Frank Zafiro - Beneath a Weeping Sky

“Sure, but-”

Sully illuminated the suspect again. “Do you know this man?” he asked the homeowner.

“No. Who is he?”

“A fine question,” Sully quipped with a hint of brogue. “I assume he was trespassing then?”

“I guess so,” the woman answered. “I mean, I don’t know him, so…”

“Thanks, ma’am. We’ll figure it out and let you know if we need anything from you.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice still sounding confused by sleep.

“Where’s the dog?” Battaglia asked suddenly.

“Huh?”

“The doghouse,” he said, flashing his light on the suspect’s former hiding place. “Where’s the dog that goes with it?”

“Oh,” the woman said. “He died last summer.”

“I’m sorry,” Battaglia said.

“He was fourteen,” the woman told him.

Battaglia nodded. “Well, you might want to lock your gate. Or get a motion sensor light out here.”

“Or a new dog,” Sully suggested.

“Oh,” the woman said, still blinking sleepily. “Yes, that might be a good idea.”

“Thanks for your help tonight, ma’am.”

“Okay,” she said and slid the window shut.

“She’ll think this was all a dream in the morning,” Sully chuckled. He squatted down and flashed his own light into the interior of the doghouse. “Empty,” he reported.

Battaglia nodded and took the suspect by the shoulder. “Let’s go, Rover.” They lead him back to the car, where Battaglia removed the man’s wallet.

“Hey,” he said. “What are you doing?”

“Finding out who you are.” Battaglia removed the man’s driver’s license and dropped the wallet on the hood of the car. Then he reached for his shoulder mike. “Adam-122 to Adam-112.”

“Twelve, go ahead.”

“Tom, can you contact the complainant and ask her if she knows a guy by the name of Victor Preissing.”

“Affirm.”

Battaglia switched to the data channel and gave the dispatcher Preissing’s information for a warrant check.

“What’s your story?” Sully asked Preissing.

“No story,” Preissing told him. “I’m, uh, just out for a walk.”

“Just out for a walk?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s why you ducked back in the alley when you saw our car, huh?”

“I didn’t duck into the alley. I was already headed this way.”

“Headed on your way to go hide in a dog house, were ya? I could probably work up a burglary charge on that.”

Preissing’s shoulders slumped. “I got scared when I saw the lights.”

“Why?”

He licked his lips. “I’m from L.A. The cops used to beat me up all the time for no reason. So I got scared.”

Sully snorted in disbelief.

“No shit,” Preissing said.

“No,” Sully answered. “Just shit. Where are you walking to tonight?”

“Just around. Taking a walk.”

Sully’s radio crackled as Chisolm checked out on scene at the complainant’s residence.

Battaglia read Sully the address on Preissing’s license.

“That’s clear on the other side of town,” Sully said. “Why are you way over here taking a walk?”

“It’s a free country.”

“That,” Sully told him, “is known in police parlance as a non-answer. It indicates deception.”

Preissing shrugged and swallowed nervously.

“I’ll ask again. Why are you taking a walk at eleven-thirty at night clear across town from where you live?”

Preissing’s eyes darted back and forth between the two officers. “I like Corbin Park. It’s a nice place to walk.”

“Oh, that’s believable,” Sully said. “Do you have any warrants, Mr. Preissing?”

“I’ve never been arrested.”

“Guess what?” Sully said. “That wasn’t my question. You can still have a warrant out for your arrest whether or not you’ve ever been arrested before.”

“So what?”

Sully turned toward Battaglia. “He’s starting to sound like you. I’m definitely arresting him.”

Before Battaglia could answer, Chisolm’s voice came over the radio. “Adam-112, that would be a negative on the complainant knowing Preissing.”

Sully copied.

“Put him the car,” he said to Battaglia. “Then we’ll figure this out.”

Battaglia patted down Preissing, checking for any weapons.

“You can’t hold me,” Preissing said.

“Sure we can.”

“On what probable cause?”

“You’re acting suspicious.”

“That’s not a crime. I want my lawyer.”

“Trespassing is a crime,” Sully told him. “Just because Rover’s dead doesn’t mean you can move into his dog house.”

Preissing stared at Sully. “Is everything funny to you?”

Sully grinned at him. “No, but your situation here sure is.”

“What’s your badge number?” he demanded.

“Get in the car,” Battaglia said and slid Preissing into the back seat of the patrol car.

“Why do you have to fuzz them up like that?” he asked after he’d slammed the back door and stepped away from the car.

“That’s my job. Just like it’s your job when I’m searching them. It’s called cooperation. You know, teamwork?”

“Whatever. What do you think about this guy?”

“Data channel come back yet?”

Battaglia shook his head. “Not yet. You think he’s a peeping tom?”

Sully frowned. “Sorta feels a little like that, don’t it?”

“Sorta. But not quite. He’s too confident.”

“I agree. Not milquetoast enough. But definitely suspicious.”

“Definitely.”

“No question the guy was up to something.”

“Definitely.”

“He looks too old to be out prowling cars,” Sully observed.

“No backpack, either.”

“And no burglar tools of any kind.”

“Nope.”

“Big goddamn mystery.” Sully sighed. “So we’ll do a field interview report for Tower on him.”

“Definitely.”

“Who knows? Maybe he’s the rapist.”

Battaglia shrugged. “And maybe I’m Vito Corleone.”

“You wish.”

Thomas Chisolm pulled into the alley. He parked behind their patrol car and got out. On his way past their car, he peered into the back seat at Preissing.

“You recognize him, Tom?” Sully asked.

Chisolm shook his head. “What’s this guy’s story?” he asked them.

“We were just discussing that.”

“You come up with any answers?”

“Not really,” Sully said. “He almost acts like a peeping tom, but not quite. He’s got no backpack for prowling cars or burglar tools on him.”

“Maybe he dumped them after he spotted you guys,” Chisolm suggested.

Sully and Battaglia both raised their eyebrows and looked at each other.

“Why didn’t you think of that?” Battaglia asked.

“Because I’m Irish,” Sully told him.

Chisolm chuckled. “I’ll check.” He turned and walked westward down the alley, shining his light and looking in trash cans.

“Adam-122?”

“This better be good,” Battaglia muttered and keyed the mike. “Go ahead.”

“Preissing is in locally with a clear driver’s license. His only entry is a domestic order of protection.”

Both men smiled at each other in triumph.

“Why didn’t you think of that?” Sully asked.

“Because I’m Italian,” Battaglia answered.

Halfway down the alley, Chisolm stopped searching and strolled back toward the patrol cars.

Battaglia asked the dispatcher, “Who is the protected party?”

“Lorraine Kingston,” Irina advised them.

“That’s not the complainant,” Chisolm told them as he approached. “Her name was Sandy something.”

“What’s Lorraine’s address?” Battaglia asked into his shoulder microphone.