Even in this day of internet searches and virtual paper trails, 90 percent of apprehending FTAs was knocking on doors and making phone calls. In short, talking to people who knew the person I was looking for.
I sent Caden east. I took the neighbors to the west. Rodeo knocked on doors across the street. Since it was early evening, I figured people would be home from work and might know where Pratt was hiding out.
A Latina woman with tired eyes and graying hair opened the first door I knocked on. She looked frail and all of five foot two if she were standing on her tiptoes. The pale-pink-and-gray sweater she wore looked as if it had been knitted sometime before the color television was invented.
“Hi! I’m looking for your neighbor, Rudy Pratt. Would you know where he is by chance?”
“No ha
