Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done.

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  He could never get used to the uniform, thought it made him look somehow hypocritical due to all their youthful mischief. They’d met in grade school, where Rainman earned his name due to the fact his mother would never let him play in the rain. They remained best friends through high school then lived together for a while in a kind of a bachelor, after-hours-party pad. All the crazy things they’d done were monumental, and somehow, the fact that they never got into any real trouble made them seem even more so. And no one would have ever suspected Pete Lonnell would have ended up becoming a cop.

  Chuck walks over and sits in the stool next to him and orders a beer. They both stare forward. Under his breath Chuck says, “You look good, man. Well… except for the uniform.”

  “Yeah, and it looks like you’ve put on a few pounds, huh?”

  They both share a short laugh. Then Chuck asks, “So what brings about this sudden and unexpected meeting?”

  “Well, I don’t want to come off like a greedy bastard, but I do remember you telling me your newspaper pays for information, and I’m having some financial problems with the new house and all.”

  “Yeah, well, we do. It works just like anything else: big info equals big money; small info, not so much. What do you got for me, old buddy?”

  Rainman leans in, lowering his voice, and says, “Joshua Siconolfi.” Chucks eyes widen. “His wife, Kimberly, is being reported as a missing person by a close friend, a coworker.”

  “No shit!” Chuck spits out, attracting the attention of other patrons in the lounge. He coughs and drops his volume, stating, “We’ve been running his story all week.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Rainman replies with a smirk.

  “What else can you tell me?” Chuck asks, while digging a pen and paper out of his shirt pocket.

  “That’s all I have for now, but there is more to come. The girl said she has something very important but would only talk to Detective Cools—you know, the one who shot the hole in Siconolfi’s driveway. And I get the feeling, whatever it is…it’s big.”

  “And do you think you can get this information?” Chuck asks, hungry for more.

  “I think so. I mean, yes…yes, I can.”

  “This is going to make my week. I should have no problem getting a front page spot.”

  Chapter Eight

  “I’m here, Brad. I’m just pulling in, trying to find a place to park,” Michelle says, before snapping her phone shut. Only thirty minutes earlier, she was getting ready to have a major discussion with her fifteen-year-old daughter, Lindsey, regarding the empty baggy that still had an odor of pot she’d found in the laundry. She’d had it all planned out: what she was going to say, the questions Lindsey might ask, arguments that might arise. Not to mention all the rebuttals she’d rehearsed in the morning mirror. All of it cut short over some coked-up pole dancer trying to enter the limelight of a fast-fading story. Michelle pictures her sitting in the interrogation room, stroking her partner’s cock, pouting, “You believe me, don’t you, baby?”

  A few minutes later, she visits the interrogation window to spy on the lusty girl smoking alone in the bare room—looking like today’s stripper and tomorrow’s crack whore. Michelle adjusts her focus, catching her reflection in the glass to admire her thick, brown hair with new blond highlights that cost ninety-five dollars. Once satisfied it was money well spent, she moves farther down the hall in search of her partner. She takes a quick peek inside the video room. There she finds him all alone watching Amberly on one of the monitors, trying to learn all he can before he starts asking questions.

  “Oh, I’m sorry; do you need to be alone?” she asks with a cheeky grin.

  “Why would I do it this way? I have fifty dollars,” Cools replies without a seconds hesitation.

  While definitely amused, Michelle isn’t laughing. “That’s clever, partner. So what exactly do we have here?”

  “Well, like I told you earlier, all we know is she says she works with Kimberly, that they’re good friends, and no one has seen or heard from her in days. And that’s not all. She told Officer Renny she’s involved somehow, but will only talk to me.”

  “Why you? And involved in what exactly?”

  “Well, that’s what we’re going to find out. I’m thinking maybe Joshua did the radio call to set up a sort of alibi in advance; so then if he kills his wife, he can say, ‘Why would I pretend to kill my wife and then just days later actually do it?’”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Okay, I’m ready,” Cools says. “I’m going in. Let’s see what I can get out of her.”

