Playing the Game

by Stephanie Queen

  “Are you quite ready?” She said to him as if he’d been in there for a day instead of an hour. He took his time coming through the door and looked around. His date stood not far away with Vicki McCall observing Roxanne closely.

  He spoke to Roxanne in a quiet voice. “Depends on what you have in mind?” Old habit. Irresistible habit. He took her arm and pulled her in the opposite direction from Vicki and her friend. They had to wait for Dave anyway.

  “I didn’t get the impression earlier that you were planning to celebrate the New Year with me?”

  He could swear he heard a hopeful note in her voice. His pulse spiked and he got that familiar rush he always got around her. “No. I’m not. I have a date.” He watched her reaction, not sure what he expected. Not sure what he wanted to see.

  “Great. Then what am I doing here?” Her eyes glittered. He had to look away. The hurt he saw and heard was unmistakable. She hadn’t been bluffing. They were no longer playing games.

  “You wanted my money, remember?” He hadn’t forgotten the reason she called. All business then. And as much as he’d like to, he hadn’t forgotten the force of his reaction to her call. He used the churned-up emotion, labeled it anger, and aimed it at her. It was his only line of defense against her caring.

  “You should have mailed it. Why did you ask me to come here? To throw another woman in my face to prove you don’t want me? Or maybe it was to prove it to yourself.” Her voice was low and intense. The clench of her jaw was fierce and the sparkle in her eye showed as much defiant determination as it did sorrow.

  He felt panic, seeing the rawness of her feelings. He wasn’t sure if he could allow himself to be as vulnerable as she was now. Even as he felt the anger slipping away to something else, he forced it back into place.

  “Stop it, Roxanne. Don’t throw accusations at me. You wanted to stop playing games. But there’s nothing else left for us. So don’t try and make something out of nothing.” He sounded reasonable and righteous to himself.

  “Nothing?” One word, uttered in disbelief and sorrow. Her chin was less defiant and more vulnerable. But she remained proud, staring directly into his eyes.

  He looked away again and muttered a curse under his breath. She chuckled low and hoarse. When he turned back to her there was no smile, but a pained and knowing look. She spoke again, in a more composed voice.

  “I see you don’t know how to stop playing games. How sad for you.” She paused.

  He stared at her, unable to say what he had to say. Her eyes glistened, strong and pained all at once. He hardened himself to emotion before anything could show on his own face. She quirked an ever-so-slight smile at that.

  “Have a good New Year. Mail me the check.” She turned and walked away, carelessly dragging her coat, heels clicking with determined, unhurried steps.

  He wanted to stop her. He would have grabbed her, but she was gone. He watched her walk away down the dark corridor into the storage area of the Garden before he dragged his eyes away.

  The two women waiting for him glared as he turned their way. They’d clearly been watching his exchange with Roxanne. They were silent but looked ready to pounce. Whatever they might dish out would be meaningless because he felt numb courtesy of Roxanne. He stood in front of them with his arms crossed. They attacked.

  “I’m glad you got rid of that woman, Barry. Did you know she murdered her husband? What were you doing talking to her anyway?” Vicki’s friend Karen Marie said.

  He’d been wrong about being numb. He felt the sting of the words as if he’d been accused of murder himself. He made a conscious effort to keep his voice low. “She did not murder anyone.” He added, “I was talking to her because she’s a friend.” The statement surprised him. It was true.

  Vicki spoke in a hushed voice. “Then I should warn you that one of the reporters made a comment earlier implying that you were somehow more involved than that. Made it sound like maybe she murdered her husband because of you.” She regarded him with a sympathetic yet curious glint in her eye.

  He had to laugh, though he wasn’t at all amused. If reporters were talking like that, then Al could be right and his relationship Roxanne might well affect his custody suit. He felt cold fury. Worse still, her relationship with Lindy might be affected.

