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

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  “We just got the warrants; the geeks are taking over,” she exclaims.

  “Good, that’s real good.”

  “Where are you?” she asks, hearing rustling in the background.

  He hesitates. “Uh…I’m going over the Amberly video, trying to see what else I can get out of it. Can I call you back?”

  “Sure, but first I want to—”

  Click.

  He feels bad about lying to his partner, but he cannot involve her in what he is about to do. He digs through some more boxes until he finds what he’s looking for, one that reads, ‘WA State vs. Santorini, Lucrezia—Evidence.’ Applying a razor blade, he carefully cuts the ‘Restricted—Do Not Open’ tape and opens the box. He stares inside for a second and then looks around, making doubly sure he’s alone—and alone he is, with twenty kilos of pure cocaine beside some other evidence. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of rubber gloves, then retrieves one of the packages and a cell phone still holding a faint charge. It all fits nicely under his arm, and with his jacket covering the package, he files the box back to its original place and sneaks out of the evidence locker. Only three men have a clue of his whereabouts: himself, Captain Jackson, and Officer Malone, the evidence room officer, who received a strange call earlier from Captain Jackson instructing him to grant full access to Cools. All in all it has been a good morning for Officer Malone: not only did he get to smash that surveillance camera always watching his every move, but he is now four hundred dollars richer.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Just after noon, Captain Jackson lights up the phones. Forty minutes later most of his team has convened in the war room. Michelle sits next to Cools. She gets the sense that her partner is up to something. For the last half hour or so, he’s been avoiding any real eye contact and seems to be completely absorbed in thought. She stares at him through her big, blue eyes, trying to figure him out, but he doesn’t even seem to notice she’s there. He’s staring off into space, with a little blood vessel pulsing on his forehead, the one she sees quite often when he is about to explode. He’s going to die young, she concludes, while fussing around in her chair, vying for his attention.

  Suddenly he adjusts, jerks a notepad and pen out of his pocket, and begins scribbling. Michelle tries to peep, but Captain Jackson deflects her attention, posing a question.

  “Robertson, did you see Officer Renny this morning?”

  “No, I didn’t, but I heard about it,” she replies absentmindedly.

  “Yeah, well after I confronted him, then suspended his fat-ass, he left here screaming. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong! I’ve done absolutely nothing; I swear to God, I didn’t do it!’ And on and on.”

  “That’s what I heard,” she replies, trying to cut their chat short and sneak a peek at her partner’s notes. But it is too late; he’s already secured the notepad back into his suit pocket.

  “What’s that?” she asks, with obvious interest.

  “Nothing.” She squints her eyes. “Oh, I mean, it’s nothing…uh…I’ll talk to you about it later.” Again he looks away.

  She doesn’t press any further, deciding to leave it alone for the time being.

  Just then Milkowski walks in. Captain Jackson stands, presenting an air of hopefulness, and waves his hand to the department’s computer analyst. “All right, let’s hear what you got.”

  He’s a young, skinny man—the one they call Ghost—all junked-up on energy drinks. “Well, we have a few things here,” he nervously replies, thumbing through his papers. Ghost gets his nickname from his pale white skin, pale due to the fact he hasn’t left his computer to venture outside since he was fifteen. But if you asked him, he would claim it originated from his uncanny ability to retrieve information from the Internet. In jittery diction, he continues, “Okay, let’s start with his finances. He had some money left to him by his grandfather, Earle Siconolfi, a Freemason, who made a fortune after World War Two selling vacuum cleaners. Earle Siconolfi was a pioneer, operating one of the first full-scale door-to-door businesses.” Everyone quickly grabs for their pens; he speaks so fast they can barely keep up. “And in the seventies, he was one of the largest distributors of vacuum cleaners in the US. He died in 2004, leaving a substantial amount of money to his only grandson—Joshua.”

  “How much?” asks Michelle.

