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

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. And I suggest we spend some more time with Little Miss Innocence—there’s more she knows.”

  Michelle agrees, and in less than forty minutes, they’re parked outside the Terra Villa Apartments in Everett—Amberly’s residence. Cools unlatches the gate and enters the complex, holding the small notebook that shows her address—ending in Apt. 9. Moving along they can hear a small dog barking in the distance and see a woman standing on her balcony smoking a cigarette. Soon they find their way around the back to a partially open door with a number nine above the trim. As they step closer, they hear the distinct sounds of a vacuum cleaner. He pushes the door wide, and he and Michelle walk into an apartment devoid of all furnishings.

  “Hey! Hey!” he yells to the older Hispanic woman doing the cleaning. She turns off the machine, but soon they learn she doesn’t speak any English. Then they quickly locate the manager, who tells them that Amberly packed up in a rush and moved out earlier this morning. Next Michelle calls the Kitty Club, only to be informed that she has picked up her things, along with her final paycheck, three hours ago. They call her phone, but it’s been disconnected. They now realize how little they know about her and fear she’s gone, perhaps indefinitely.

  Back inside the car, heading again toward the Seattle Yacht Mariner, Michelle puts out a call to Officer Jakew—the young officer conducting investigations at the Kitty Club. He reports back that he’d seen her earlier, but she was in such a hurry she blew him off when he attempted to talk to her, and it’s the first he’s heard of her quitting. Michelle ends the call and screams, “Goddammit, why didn’t we have her under surveillance!”

  “Okay, okay, let’s think this through. She’s a drug-addicted stripper; we can find her,” he replies confidently. “We’ll get someone to call every strip club in the Seattle-Tacoma area; we’ll tell them that rumors have it they’re using underaged girls—that a girl who goes by the name Amberly Carlson is only seventeen, and we’re looking for her, and if she applies for a gig, they need to call us immediately.”

  “That’s…eh…that’s pretty slick, Brad; I’m impressed.”

  “Yeah, I have my moments.”

  Next Michelle calls the station and asks the sergeant if he has any go-getter rookies looking for some overtime. He says he does, and soon Amberly has a man hot on her tail, hunting her through open fields of tits and ass.

  They return to the Marina, where the forensics team hasn’t found anything definitive except that the red substance inside the cracked fiberglass tested positive for blood. So it’s back to the station to listen to JFK’s full report on the god Ra.

  He stands to give his report. “Ra is the sun god of ancient Egypt, the all-father of creation whom all other gods worship. He is a divine but aging god, who has become too tired to deal with all of his children (humankind) any longer, except for those—the purity—who hold the truth and wisdom of before time. It is believed that Ra will spend eternity watching over the heavens, while Horus, his apprentice, is master of the earth and the underworld. Zealots of this ancient religion deem that they’re the chosen sons and daughters of god and believe that they will become under-gods themselves. According to myth, Ra is the creator of all living things, which he spoke into existence by uttering their secret names, and the architect of all humankind, which was conceived from his sweat (his labors) and tears (his sorrows). Sacrifice is a common practice for adherents of this religion; some believers even performed human sacrifice. But the victim has to be truly evil for Ra to be awakened, to consume.”

  “Jeez,” Michelle says, “this freak is a walking, talking, believing nightmare!”

  “It just means that he has a strange religion. Keep in mind, a lot of other religions advance similar notions,” Milkowski adds.

  “Okay, but there’s more. With all due respect, prosecutor, I would like to point out that most other religions do not practice human sacrifice. And there’s this: I did some further research and found that alm tahat hep—what scholars often translate as ‘truly evil’—literally means ‘adulterous wife.’”

  Everyone remains utterly silent, with the words adulterous wife seeming to echo around the room, as JFK quietly hands out copies of his report.

  Then Captain Jackson speaks up. “All right, we’re gonna wait for forensics to come up with something. I already spoke to them, and they’re telling me they won’t have anything till tomorrow.” His tone sounds weary and beaten. There’s a short, exhausted pause. “So let’s call it a day, unless anything else comes up. We’ll meet back here in the morning.”