  As they waited for Dave, more press emerged from the dressing room and the dark dingy hallway got crowded and noisy. While he was engaged in conversation and the guards were around, at least the fans didn’t bother him. But the very second he turned toward Dave McCall’s voice, a new bevy of reporters closed in.

  One young stringer opened his mouth and Barry sighed with resignation. The boy’s eyes widened in amazement at some sight beyond Barry down the hall. Barry turned.

  Two cops, three Garden security guards, and a sixth man who might be a detective were walking his way. The plainclothes man looked directly at him with a plainclothes blank stare that caused Barry heart-sinking apprehension. He had no idea what was going on until he saw Roxanne beside the detective. The man took her elbow, holding it to guide her alongside him as if she were reluctant to be there.

  Barry met her eyes. Her look was almost pleading. The detective’s badge snapped as they stopped in front of him and brought the entire crowd abruptly to silent attention.

  “Detective Brent Turner, Marblehead Police Department. I’m conducting a homicide investigation, Mr. Dennis. I’d like to ask you a few questions if you’d be so kind as to accompany me to the station.”

  This was no joke. He glanced around at the gaping reporters, friends, fans and teammates. This was a hell of a mess.

  “I’d love to assist you in clearing up any misunderstandings you have, but couldn’t we do this another time, Detective?”

  “We’ve been trying to contact you for a day and a half. We generally like to avoid unnecessary delays, keep the wheels of justice spinning.” The detective glanced at Roxanne. She must have been exerting great control not to slap Turner’s face. She stood taller.

  “Ms. Monet here has already tried to ah…persuade me to postpone this talk. But I promise it shouldn’t take long.”

  Roxanne flinched. Barry darted her another glance and stopped himself quickly from wondering exactly what the detective meant. When the first camera flashed amongst the crowd, Detective Turner took charge.

  “Let’s take this discussion to more private quarters?”

  It was a convincing argument and Barry started following the man back the way they’d come. The detective still held Roxanne’s elbow.

  The media erupted. “Ms. Monet, what is Mr. Dennis’s involvement in the murder of your late husband?”

  “Detective, are you prepared to make an arrest yet and if so, who will it be? Who’s the number one suspect at this time?”

  Turner turned back to face the reporters as they continued to pepper him, Roxanne and Barry with questions.

  “We’ll be holding a press conference tomorrow, ladies and gentlemen. I’m sure you can wait until then.” Detective Turner and his men all proceeded, taking Roxanne with them, save one blue uniform who waited for Barry.

  “Do you want me to call your lawyer?” Dave whispered the question over his shoulder.

  Barry turned to him. “Yeah. Have him meet us at the station in Marblehead. And you I’ll meet at the Top of the Hub at midnight—or shortly thereafter.” He gave Dave his best confident smirk. Dave looked skeptical.

  Then he joined the group of police as they walked down the hall to where two cruisers with flashing lights sat parked just inside the Garden garage at the top of the ramp.

  Detective Turner shoved him and Roxanne into the back seat of the cruiser before getting into his own car. Then they all drove off.

  The Marblehead Police Department was housed in a sleek new concrete slab building, as cold and intimidating as Roxanne remembered it from her earlier visit. But she felt nothing but numbness in spite of every reason to feel terror or at least apprehension. Before Don’s death, she’d never vi
sited the place and couldn’t have dreamed up this scenario in her most wild of visions. Nothing seemed real. She decided she was better off that way as she nodded at Detective Turner when he held the glass door open for her. She allowed him to escort her straight through to a windowless room with a couch, two chairs and a soda machine in the corner. She looked at the Diet Pepsi. Her mouth dried up.

  “Can we get this over with quickly, detective?” Barry began pacing, effectively shrinking the room.

  She sat in one of the boxy upholstered chairs and the detective took a seat near her, armed with a digital recorder and notebook.

  “Sure. What’s your relationship with Roxanne Monet?” Brent Turner looked up at Barry. Barry turned to face him abruptly with a growl.