  “Nearly four million, but it looks like he’s already burned through most of it—all but about a hundred and sixty thousand. And for some reason, he’s been withdrawing ten thousand a week in cash for the last ten weeks. And get this— he took out an eight-million-dollar life insurance policy on Kimberly just eleven months ago, with a special clause: if she is murdered, it pays double.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Cools yells out. “He would never get it if he kills her himself.”

  Ghost shakes his head. “Yeah, I don’t know; it doesn’t really fit. But anyway there’s a lot more I think you can use. I cannot find any tickets purchased for Kimberly Siconolfi—or Kimberly Sharons, her maiden name—bound for Peru or for anywhere for that matter, and if there was one, I would have found it,” he announces arrogantly.

  Michelle rolls eyes at Captain Jackson. The captain just grins and motions her attention back to Ghost’s apparent genius.

  “Now for the real goods: his credit card purchases on the twenty-sixth, just three days prior to Kimberly going missing.” Everyone takes notes. “Sixty-eight hundred was charged to the Seattle Yacht Mariner for a one week’s rental of a ’41 Riviera FB. Eleven hundred for gas purchased the same day. Then an odd purchase from Danny’s Boat World: a steel cage crab trap. I say ‘odd,’ because crab season does not open for two more months. I researched it on the Washington State Fish and Wildlife website.” He briefly glances to them for admiration and then moves ahead. “Also the same day, a purchase from Wal-Mart: one thousand feet of half-inch nylon rope, one hundred feet of quarter-inch rope, a complete set of gym weights, and a Pepsi—diet.”

  Cools interjects, “That son of a bitch took her out, killed her, put her in the fucking crab cage, weighted in down with the weights, and dumped it into the Puget Sound.” Everyone nods in unison before turning to Milkowski.

  He exhales slowly, ignoring them all, staring at the pen he’s twirling in his hand. “I can take this to Judge Cooper, and I already know what she will say: put a team of forensics on the boat, a team in the water, and then get back to me.”

  Cools turns back to Ghost and says, “Seattle Yacht Mariner?”

  “Yes,” he replies, proudly nodding like he’s just single-handedly solved the case.

  Cools ignores the young man’s expectation of being venerated and looks to Michelle, saying, “Sounds like we have a boat to take apart.”

  Thirty minutes away (and twenty-four minutes later), Cools and Michelle pull into the parking lot of the Seattle Yacht Mariner. Michelle, in between phone calls and holding on for her life, found some time to ask her partner a few questions, but to no avail. They park close to the entrance, and since Michelle has already called ahead, D. J. Adders, the manager, is waiting for them, as he said he would be. He’s a heavy but good-looking guy sporting short sandy hair and a goatee. They exit the car and introduce themselves promptly. “Good afternoon, I’m Detective Robertson, the one you talked to on the phone, and this is my partner, Detective Brad Cools.”

  “Very nice to meet the both of you,” D. J. replies in a warm and friendly approach, shaking their hands. The three of them all wear sunglasses given that it’s an unusually sunshiny winter day.

  “Can we see the boat?” Cools asks impatiently.

  “Yes, follow me, if you will; and allow me to inquire: did he do it?”

  “Uh…I cannot comment on that at this time,” he answers, exercising restraint.

  “Well, I have followed this saga quite closely in the news and am hoping to be of assistance,” D.J. says, appearing somewhat offended by Cools’s response. “Also there’s something you should know; he has done a fair amount o
f damage to the railing of the Riviera.”

  Cools’s ears perk up. “What kind of damage?”

  For a brief moment, D. J. grows a bit standoffish as they round the outside corner of the showroom where the marina comes into view. “Well, let me show you,” he replies, pointing toward the ramp that leads down into a sea of luxurious yachts, all of which are parked side by side a hundred yards into the sound, extending a mile up its curved coast.

  Michelle is immediately impressed. “Wow, now this is amazing! I guess I wasn’t expecting all this.”

  Her admiration pleases D. J., and he informs her further, “This is home to over seven billion dollars of nautical craftsmanship, owned by the likes of Paul Allen, Elton John, Ichiro, and actress Salma Hayek.”

