by Frank Zafiro
The man looked to Sully for help.
Sully suppressed a sigh. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Tad.”
“Last name?”
“Elway. Like the quarterback. You know, John Elway?”
Sully nodded. “I’ve heard of him.”
“I’d hope so. He’s only been to the Super Bowl three times and — ”
Never won yet, Sully finished silently. “What happened to your car, Mr. Elway?” he said aloud.
Tad stopped. “I told you. It was stolen.”
“Right. How exactly?”
Tad bit his lip in contemplation. “Well, I loaned it to a friend and it hasn’t been returned.”
“You loaned it?”
Tad nodded. “Yes.”
“To a friend?”
“Yes.”
Sully glanced at Battaglia, knowing his partner probably shared his thoughts.
This isn’t going to be a stolen car. It’ll be civil. An ex-girlfriend, probably. A drug buddy, maybe. Or a hooker.
“What’s with all the looks?” Tad asked, irritation plain in his voice.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Sully said.
“You two keep looking at each other like I’m lying or something.”
Sully shook his head. “No, sir. We don’t think that at all.”
“Then what’s the deal?”
“Why don’t you just go ahead and tell us about your car so that we can take your stolen vehicle report?” Sully suggested.
“No,” Tad said, his tone indignant. “Not if you’re both going to stand there and treat me like some kind of criminal. I’m the victim here.”
“That’s why I need to get this information from you,” Sully said.
Tad would not be so easily assuaged. “It’s totally unprofessional,” he continued. “The way you two are acting. Interrupting people and having all these sarcastic little looks back and forth.”
Sully took a deep breath and let it out.
“Don’t sigh at me,” Tad snapped.
“I didn’t sigh.”
“You did. You did just a second ago.”
Sully sighed.
“There! You did it again,” Tad said. “What is with you two assholes?”
Sully felt the heat of frustration creep up the back of his neck.
“So sorry to take time out of your busy day,” Tad sneered. “I mean, it’s only your job.”
The heat flowered into outright anger and flooded his limbs. He knew that if he was feeling it, Battaglia was probably about to explode.
“Is this how you treat every victim?” Tad shook his head. “No wonder people hate cops. You guys are so-”
“Who took your goddamn car?” Battaglia snapped.
Tad’s eyes flew open at the profanity. “What?”
“Your precious BMW. Who took it?”
Tad stood up. “You can’t talk to me like this.”
“Was it an ex-girlfriend? Is this a domestic issue?”
“No, it’s not. And I want to talk to your-”
“Was it a male or a female?” Battaglia’s question was cold and forceful.
Tad paused. “Female,” he admitted.
Battaglia nodded and gave Sully a purposeful glance.
Sully couldn’t resist. He sighed loudly.
“Was she a doper or just a hooker?” Battaglia asked Tad.
Tad’s jaw dropped.
“Our practice is not to take stolen reports if you what you did was let a prostitute ‘borrow’ your car,” Battaglia mimed a pair of air quotes and continued, “to go get dope or in exchange for sexual favors.”
Tad’s mouth snapped shut. “She was-she-” he stammered, his face turning red.
“Which is illegal, by the way,” Battaglia finished.
Tad stopped trying to speak. He glared at Battaglia, who stared back dispassionately, though Sully knew from experience that he was furious inside.
“So what was her name?”
“Jade,” Tad answered through gritted teeth.
“Is that her real name? Do you even know her last name?”
Tad gave his head one slow, short shake.
“Your relationship to her was what, exactly?”
Tad didn’t answer.
Battaglia waited, returning Tad’s hot glare with flat coolness.
Thirty seconds passed. Sully listened to the sound of Tad’s breathing and the slight hum of the neon picture frames.
Finally, Tad growled, “I’d like you to leave now.”
Battaglia raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want to make a report?”
“Get the hell out of my house,” Tad snapped.
Without a word, the officers filed out. As they reached the bottom of the front steps, Tad slammed the door behind them.
Battaglia didn’t even look back. Neither did Sully. They walked without a word until they reached the car. Sully unlocked his door and hit the door unlock button for Battaglia on the passenger side. The two men got inside the car. Small flecks of rain started pattering against the windshield.
“Little arrogant prick!” Battaglia roared, once the doors were safely shut.
Sully’s anger at Tad’s attitude had already subsided. Now he was more worried about a complaint.
“You believe this guy?” Battaglia shouted.
“I’m right here,” Sully said. “You don’t have to yell.”
“Don’t tell me that didn’t piss you off, Sully. That little prick didn’t get your Irish up at all?”
“Already up and down,” Sully said, slipping the key into the ignition and starting the engine. “Now I figure we’re getting a complaint.”
“For what? Not taking a report?” He snorted. “Whatever. Ten to one, that Jade he mentioned is a hooker.”
“I know.”
“And we don’t take those reports.”
“I know.”
“So we’re within policy.”
“I know.”
“So where’s the goddamn complaint?”
Sully pointed at him. “Right there.”
“Me?”
“Your mouth.”
“What did I say?”
“Does goddamn ring a bell?”
“What?” Battaglia asked, surprised. “Are you the fucking language police now, Sully?”