  The detective spoke again before Barry had a chance to respond. “Before we get into this, let me just say that Ms. Monet,” he turned toward her, “you don’t need to be here for this. You may leave if you like. I had you come along to get Mr. Dennis’s cooperation.” He spoke with such impeccable manners and pleasant smile aimed at her that she felt like his guest as opposed to a murder suspect. That put her on edge all the more.

  “Thank you.” She matched his polite style. “I’m here now. I may as well stay for the party.”

  “Don’t stay on my account,” Barry said, not so graciously.

  She gave him her most genuine smile and knew her pain showed through. She refused to play even one more single move in their game. Not even for the benefit of the detective. She looked back to Brent Turner with a nod to indicate he should continue.

  “You can answer the question any time, Mr. Dennis.”

  “Sure. The answer is we have no relationship.”

  She felt the stab and reflexively held in her response. Or maybe it was the shock that kept her mute and expressionless.

  “I find that hard to believe. Let me remind you that we are gathering evidence for a possible murder and if you impede our progress or mislead us in any way …”

  “Fuck the bull, Turner. I said we no longer have a relationship and I meant it. I’m not here to invent stories. I have nothing to hide. I’ll admit that we did have what you might call an amorous relationship in the past. But that’s over,” Barry spoke directly to Turner with his back to her. But he turned to her when he finished and gave her a hard stare, as if challenging her to say otherwise.

  “Is this true, Ms. Monet?” Turner asked her.

  “Yes.” She said the word without hesitating, but it wasn’t easy. The strangled sound of her voice belied the cost. She kept her eyes on the detective. He made no response.

  He turned to Barry once more. “When did it begin?”

  “I don’t know. Last fall. September, October …” Barry waved his hand imprecisely as he resumed pacing, face aimed at the floor.

  “You’ll have to be more specific, Mr. Dennis.”

  Barry stopped and pivoted, his look belligerent. “It wasn’t until after her husband was dead, if that’s what you’re getting at.” He walked to the couch and sat on the end near the detective, leaning forward with his menacing game face in place.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because she told me.” He flicked her an accusing glance.

  The detective appeared perfectly comfortable, as if he were about to pour tea for their little party. He let that response sit for a moment and turned his attention to her.

  “Ms. Monet, when did you begin your relationship with Barry Dennis?”

  “Several months after Donald was gone. We met at a benefit function for Children’s Mercy Hospital. I told you all this, Detective. I’ve told you every possible detail of my love life since I met my late husband.”

  “I know, I know. But we have to have corroboration.” He smiled at her. She did not feel comforted by his demeanor. If anything, the more pleasant the detective became, the more tense she felt. Her heart hammered. The icy fear inside her made her shiver. It could have been from the knowledge of an impending murder charge, or it could have been from Barry Dennis’s seemingly callous dismissal of her from his life. She had no right to feel betrayed. Yet the strangled feeling every time she spoke overwhelmed her.

  “Mr. Dennis, what is your recollection of your first meeting with Ms. Monet?”

  “We officially met at the Tribute to the Celtics benefit for the first time. But we almost met earlier at the TV studio. That’s why I approached her.” Barry’s words were clipped and unsentimental. He never looked her way. “I attempted to seduce the woman, but discovered she was wearing a wedding band. I thought she was married. So I left.”

  “Subsequent to that, what made you think she was not married at the time?”

  “I told you …”

  The detective abruptly cut him off and turned to Roxanne, putting a hand on her shoulder. He spoke in a commanding, cop-like voice for the first time. “Wait in the other room, Ms. Monet.” He gestured to a door.

  She rose and walked from the room. A pair of uniformed policemen escorted her down the hall. She sat on a hard wooden bench in the cold lobby, absently wondering what happened to Al. She wondered what the detective might put Barry through, worried in spite of his betrayal. She refused to think about any implications that might reach Lindy. One thought loomed large in her mind, hanging over everything else and almost smothering her: if Barry harbored any doubts before about ending their relationship, it was clear those doubts were eradicated by this episode. He was probably grateful now that she ended their game. Not Roxanne. She wished she’d never started it.

