nights tending bar at a dive on Front Street, so chances were good that he’d be at home.

Tank did a pass in front of the house. No activity. He returned and parked two houses down on the opposite side of the street. I called Butchy on my cell phone and got his machine. I didn’t leave a message. Tank and I got out and approached the house. No back door to worry about, so we positioned ourselves to either side of the front door. I rang the bell for the upstairs apartment and waited. No response. I rang again.

The downstairs door opened and an older woman stuck her head out. “Butchy isn’t home and my cats hate when people ring his bell,” she said. “The bell scares my cats. They’re very sensitive.”

“Do you know where Butchy is?”

“It’s his day off from work. I think he’s gone out to do his grocery shopping and stuff. Not that he does a lot of cooking. Mostly he buys beer and filthy magazines. I tell you, this neighborhood’s going to hell in a handbasket.”

The woman closed her door and I looked up at Tank. It was strange being on a bust with him. I was used to Lula with her crazy clothes and smart mouth.

“Okay,” I said, “let’s go for the rapist, Steven Wegan. We can come back to Butchy later. Wegan lives in Hamilton Township in one of those apartment complexes off Klockner Boulevard.”

Minutes later we were parked in the lot in front of Steven Wegan’s apartment. We sat for a couple minutes, getting the feel of things. A woman left her apartment two doors down, got into her car, and drove off. Aside from that there was no activity.

“One of us should take the back door,” I said.

“Can’t do that,” Tank said. “My first job is to protect you and I can’t do that if I can’t see you.”

“No one followed us here. I was watching.”

Tank went stony. An unmovable object.

“Fine,” I said, “we’ll both take the front door.”

We left the truck, crossed the lot, and I rang Wegan’s bell.

Wegan answered on the first ring. You’ve got to love first-time offenders. They don’t know the drill. Next time around Wegan will be out the back door, hiding in the Dumpster.

He was a slim five feet, eight inches with close-cut brown hair and dark brown eyes. His papers listed his age as twenty-six. He was unmarried.

“Yes?” Wegan said, looking first to me, then up at Tank. The gears were turning in Wegan’s head when he looked at Tank. Tank wasn’t someone you wanted to unexpectedly find on your doorstep.

“Steven Wegan?” I asked.

Wegan swallowed. “Un-hunh.”

I introduced myself and explained to Wegan that he missed his court date and needed to refile. Wegan bobbed his head yes, but his eyes were saying no, no, no.