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.
“405 West Cleveland.”
Sully smiled. “Sandy the Neighbor spotted Victor the Stalker and called it in.”
“Probably,”
“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.
“405 West Cleveland.”
Sully smiled. “Sandy the Neighbor spotted Victor the Stalker and called it in.”
“Probably,”
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