  “Wow” is the only response she can muster, as he swipes his security card and types in a code on a keypad. The gate buzzes.

  Then Cools, not as nearly impressed, asks bluntly, “Did you meet with him to arrange the rental?”

  “Yes, I did indeed,” D. J. replies spiritedly and somewhat proud to have shared the presence of someone so infamous.

  “What was his demeanor?” asks Michelle.

  “He was quite pleasant. I was certainly astounded to hear of his exploits later.”

  “Did he mention what he intended to use the boat for?”

  Suddenly D. J. stops cold in his tracks, looks her keenly in the eye, and replies, “Joshua divulged his intent was to—and I quote—‘return his wife to the sea.’ When he said this, of course I didn’t intrude further into the matter; I merely ascertained his wife had somehow succumbed to her death, leaving him a widower, and he was arranging to scatter her ashes to the deep. It is not that uncommon, so I did not surmise a great deal more of until…well, until a few days later when I heard his name again on the news.”

  Michelle echoes his statement. “He said he was returning his wife to the sea?”

  “Yes, those were his words, precisely.”

  There’s a short silence, and then they continue as they near the end of the dock. Cools makes a note while following alongside and asks, “Did you ever see him with anyone else?”

  “No, and I never saw him again after that day we signed the papers. We gave him the keys to enter the marina, and our records reveal that he sailed out late that night and returned in the early morning.”

  “Do you have video surveillance of the marina?”

  “Absolutely, and every time a code key is used, it activates our lighting systems. And here she is,” D. J. says, presenting the Riviera. Michelle and Cools give it a good look. It is pearl white with a tinted window flybridge dressed in stainless steel lock downs, mounted lights, and railings. And from their position, they can also see the interior of the cabin; it’s complete with a stereo system and a wood-trimmed liquor cabinet. Immediately thoughts of taking it out for a sail with her husband and select group of friends enter Michelle’s daydreaming mind. She is the first to board the craft, with a little help from D. J., with Cools following close behind. Once aboard she leads them straight to the bow of the vessel to assess the damaged railing. D. J. steps between them and demonstrates his claim by jostling the rail back and forth. It’s obviously loose and broken.

  “And you’re positive this damage was not done before?” Cools asks.

  “Yes, I am quite certain of it; every one of our yachts is thoroughly inspected on a routine bases.”

  Michelle pulls out a camera and begins taking pictures while D. J. begins his assessment of what he believes to have happened. “You can clearly see the base is wrecked here,” he says, pointing to the main structure of the yacht that supports the rail posts. “This is where a fairly cumbersome article was thrown overboard.”

  “How’re you so sure it wasn’t broken from something being pulled in?” Cools asks.

  “Do I detect some questionable skepticism, Detective?” D. J. replies playfully. He smiles then mounts a demonstration by pressing outward on the rail. Cools follows him, observing the cracks made in the fiberglass. The fractures on the inside of the rail are only a few elongated lines, while the cracks around the outer rail are crushed like puzzle pieces. “This is exactly what we discover when damage occurs by throwing an object overboard, Detective.”

  “Maybe someone simply fell into it?”

  “Then explain this to me,” D. J. replies, waving him nearer. All three of them lean in for a closer inspection. He is now pointing to the top of the railing, where they can clearly distinguish two heavily scraped areas approximately three or four feet apart.

  Michelle then takes a more accurate measurement of the distance between the two markings, by using her arm as a guide, judging the expanse to be approximately three and a half feet. Immediately she gets on the phone and calls Ghost. “What were the dimensions of the crab trap purchased?”

  At first she only hears the clicking of his keyboard; then he replies, “Two by three and a half by three and a half.”

  “Thank you.”

  Excitedly D. J. blurts out, “Have you established he used our Riviera to dispose of the body?”

  Cools sharply states, “We’re just investigating any and all leads, and that is all we need from you for now. I would like you to leave my partner and me alone, and thank you for your cooperation.”