  “Most likely herpes,” Michelle retorts.

  “Ha-ha. Okay, then, unless you have something else cute to say, I’m going in to get us some answers.”

  “All right, Brad, I’ll settle down,” she replies, bowing her head, feeling immature. He comforts her by patting her on the shoulder as he slips out into the hallway. From the monitor she watches him step into the interrogation room. In black and white, she can clearly see Amberly’s reaction to him as he enters. Her expression is frail and genuine. Upon further examination Michelle comes to consider that maybe she’s just a scared little girl. No longer does she see a dirty whore; rather she is a witness to a vulnerable and frightened human being squirming in her chair. How did she get mixed up with Joshua? What does she know?

  Amberly peers up at Cools, attempting to say something, but before she can speak a word, he holds up his finger, shushing her. He sits down opposite her at the cold, steel table and stares into her eyes, saying nothing. He learned long ago that silence is a much more effective strategy than yelling and screaming. He patiently examines her, waiting for her to begin, but when she opens her mouth, he quickly shushes her, as if he’s watching an important part of a movie and doesn’t want to miss anything. And he is not only gazing into her soul, he is also taking in any and all facial tics and body movements. Silently she tells him much. He looks her up and down, taking her in, judging her skimpy outfit and her pasty, drugged-out skin. It all makes her so nervous; she forgets his rules and again tries to speak, only to be swiftly shushed once more. Then after he knows he’s inside her head, he diverts his sight to the corner of the ceiling. Amberly’s eyes follow his until she sees the camera pointing directly at her, warning her that all is being recorded, that anything she says can and will be used against her.

  “And now…,” Michelle says, pointing to the screen the very moment he begins his spiel.

  “Listen carefully, Amberly. I’m a very serious man, and I want you to think long and hard about what you might say or not say here today.” He then reaches an empty hand into his pocket and pulls out a pack of Marlboros and, without taking his eyes off her, lights up one for himself and offers her a fresh one. She accepts with a stuttered thank you and leans forward to the extended flame. Her trembling doesn’t go unnoticed, which Cools utilizes to his advantage. “You seem uneasy to me. Are you nervous?” he asks in an insinuating tone.

  “No…I mean, yes…I don’t know…Do I seem nervous to you?”

  Cools squints his eyes, nonchalantly nodding his head yes. And now that she’s fully rattled he initiates his assault. “Okay, let’s make one thing crystal clear, Amberly Carlson. If you plan to tell me anything but the absolute truth, you will find yourself in big, big trouble, young lady. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Do not play with me. I can throw your young, sweet ass inside our jail, and I’m sure there are some hungry dikes that would love to see you. Are you absolutely sure that you understand what I am telling you?”

  “Yes…I do, I mean…I mean, I will.”

  “Why did you ask for me?”

  “Because, you know, because I talked to you the other day…and you seemed to be good person, so I thought…I mean, I think I should trust you.”

  Cools searches his memory and flashes an odd glance to Michelle behind the camera. “I’ve never spoken with you, Amberly, not until today.”

  “Y
es, you did…a week ago…you know, when you called the club.”

  “No, I spoke with Candy.”

  “Yes, that’s my club name…I’m Candy.”

  “Okay…” This comes as a shock to him, a connection he hadn’t put together. After assimilating the information, he continues, “Officer Renny says you have something important to tell me.”

  “Yes…I do…but I don’t want to be in any trouble. I’m a good girl, Detective…I never wanted anyone to get hurt.”

  Cools blows out his smoke, speculating for a second on the kind of tawdry comment Michelle is making to herself over the “I’m a good girl” comment. Then he begins the big push and asks, “Amberly, did you drive here from Everett this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you did tell Officer Renny to call me in on my day off—the only day I can visit my daughter—to come down here to the station because you have a problem so sensitive that only I can handle it. Is that right?”

  “No…I mean, yes,” she replies, even more flustered than before.