  The meeting begins to disperse, when he adds, “And I want everyone to be assured we’re gonna get this creep, if it’s the last thing we do.”

  Cools and Michelle leave, keeping their theories to themselves. Alone in the hallway, he asks her, “You want to get some drinks and smoke some cigarettes with me?”

  “I would love to, Brad, but I haven’t seen my husband in a while, and tonight is our date night,” she says with a silly grin.

  “Okay, partner, I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”

  Later Cools walks into his apartment and runs through his mostly usual routine, kicking his shoes off next to the door, throwing his keys and wallet onto the coffee table, putting one kilogram of cocaine in the icebox, getting a cold one out of the fridge, and turning on the television. The local evening news won’t be on for a few minutes, so he flips through the channels, contemplating what should become of the drugs. If I don’t use it to frame Joshua, what do I do with it? It would really be dumb to get caught taking it back. I could sell it, I guess, or maybe throw one helluva party. Fuck it; it’s safe for now; I’ll figure out something tomorrow.

  He cracks open a beer and relaxes back into his recliner. Once settled he goes over the scribbles in his notepad. Connecting the dots, he presumes he’s on the right track.

  Then, from his notes, he dials a number into a cell phone.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Joshua pulls the blinds aside, unveiling the line of news vans parked outside his home. He smirks as he witnesses Tom and Louise Something-or-other, his nosy neighbors, talking to reporters. In his mind he can hear what they are disclosing. We always knew he was no good. We fear for our lives just sharing the same block as him.

  Imprisoned within his home, he’s becoming ever more suspicious, paranoid. His phone rings. Caller ID reads “Santorini Lucrezia.” Presuming it’s a journalist, he answers smugly, “What in the hell do you want, Mr. Santorini?”

  The person on the other end spits out a few quick statements. “I am not Santorini. I am the guy who is onto your schemes—the guy that is going to take you down. You’re going to rot in prison, you sick, demented fucking piece of shit!” The caller immediately hangs up.

  Missing any chance to reply, Joshua’s head begins to spin, like it does sometimes. Briefly his thoughts visit his dreams, and little Frankie, the nine-year-old boy who was left alone with his mother’s new boyfriend. And although he knows exactly who the caller was, he’s completely unaware of what’s to come.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The ten o’clock news comes on, with Tabatha Sterns documenting the latest. Tonight her satiny, blond hair is pinned back, and smile curling her lips says she has much to report. Cools views the show from his easy chair, drink in hand, exhaling cigarette smoke. His menacing thoughts are becoming numb. But the alcohol already in him is soliciting for more.

  Michelle watches, fitfully lying on her bed, dressed in a slutty garter belt, waiting for her husband to step out of the shower.

  Tabatha comes on in an animated style intended to woo her listeners. She opens, “Good evening, I’m Tabatha Sterns. Brace yourself for our top story tonight; we have a new twist in the fast-paced Joshua Siconolfi story. So let’s take a quick look at an interview I finished just three hours ago.” Next she appears in the top left corner of the screen, standing out of doors somewhere with a heavyset man.

  Cools a
bruptly scoots to the edge of his seat, yelling at the screen, “Ah fuck! You gotta be kidding me.”

  Michelle just shakes her head and accepts it, realizing it was only a matter of time.

  As the interview begins, the small box fills in the whole screen. “I’m standing here outside the Seattle Yacht Mariner beside D. J. Adders, the association’s acting manager, who says he rented a large, seagoing vessel to Joshua just days prior to the infamous radio call. Also, as you can see behind me, the Seattle crime lab is here investigating.” The camera zooms in on a boat swarming with police. Tabatha motions toward the scene, asking, “Is this the very same yacht your company rented to Joshua?”

  “Indeed it is,” D. J. replies enthusiastically.

  “And would you repeat to the cameras what you told me you overheard investigators saying?”

  D. J. peers into the lens. “I distinctly heard one inform the other that use of the craft fit the timetable.”

  Cools again yells to the television, “You nosy prick!”

  Michelle only hears the shower turn off.

  Tabatha flashes a quick grin before pressing forward. “And what did Joshua say his intentions were?”

