Chapter Twelve

Olivia glanced at the plate over the door to assure herself this was the right conference room. She paused long enough to square her shoulders, set her game face in place, and then pressed through the door. "Olivia Gladstone," she announced in her prosecutor's timbre as she strode forward with the overbright clickety-clack of her heel echoing off the terrazzo floor.

Two suited men rose from the cheap laminate table. One was an ill-fitting off-the-rack, and the other suit was bespoke.

Ill-fitting stretched out a hand. "Detective Wannamaker."

Bespoke stepped closer with a manicured hand extended, not prissy, more like an attention to detail. "Sy Covington, Iniquus Senior Counsel."

Olivia was only mildly surprised that an Iniquus lawyer was here. As soon as Olivia had taken her phone off airplane mode as she got into her car to drive to the station, Iniquus's switchboard rang through and briefly explained that there was an attempted break-in at her house—the same information she'd received from the officer who had shown up at Steph's door. Without any other details, Olivia thought that Nutsbe had seen the crime and called it in to someone.

But why hadn't Nutsbe called Olivia himself?

Olivia dropped her glance to the metal folding chair between her and Covington.

Covington pulled it out in a very old-school manner but didn't press her for an acknowledgment of the gesture, nor did he make a show of helping her to push the seat in. He merely settled back down in front of a closed leather briefcase. A tablet was positioned on top.

Olivia turned to the detective. "I was told there was a break-in at my house, and two subjects were detained."

"That's correct." Wannamaker flipped pictures upside down and slid them her way. "Can you identify either of these men?"

Olivia picked one of them up and held it with her fingers pressing along the edges. It was a mugshot of Nutsbe dressed in the Iniquus uniform he had been wearing at Candace's. This had to be some kind of mistake. Nutsbe?

Well, at least she better understood Covington's presence.

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.

"Oh?" Olivia sat back and crossed her arms under her breasts.

"Officer Pauley is pressing those charges."

"Assault and battery are off the table. Clearly, Mickey was already damaged goods, and clearly, Mr. Crushed was defensive, not offensive."

"That was an initial charge," Wannamaker said.

"You agree the evidence shows that Mickey arrived already battered. And that it was Mickey who broke the glass on my door. Mr. Crushed did not approach my home."

"Correct. There's trespassing and dognapping still on the table." Wannamaker clarified. "Officer Pauley said it's his house and his dog. He presented pictures of his title that he accessed on his phone, and there were pictures of him and the dog."

"Interesting." She dug her phone from her purse. "Sorry, let's go back," Olivia said, scrolling through her files. "What is Mickey charged with?"

"Nothing. We let him go."

"Of course," Olivia sighed. She'd found the correct file; she just needed the right paragraph to share. Skimming over the words, she said, "So you let him go. Before I got here. Before I could weigh in?"

"We did."

She looked up. "You sent the officer to my office. It was an extra step. Was this a courtesy because of my job?" Olivia asked the detective.

"It was."

"And yet, knowing I was on my way here. You didn't wait. I'm assuming that it was Mickey's badge that let him head out that door. You are aware, aren't you, of the percentage of domestic abusers that are employed by the police?"

Wannamaker cleared his throat.

"And you didn't want to ask me what my thoughts were. Detective, that's a choice you might want to reconsider in the future." She drew in a long breath.

Olivia needed to keep her demeanor professional no matter how much she wanted to yell at Wannamaker for his stupidity. "What did Mr. Crushed say through all of this?"

"Nothing, ma'am. He lawyered up and was silent."

Brilliant. And disciplined. That was exactly what everyone should do around the police—keep their mouths shut.

Olivia stretched out to pass her phone to the detective. He accepted it, looking down to see what she had for him. "While it is true that Mickey Pauley is on the title, we have a separation agreement. When I moved out two years ago, we stipulated that I wouldn't go to what had been our marital house where he lives. And he would have no access to our jointly held rental house that I made my home. It's in the agreement and signed by the judge. I can also point out where he kept his cats, and I took my dog. There is no joint custody of the pets. That's a class five felony to try to take my dog, and I am pressing charges against Mickey Pauley." She planted her hands on the table, fingers splayed wide as she pushed her anger onto the surface. "He knowingly made false statements to the police. I'm sure you will want to bring charges. He was trespassing on my property." Olivia fought to keep her tone even and calm. She thought she was pulling off the charade of Ice Queen. "I want to press charges. He was breaking into my home. I want to press charges." She lifted her hand to stab a stiff finger onto the table for emphasis, punctuating each word as she said, "He was there with malice after a threatening phone call to me." She sat back and crossed her arms under her breasts, hard eyes on Wannamaker so he knew this wasn't a soft ask and he could just shuffle the paperwork off to the side. "I want a restraining order."

"You can get me a copy of this file?" Wannamaker slid Olivia's phone along the table until it was back within her reach.

"Sure, but it's filed with the court, and you have easy access to that," Olivia said, lifting her phone and wiggling it at Covington. "If you need this, I can make it available to you. Just let me know."

"Thank you," Covington said.

They just let Mickey go, unfathomable.

Olivia turned back to Wannamaker with a glare just this side of pugnacious indignation. "Mr. Crushed has permission to be on my property and to invite my dog to his house. I want him released from custody, and all charges dropped. I am the only one under present legal circumstances with any right to determine who has access to that property and my dog."

Wannamaker hefted himself tiredly to his feet and shuffled out of the room. "Hang on."