“I’m not. But Lieutenant Hart is.”
Battaglia opened his mouth to reply, then fell silent.
Sully rubbed his eyes. The sound of the rain falling against the outside of the car grew to a dull roar.
“Goddamn,” whispered Battaglia. “You’re right.”
“I know.”
Both men were silent again for several moments. Then Battaglia broke the silence with a shrug. “Fuck it. What’s done is done. That guy is an asshole who loaned his car to a hooker.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? You’re taking his side?”
“No. Definitely he’s an asshole. Maybe the woman who took his car is a hooker.”
“I like my odds,” Battaglia said.
“Either way, he’s the kind of guy who calls and complains.”
“Yeah,” Battaglia agreed. “He’s also the kind of guy who is probably living in the house his mother left him.”
“Probably.”
“Probably lived in her basement until she died and he inherited the place.”
Sully nodded. “Good chance of it. That’s why the inside is decorated like an uncool bachelor trying to impress women but the outside is still all Mom.”
“Yeah, he’s impressive all right.”
“He’s something.” Sully pulled away from the curb. He drove past Tad’s house. Both officers eyed the front again.
As they drove on, Battaglia shook his head and grunted. “Maybe not.”
“Maybe not what?”
“I don’t think he inherited the house from his mom. I don’t think he’s the son at all,” Battaglia said. “In fact, I’m a little concerned.”
�
��Huh?”
“You saw those yard gnomes out front, right?”
“Sure.”
“There were two of them.”
“So?”
Battaglia sighed. “Sully, everyone knows those things travel in packs of three.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Listen,” Battaglia said with mock patience. “My theory is this. The guy calling himself Tad inside that house is actually the third yard gnome.”
A smile spread across Sully’s face.
Battaglia continued, “I’m thinking he probably came to life one night, murdered the occupants of the house and assumed the identity of the son. Now he’s got his two buddy gnomes guarding the front door — you saw them there, standing like sentries, right?”
Sully nodded, chuckling.
“So he’s got his guard gnomes standing post while he is out living the high life. Driving the Beemer, doing some dope, fooling around with some hookers, you name it.”
Sully laughed. “Yeah, you’re probably right. So should we call it in to Major Crimes? Get Lieutenant Crawford and some detectives out here to investigate?”
“I think it definitely warrants some looking into,” Battaglia said. “But I think we’ve got even bigger problems than that, you and I.”
“What?”
“Well, the thing is, if dipshit does file a complaint, you know his gnome friends are going to buddy him up. I’m positive that they’ll be witnesses for him.”
Sully laughed out loud.
“And those gnomes, they’ll say anything,” Battaglia said, his voice changing pitch as he held back his laughter. “Those little fuckers.”
Sully laughed louder and slapped the steering wheel. Battaglia finally broke down and joined him.
Maybe a complaint is coming, Sully thought. But Battaglia sure knew how to keep him from worrying.
“Lying, murdering, Beemer-driving yard gnomes,” muttered Battaglia through his laughter.
The two officers drove down Wall Street, howling.
“Well, at least this was one stolen vehicle report call that didn’t suck,” Battaglia said. “That’s something.”
2319 hours
Katie MacLeod sipped her coffee, looking out at the rain that ran down the window outside the cafe booth. Across from her, Matt Westboard blew wordlessly on his own coffee. The easy silence between them comforted Katie somehow. Westboard, sometimes a goof and other times sensitive, seemed to intuit her moods almost better than she did herself. The respite from Sully and Battaglia’s constant banter and James Kahn’s grouchiness was always welcome.
The coffee’s aroma filled her nostrils. She sipped again. All around them, Mary’s Cafe bustled with activity. Conversation buzzed, dishes clattered. Linda, the waitress, flitted from table to table, topping off coffee cups and smiling.
From across the table, Westboard slurped his coffee loudly.
Katie shot him a glance, momentarily irritated. He knew she hated that. Then she saw the coy smile playing on his lips.
“Matt-”
He slurped again.
“Knock it off.”
Westboard answered with a long slurp.
“Don’t be a jerk,” Katie said, but with the beginnings of a smile.
Westboard shrugged and put the coffee cup down. “So you going to talk to me or what?”
Katie sighed. “I was kind of enjoying the silence.”
Westboard nodded. “Yeah, silence is good.”
Katie returned his nod and sipped her coffee.
“The other nice thing about silence,” Westboard continued, “is that it solves so many problems.”
Katie swung her gaze back to the straw-haired officer. “Are you being sarcastic?”
“Nooooooo,” Westboard answered. “Not at all. I completely believe that if you have a problem, the best thing to do is to remain absolutely silent about it. If you ignore the problem, it will almost always go away.”
“Shut up.”
“It also works for ostriches, I hear.”
“Asshole,” Katie muttered without much conviction.
Westboard smiled tightly, picked up his coffee and slurped loudly.
Katie groaned. “You’re worse than those two juveniles at roll call.”
“Everyone copes in different ways,” Westboard said, motioning to Linda for more coffee.
“Maybe I cope by being silent,” Katie suggested.