  “He confided in me his intent was to dispense of his late wife’s ashes into the sea.”

  “So you were under the impression Kimberly was already deceased at this time?”

  “Yes, but I merely supposed him to be a widower; I never considered anything nefarious in nature.”

  “And, D. J., is this yacht thought to be in connection with the abrupt disappearance or murder of Kimberly?”

  “I believe this to be so.”

  Again the camera zooms in on the site surrounded in yellow police tape, with a full forensics team working busily and talking privately in small groups— all shouldering a plethora of equipment. Their movements suggest they may have found something important—something incriminating. They begin setting up a tarp to conceal their activities.

  Then Tabatha asks D. J., “Did you find anything strange in your dealings with Joshua?”

  “No, nothing whatsoever. As I told the detectives, I found him quite pleasant actually. But now that I’ve had time to reflect, I do recall a few things to have been out of the ordinary.”

  “Like what?” she asks curiously.

  “Well, his main concern was whether or not he could sail the Riviera out at night; in addition he rented the Riviera for a full week, but employed it for the one night only.”

  “Did he have anyone with him?”

  “No, it appears not. Earlier when I went to unearth the surveillance tape for Detectives Cools and Robertson, I viewed it first. And although he carried many articles onboard, he sailed out alone.”

  “Articles? What sorts of articles?”

  “Well, one was very distinctive—a crab trap. We see many of those. But then there was a robust cooler of sorts and also quite a few large bags. And upon returning he carried virtually nothing but a small gym bag.”

  “Very interesting,” she says, looking into the camera.

  The broadcast cuts back to Tabatha in the studio, beside Joshua’s GQ picture, as she recaps.

  Click.

  Michelle’s husband enters their bedroom wearing only a loosely fit towel and the irresistible cologne she bought him for his birthday. She turns on some music.

  Cools listens additionally until Tabatha finishes. “Well, that’s all for now. A more detailed interview with D. J. Adders here at eleven thirty, and you don’t want to miss it.” In disgust he drinks the last of his beer and heads out for the night. Soon he’s at The Shelter, fast-sipping his whiskey until Tabatha’s eleven-thirty, “and you don’t want to miss it” show plays on the television above the bar. It isn’t long before he is greatly disappointed, seeing as she had nothing new to add except for more of D. J.’s self-gratifying elaborations. He then makes his way to a familiar door and after a little pleading is let in.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Deep into the night, Cools sleeps warm and sound, snuggled next to Chelsea. She’s curled in a fetal position, with his arms wrapped around her. Completely bare-skinned they melt into each other, dreaming in tranquility. Over them, eternalness looms promising. Suddenly a sound awakens him; it’s his cell phone, and the clock reads 3:47 a.m. He answers, half asleep and disturbed.

  “Hello!”

  “Cools, are you awake?”

  “I am now!”

  “All right, here’s the real deal,” Captain Jackson says. “Luminal testing shows a large amount of blood was recently cleaned from the boat’s deck.”

  Cools, seeing that Chelsea is still fast asleep, moves to the bathroom to listen further, mumbling, “Uh-huh.”

  “And listen up, the blood we got in the damaged fiberglass has DNA; it’ll take a few days to get an exact match to Kimberly, but here’s what we know: it’s not our boy Joshua’s blood type; it is Kimberly’s. And that’s not all. Her blood type is AB Rh negative, the rarest of its kind.”

  “So you’re saying it is hers or not?” he asks, rubbing his face, waking himself.

  “Close enough. Also the yacht he rented has a GPS unit that Ghost is playing with. He’s in here now and tells me that he can configure the memory chip, and it’ll show the exact route he took; we’ll know exactly where he went. So I’m giving you what you’ve asked for: we’re gonna take him downtown, Charlie Brown. We’re hitting him at quarter to five; that gives you about an hour to get your ass in here. Do you feel me now?”

  “I’ll be there within the hour.” The call ends, but Cools still answers his captain’s question to the bathroom mirror, “Yeah, I feel ya. I definitely feel ya.” Subsequently he calls Michelle, and fifty-five minutes later they’re both at headquarters, coffee in hand, ready to go.