  D. J. replies, disappointed, “Well, then I must be on my way.”

  Once he’s out of earshot, Michelle reiterates, “These abrasions here are three and a half feet apart, same as the crab pot.”

  “Yeah, I heard, and look at this.” He pushes the railing out again, this time further allowing the bright sunlight to shine inside.

  Michelle observes it more closely. “Looks like blood!”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Cools says victoriously. “Okay, I need you to call in forensics; they should be able to get us some answers by this evening. And if it’s whose blood we think it is, then we got him—we fucking got him!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After making the call and being informed it will take the better part of an hour for a forensics team to arrive, Cools and Michelle speak additionally with D. J. Thanks in part to his unrelenting desire to be involved, they quickly retrieve the videotape showing Joshua sailing out alone, carrying a crab trap and two large bags filled with what could be anybody’s guess, only to return hours later empty-handed.

  It seems to be case closed, but it feels like something else.

  Cools and Michelle order some takeout and travel to a spot overlooking Puget Sound—a place Cools visited as a child while spending part of a summer vacationing at his aunt’s house. It’s a rare jewel of a little park that sits atop a knoll alongside the glistening bay in a hard-to-find location. It is a journey just to get there, through a labyrinth of twisting turns along a scenic route. But upon arrival Michelle sees that bad access is the spot’s only burden. At first sight she falls in love with rolling green lawns surrounded by old Madrone trees, which grip the rocky outcrops, and dry bluffs that open to a view of sailboats in the pristine waters below—all nestled within sight of the majestic snow-packed peaks of MT. Rainier.

  Cools secures a prized bench at the headmost perimeter by simply waving his badge at the two young lovers occupying it. They slip away without incident, leaving the detectives alone, providing them some peace and an opportunity for Michelle to meddle. She sits on her side of a wooden picnic table, eating and appreciating the beauty, while he divulges the park’s secrets. He tells how he and his cousins played soldiers and threw rocks over the bank, waiting, listening for them to splash into the water, and daring each other to stand closer to its edge.

  Michelle listens until she cannot take it anymore. “Brad,” she says, gaining his attention, “what ideas do you have bouncing around in that big head of yours?” He doesn’t move, but in his eyes she can see his thoughts traverse, leaving his boyhood remembrances as more serious lines appear in his face. She presses further. “I know you have some theories that you’re keeping
to yourself about what’s going on, and I want to hear them. Talk to me, Brad.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you, but don’t interrupt me; just let me speak.”

  “When do I ever interrupt you, Brad?”

  He sighs, ignoring her question. “I’m thinking maybe Joshua and Amberly have more of a thing than meets the eye.” Michelle begins to respond, but he holds up his silencing finger. “Think about it for a second. What do we have? We have a missing wife, which was only brought to our attention by Joshua’s radio call and a surprising visit from Amberly. What if Joshua is playing her, taking advantage of a naive drug-addict? He’s definitely craftier than her, and maybe—just maybe— he’s planned to rid himself of a cheating wife and collect the much-needed insurance money by seducing little Amberly and framing her for Kimberly’s death.”

  “But everything points to him.”

  “Yeah, it does now, but explain to me the nagging feeling that this is far from over, a sense that I know you share—that we’re closer to the beginning of this than the end.”

  She remains silent; a silence he swiftly takes advantage of. “Consider this: maybe Amberly was sent because we missed something at first. Something we weren’t supposed to miss.”

  “Missed what, Brad? What could we have missed?”

  “I don’t know, but something. For all we know, Amberly could’ve killed her, and Joshua was only hiding the evidence.”

  “But he cannot collect the insurance money if she’s never found.”

  “Maybe he intends for us to find her. It’s all a little convenient, don’t you think—that he made all those purchases using his personal credit card. Seriously who’s stupid enough to rent a boat and buy rope and weights and crab traps? Think about it. It’s almost as obvious as a shovel and duct tape.”

  Adding to his line of thought, she says, “Maybe he called the radio station in a scheming attempt to put the spotlight on himself for the moment, knowing that we would investigate a path leading to Amberly.”