Linda appeared at the table and refilled both cups, disappearing without a word.
Westboard picked up his cup, paused, then slurped.
“Fine,” Katie said, exasperated. “I’ll spill. Will that make you happy?”
Westboard leaned forward. “Yeah. But I think it will make you happy, too.”
“You really are an asshole,” Katie said with a grin.
Westboard grinned back. “And you’ve got a potty mouth, Officer MacLeod, as well as an apparently limited vocabulary. Now what’s up?”
Katie shrugged. “I just keep getting these calls.”
“Calls?”
“From Stef.”
Westboard’s eyes narrowed with confusion. “Kopriva’s calling you?”
Katie nodded, looking away. She figured the relationship she’d had with Kopriva was probably common knowledge in the undercurrent of department gossip. Still, she didn’t care to talk about it out in the open, even with Westboard.
He gave a low whistle. “How long has this been going on?”
“It started a couple of months ago,” Katie answered. “It’s nothing regular, just every now and then.”
“What’s he say?”
“Just that he wants to talk.”
“What do you two talk about?”
Katie shook her head. “It’s usually a message on my machine. Even if I’m home, I don’t answer the phone.”
“Why?”
Katie gaped at him. “Why? Matt, what do we have to talk about?”
Westboard didn’t answer. He turned to his coffee for a moment. Katie stared at him, feeling a tickle of anger in her stomach.
After a short silence, Westboard asked, “How does he sound?”
“Drunk,” Katie snapped.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Katie answered.
Westboard nodded. “That’s all?”
“No.”
Westboard waited.
Katie sighed. “Fine. He sounded like he was hurting, too.”
“That’s probably why the drinking,” Westboard observed.
“So what? He acts like he’s the only one who ever felt any pain in this world. Like he’s the only one who — ” She broke off, biting back tears. She stared down at her hands and realized that she was twisting the napkin in her fingers.
“Everyone copes in different ways,” Westboard said quietly.
The phrase seemed to have a decidedly different meaning to her the second time around. She gave the napkin a final twist and dropped it in next to her cup. She wondered why Westboard was being so sympathetic toward Kopriva. Maybe the next time the sonofabitch calls, she should just give him Westboard’s number.
“Yeah,” she answered instead, her voice thick with sarcasm. “Especially cowards.”
Westboard’s eyes widened slightly. He opened his mouth to reply.
“Adam-116, Adam-114,” crackled both radios.
Westboard lifted his radio to his mouth, his eyes remaining on Katie’s. “Fourteen, go ahead for both.”
“Northgate shopping center parking lot, near the battery store.” Dispatcher Janice Koslowski’s voice remained stoic, but Katie could sense the gravity in it. “I have a female at the pay phone stating she has just been raped.”
Katie and Westboard rose as one, pushing back from the table and bolting for the door. She heard Westboard copy the call for both of them as she swung open the door of her patrol car. A moment later, she fired the engine to life, punched her overhead lights and headed toward Northgate shopping center.
2326 h
ours
Thomas Chisolm looked up from the theft report he was writing in the car. His radio had been turned low, but the words “Northgate” and then “rape” caught his ear. He turned up the volume.
“Continuing for Adam-116,” Janice’s voice filled the car, “the victim is not very responsive, but says the assault took place within the last five minutes.”
“Copy,” Katie replied over the air.
Chisolm heard the deep-throated roar of her engine and the yelp of her siren in the background.
“Victim has now hung up the phone,” Janice reported.
Chisolm tossed his half-written report into the passenger seat atop his patrol equipment bag. Without pause, he dropped the car into gear and punched the gas.
Northgate was a ways off, but he figured he’d start that way just in case they decided to set a perimeter and do a K-9 track. Or there was always the chance that someone saw the suspect and got a good description and direction of travel. Plus, there was no telling if the victim had hung up the phone on her own or if the suspect had returned and interrupted her call for help.
As he zipped up Nevada, he listened for further radio traffic. In his rearview mirror, he noticed a blue truck keeping pace with him. He glanced down at his speedometer. Forty miles an hour. The speed limit was thirty.
What the hell was this guy doing?
Chisolm nudged the accelerator up to forty-five. The truck fell back, but kept following him.
“Adam-116 on scene,” Katie transmitted.
“Copy.”
Chisolm turned left on Francis, a wide arterial. He accelerated again, this time up to fifty miles an hour. He hoped there was a chance that the rapist was still in the area. He’d like to get his hands on a guy like that.
Behind him, the headlights of the blue truck kept pace.
Who was this guy?
Chisolm recalled the vendetta that a gang member named Isaiah Morris had developed against Kopriva a couple of years before. The gangster stalked Kopriva on duty before ambushing him at the Circle K at Market and Euclid. The resulting “Shootout at the Circle K” was now department legend, despite Kopriva’s fall from grace last year.
I’ve made a lot more enemies out here than Stef ever did, Chisolm thought. Could this guy be stalking him?
“Adam-116, I’m not seeing the victim yet,” Katie informed Radio.
Chisolm momentarily considered stopping the truck, but rejected the idea almost immediately. Katie might need his help. The blue truck mystery would have to wait.