  Captain Jackson directly introduces them to Sergeant Wielder, a retired military man who now leads the Seattle Task Force. Cools, somewhat intimidated, shifts his coffee to his left hand to shake with his right. Not many men have this effect on him, but at six feet five and nearly three hundred pounds, a modest caution is always wise. Sergeant Wielder greets his handshake with a low, guttural, “Good morning,” the voice of a hard and determined man. His tone coincides with his far-from-deceptive appearance, as even his softer features resemble that of a pit bull. His specialty is the expedient extraction and apprehension of the most dangerous individuals. And he even has a sexual appeal that becomes apparent as he’s introduced to Michelle. She reddens and slightly wiggles when shaking his large, rugged hand.

  The room around them is bustling as more and more of Sergeant Wielder’s team are entering and arranging their gear. They’re all dressed in black, so when an officer in blue comes rushing in, it seems out of place. The papers in his hand are quickly delivered to Captain Jackson, who grumbles a bit at the torn corner near the bottom where Judge Cooper obviously signed in a fit. But it doesn’t matter, he has what he needs—full search warrants for the properties of Joshua Siconolfi. Captain Jackson nods to Sergeant Wielder.

  “Listen up, everyone!” he demands, taking complete control. The words leave his lips, and a pin could be heard dropping on the floor. Cools and Michelle follow along as he makes brief introductions and lays down the plan—not much different than the time before, except it will be executed even harder and faster.

  A storm is coming to Joshua.

  Then, once he’s assured his team is on track, he turns to Cools and Michelle for final guarantees and instructions. “Do you understand the plan?”

  They both answer yes.

  “You will hold back; you will do nothing more and nothing less than I say. For the next hour or so, I am your commander. You will not question or have a single thought of your own. If I say abort this mission, you will do so without hesitation! Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “And for the love of God, do not shoot any holes in his driveway!”

  “Yes,” Cools replies, with his head humbly tilted. Feeling at first a sense o
f embarrassment, he then determines the level of influence Sergeant Wielder holds over his team. In most groups the comment would have produced outright laughter or at least a few chuckles, but his present company stands firm without even so much as a flutter.

  Next he turns to his team, shouting, “This will be textbook. The entire world is watching, so no mistakes—no mistakes!” There’s a short pause before everything is set into motion.

  “Let’s go! Let’s go!”

  At 4:52 a.m. the media vans are pulled back, and Joshua’s house is surrounded by a team of five entry soldiers near the front, three around the back, and two atop the roof on each side, all in full combat gear awaiting orders under the cover of darkness. They carry AR-15s, ventilated face masks, tear gas, and flash grenades. Also in full gear are the news reporters, down half a block with cameras rolling. Sergeant Wielder makes a final check that everyone is ready, wipes the rain from his mask, and makes the call, which obviously awakens Joshua. He answers, “Hello?”

  “This is Sergeant Wielder outside your home with the Seattle Special Units Task Force. You are completely surrounded; you need to immediately walk out the front door, with your hands in the air!”

  There’s a pause, followed by Joshua’s response. “No, come back at nine thirty.” He hangs up.

  Sergeant Wielder is not impressed or amused. Without hesitation he points a finger, and the noose begins to tighten. Two officers quickly position themselves at the front with a battering ram. Another holding a tear gas gun crawls to a post lying across the lawn and locks on. Cools and Michelle, as previously instructed, crouch behind the cruiser. And the two on the roof hang over the edge, gripping tight to a secured line. Then one of them at the front door drops his hand, and all hell breaks loose.

  Bang, bang, and shattering glass as the smoke grenades go in. Bang, bang: blasting more glass and the flash grenades go in. Boom, boom, boom-boom, bursts of lightning go off inside the home. The men on the roof swing down in a controlled crash through side windows. Simultaneously a loud thud and the distinct sound of wood splintering: the door flies open followed by voices, muffled by their face masks, “Go, go, go!” They swiftly penetrate the smoke-filled house from every side. Cools and Michelle listen to fifteen to twenty seconds of more intense yelling and crashing sounds, then mostly silence.