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Seeing Nutsbe staring stoically into the camera, holding a blackboard with its white plastic numbers, was a gut punch.
What in the actual heck?
A streak of mud slashed across his face; the five o’clock shadow made him look tired, but otherwise, he seemed okay.
She just couldn’t fathom—Nutsbe was breaking into her house? There was a reasonable story; she was sure of it.
The next picture she scooped up was Mickey. Of course, it was. He said he was on the way over to her house. And she’d felt the premonition—danger, violence—she didn’t have a lock on what that sensation was other than that she should keep a clear and copious distance. In his mugshot, Mickey looked like he’d been stomped into the ground, picked up, pummeled, and stomped into the ground again. Had Nutsbe done that?
She frowned at the image.
Mickey was a fighter. One of the things he liked best about working on the force at D.C.P.D. was finding a criminal who wanted to fight back. Since Mickey had a gun, a baton, pepper spray, and backup, he usually walked away with scuffed knuckles.
And he learned to never gloat to Olivia because she had threatened to go public with his behavior and find a prosecutor in D.C.—even though it would be tough to do—that was willing to bring brutality charges against a cop.
Olivia hadn’t married Mickey as a police officer. He joined the Army while they were dating. After they married, he went to war; she went to law school. In the back of her mind, Olivia had blamed some of Mickey’s violence on his time overseas. But since he was a mechanic, it was more likely that it was just a part of his personality that he’d learned to hide from her, which was condoned and even cheered on in his work culture.
Olivia sent a glance toward Covington. He wasn’t offering her anything in his expression that provided her with information. “This,” she said, pointing to the first photo on the table, “is my neighbor, Nutsbe. And this,” she put the second photo down and stabbed a finger at her soon-to-be-ex, “is Mickey Pauley.”
She raised her brows and drew them tight, staring straight at Wannamaker. “What’s the story?”
Covington cleared his throat, drawing her attention around. “I have a phone recording and a videotape of the incident,” he said. “It will probably answer a lot of your questions.”
“I think—” Wannamaker began.
“Perfect,” Olivia interrupted him. “Let’s see it.”
Covington tapped the tablet on; it was already queued to the beginning. “Possible breaking and entering at the neighbor’s house directly behind mine.” Olivia heard Nutsbe’s voice. She’d recognize his rich bass anywhere. The image must be from his upstairs window. Olivia tapped pause. “How did you get this so quickly?” she asked Covington. “Who is Nutsbe talking to?”
“Iniquus communications, ma’am. When an operator calls in, they record everything to provide evidence and context should it be needed.”
Nutsbe called Iniquus, not 9-1-1. That was interesting.
Olivia tapped play. After a minute of discussion, the video continued with Nutsbe jogging out of his house, across his lawn, and pushing open a door in his fence—a door in his fence? There was no door in his fence. She rewound and watched that part again. There was a door in his fence. Huh. With the door open, Olivia watched as Henrietta scrambled out of Mickey’s arms.
Henrietta had always hated Mickey.
Mickey was chasing around like an idiot, trying to catch her. Then she was racing for safety past Nutsbe into his backyard, and the door slammed shut behind her.
The camera lens turned. Mickey, bent as if to make a football tackle, roared toward Nutsbe. Nutsbe merely lifted his foot, and Mickey went flying. Olivia tapped the screen and slowed the motion down to a crawl. She wanted to see every detail.
From the angle and movement, Nutsbe had to have his phone on his chest, maybe in a pocket.
She slid the cursor back to the point where Nutsbe came through the fence door. She paused when there was a clear enough picture of Mickey to see that his face was already damaged, and he hadn’t yet approached Nutsbe. She moved forward in the fight. Nutsbe knew what the hell he was doing. He was a good fighter, but except for that first distancing kick, he was not throwing down. He was merely defending. It was evident that Nutsbe had done nothing against the law.
Why was he arrested?
At the end, she licked her lips and handed the tablet back to Covington. “Thank you. That was very helpful.” She turned to Wannamaker. “Why was my neighbor arrested?”
“We didn’t have the tape yet,” Wannamaker said. “And Officer Pauley was pressing charges. He told me that he had come home to find Mr. Crushed breaking into his house, that his dog had escaped, and that Mr. Crushed attacked Officer Pauley. That the dog ran into Mr. Crushed’s backyard, and Mr. Crushed shut the door, trapping her there.”
“So breaking—” Olivia started.
“Attempted breaking and entering with the intent to do harm, assault and battery, trespassing, and larceny of a dog.” Wannamaker stroked a hand along his chin. “We just need some information from you before we decide what to do.”
“Here’s what you’ll do,” Olivia said. “You’ll let Mr. Crushed go home and get some sleep.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Wannamaker said.