  Cools, childless, considers it his responsibility to persuade people to think twice about coming in here and fabricating stories to get even with coworkers or unfaithful lovers, or to exploit another person’s misfortune. But with Amberly he is getting a good vibe: although she does too many drugs, she is a reliable source of truthful information. So he gives her a hand gesture that offers her permission to speak and says, “Let’s hear what you have to say.”

  “Well…I didn’t say that I wanted you to miss your daughter…not exactly. I just…I just wanted to—”

  “But I did come down here on my visitation day, did I not?” he asks sharply.

  “Yes, but—”

  “So whatever you have to tell me, tell me now!”

  “Okay, it’s like this. I was…I mean, I was only doing a favor for a friend. And then when I heard the story of Joshua calling the radio station last night…I think…I think maybe I made a mistake, but I did what she asked me to do. We do it all the time; it’s no big deal really…I guess, or not…I don’t know.”

  Cools begins to breathe more quickly and shallowly—partly because he wants to know what she does, but mostly due to his lack of patience for female psychobabble.

  “You do what all the time, Amberly?” he asks, pressing her.

  “You know, make sure no one gets hurt or into trouble with boyfriends, and then last night I heard the news…then I called my friend, Justin, and…and he sent me a clip with the radio recording of the thing that Joshua did…and then I knew I was in trouble, real trouble.”

  She starts crying, but he unsentimentally pushes her further. “Why do you think you would be in trouble, Amberly?”

  “Because…you see, Kimberly…she wasn’t there when you called. I…I was just covering for her. Kimberly had this other guy she sees, and you know, I didn’t know you were really a cop; the boyfriends get creative sometimes to find out things. So I told you she was there, but she wasn’t there. And that was the day Joshua did his thing on the radio…and now I think he did something, because the guy, you know…the guy she was seeing—he came into the bar later that same night, and he was looking for her, and nobody’s seen her since.”

  “Oh shit!” Michelle screams so loud it can be heard in the interrogation room, where Cools is now out of his chair, pacing back and forth, mumbling to himself.

  “How could I be so fucking stupid!” he spits out.

  “Am I in trouble…I didn’t…you know, I didn’t want to…I mean, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You have to believe me…I just—”

  That is all Cools hears before escaping into the hallway, where Michelle meets him, so shocked she’s speechless. He grabs her by the arm and makes his way straight for the stairway, so they can talk privately, incoherently cursing under his breath along the way. “How could…I took the word of a stripper named Candy—fucking Candy? I must have lost my fucking mind!”

  Once they’re on the cold staircase, securely away from any cameras or eavesdroppers, Michelle says, “So now I’m interested.” Cools looks to her for anything, hoping she can piece something together that makes sense. Instead, she berates him. “What the hell does this mean, Brad? Did that little prick kill his wife on radio and make fools of us? And then we gave him close to a week to get rid of the evidence? How is that possible? How?”

  “I don’t know Michelle, but we better talk to Captain,” he says, sensing a wicked storm of no mercy falling his way for the mother of all fuck-ups.” He leads a straight course to Captain Jackson’s office, foreseeing future headlines: Top Cop Lets Psycho Killer Go! Detective Cools Fooled by Local Stripper! Was Kimberly Still Alive?

  Thirty seconds later they burst into Captain Jackson’s office. Sitting across his desk is Detective Fredo, also known as JFK (Jack Fredo, the Kiss Ass).

  “Hey! Hey! Hey!” their captain shouts.

  Cools holds up his hands, saying, “Captain, we’re here on about a nine and a half on the Richter scale.” Then he points to JFK and asks, “And this is?”

  Captain Jackson restrains his annoyance at the bombardment and replies cynically, “It’s about a two.”

  “Out! Get the fuck out—now!” Cools orders JFK, who scurries out of the room. After the door shuts, he frantically lays it all down while pacing back and forth in front of Michelle, who is ignoring the display considering the implications.