  Chapter 18

  TO DESCRIBE Al as angry with the police when he arrived and found that Barry had been questioned without him seemed inadequate, Roxanne thought. But she felt relieved at his presence, even though it changed nothing. She continued to sit on her bench, feeling like the plug that had kept her electrified with tension had been pulled out of its socket. Al insisted on listening to the recording of their interview and Barry joined her in the lobby to wait. They sat in silence.

  Al finally emerged, bidding the detective good night and happy New Year, then stopped when he reached them. “No harm done. At least not in a legal sense. But I imagine you both must be stretched from the ordeal.”

  She couldn’t stand for him to give her sympathy. At least not where Barry was concerned. She stared back at him and stood.

  “The only thing I feel is thirsty. And tired of being in this place. Let’s go.” She started walking toward the door with Al and Barry followed behind. They both got in Al’s car. He volunteered to drive them back to the Garden

  “So they came for you at the Garden?” Al eyed Barry.

  “Yeah. Can’t wait to see the papers tomorrow,” Barry said, as he stretched out in the front seat.

  Roxanne sank into the back seat. “Oh it’ll be nothing. They’ll sling a few innuendos—every one they can invent. Then they’ll contrive a few accusations, make you look guilty as hell and put the article next to a wonderful smiling picture. No need to be concerned. Happens to me all the time. I’m still here.” Roxanne turned toward the window and stared into the darkness, wondering how this would all seem to one little girl lying in the hospital right now.

  “Look, don’t think because you’ve already lost your job—and your work at the hospital—that a little more bad publicity can’t hurt you. It influences people, and police detectives are people too. Besides, I don’t know if you care, but it could have a very adverse effect on Barry’s career. I talked to his agent tonight. Some newspaper reporters called him. He’s livid,” Al said. He looked at Barry. “This kind of publicity could affect your marketability. More importantly, it will affect a decision on custody. Since you haven’t stuck strictly to the schedule, you’ve made yourself vulnerable in an otherwise straightforward situation. You are in damage-control mode right now. You need to be at that hospital every day. And you absolutely have to stay away from Roxanne.”

  Al glanced at Roxanne in the rearview mirror. She met his eyes and looked away,
knowing what he was about to say next.

  “And you must absolutely stay away from Lindy.”

  She knew he was right. She stared out the window and didn’t bother to wipe the tears that formed in her eyes. She didn’t care if they knew.

  Al continued. “Don’t worry about her. We’ll see that she’s told it’s a temporary situation and that she knows you’re not a murderer.”

  She choked back a sob. Then she took a deep breath. She could use a shoulder to cry on, but since she didn’t have one she’d better buck up. She turned back to her window of blackness. Neither Barry not Al said another word. She could feel Barry’s tension even through her desperate hope. Needy, desperate hope.

  Al drove up the ramp into the Garden and they got out in silence. Roxanne immediately turned and headed toward her car.

  “Roxanne, wait. Why don’t I meet you back at your house? We can talk, “ Al said.

  Barry stood there, a tired shadow of his game face in place.

  Barry was disgusted with himself for not being able to walk away without hearing her answer.

  “No. There’s nothing to talk about tonight. Call me when you hear from Detective Turner.” She turned and looked up at Barry. “Is that what you were waiting to hear?” she said.

  “Do whatever the hell you want. Go with him.”

  “Dennis, this is none of your God damned business. Leave her alone. I’m sick as hell with your attitude. Who the hell do you think you are? Damned right she can come with me if she wants …”

  “But she doesn’t want to.” Barry flicked him a glance with a raised brow, then he turned and walked to his car, wishing he’d never got up that morning. He wondered if he should still bother to meet Dave and the women. He checked his watch. It was five of midnight. “Shit,” he said out loud to no one. He punched the code on the Caddy door and opened it.

  He felt her presence and turned to find Roxanne standing there.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” She asked.