  Captain Jackson sits stock-still, digesting his detective’s tirade, almost more concerned for his friend than the dilemma itself, as Cools flails his arms about rapidly, answering most of his own questions, until the captain can’t take it anymore. “All right! All right—enough. Sit down, Cools, and be cool. Jesus, fuck, you get wound up, man!” Cools shuts up and moves to the chair his captain is pointing to. “Robertson,” Captain Jackson snaps his fingers, breaking her trance. “Robertson!”

  “What?”

  “Sit down next to your partner.”

  They both comply without protest. Then Captain Jackson breathes vigorously through his nose, enjoying the first moment of silence since they’d busted into his office. The two of them look to him for orders, guidance. And both are equally caught off guard by his response.

  “Listen up, the both of you; I’m not all that impressed with the story from your stripper. But I’m deeply troubled about what’s going on in here. Cools, you’re a cop. It’s a job. Let me say that again: it’s a fucking job! But you get so worked up I think you’re gonna have a fucking heart attack right here in front of me. Do you think I wanna see you have a fucking heart attack here in my office?” Cools says nothing. Then Captain Jackson bellows so loud Michelle’s body jerks in her chair. “Do you think I wanna see you have a fucking heart attack here in my goddamned office?”

  “Okay, I get it, but I—”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, but I think we should bring him in!”

  Captain Jackson pounds a heavy fist on his desk and then holds up his large hand, shaking his head to and fro, emphasizing the fact that he should say no more. Cools knows not to press any further. Michelle wouldn’t dare.

  A few moments pass in palpable tension and complete silence. Then, Captain Jackson, the real cool one, begins to chart a course forward. “All right then. We’re gonna start being professional cops up in here. We’re gonna get a grip and begin to slip our way out of this shit. Do you hear me?” Both Cools and Michelle answer in humble unity.

  “All right. Robertson, I want this Amberly to fill out a complete statement. I want her drug tested, and I want a lid on this shit—closed and sealed.” Michelle nods, so he moves his attention back to Cools. “And then…maybe we consider bringing him in for questioning. But I want total control; he’s already filing suit against you for the crater in his driveway, you know.” Cools sits up, positioning himself for more arguing. Captain Jackson, sensing his challenge, commences to talk louder, “It’s gonna go down like this: Joshua will say his beloved wife has run off with some other guy
. And according to your witness, there is another guy, right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts, Cools. We’ll bring him in for questioning if that’s what you want, but you should know as well as I do he won’t say a damn thing. He’s gonna call his father and be riding home in time for lunch, leaving us with nothing more than we got now. And what exactly do you plan on asking him anyway?”

  “I’ll get something. I’ll break him. You know I can.”

  “Cools, think it through. This isn’t some street punk coming off a drug high that you can manipulate; he’s been through the system; his father’s a veteran attorney. You think he’s gonna just let our DA push through a search warrant on a missing persons? Plus, from what I remember, he never made even the slightest of mistakes, did he?”

  “No, he was lucky, Captain.”

  “Uh-uh,” he retorts, waving his finger in the air. “He didn’t get lucky, and you should know better. He played the system from arrest to early release with the efficiency of a skilled politician. He’s a slick trick, that one, and you know it!” Cools doesn’t respond, which gives Captain Jackson a second to gather his thoughts. He relaxes his large body back into his chair and sets the game plan in motion. “So we’re gonna get all we can from the stripper; we’ll put twenty-four-hour surveillance on our boy, and then we dig, we watch, and we wait, and we do what cops do. And most importantly we’re gonna keep this out of the fucking media; they’ll have a field day with this if this ever gets out! They’ve already been playing him and his creepy poem most every night.” He pauses for a second then addresses a more important matter. “Now, one more thing…Cools, listen up, sport; you’re one of my best detectives, and I need to know that I can count on you. So do not ever— ever!—give me unconfirmed information again. Is that understood?”

  Cools lowers his eyes to the floor, replying, “Yes, Captain.”

  “He’s right,” Michelle says, finally adding something. “We really don’t have anything except for a missing persons reported by a drugged-out stripper. And this way no one has to know that you, or we, screwed up.”