Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (10 page)

“Whatever, Brad. I agree that you’re probably right, but still it is our responsibility to cover all the angles,” she says, her tone jaded. “For all we know, she could have killed herself or just run off. Or maybe—just maybe—she was murdered by her secret lover who she gave AIDS to. It happens, you know!”

“Now you sound like his defense attorney,” he replies mockingly, attempting to match her tenacity.

“Screw you, Brad. No, really, screw you!” she yells, extinguishing any responses he may have had. Her comment rides along with them as a third passenger for the next few turns until Cools realizes he’s pressed her too far. She never speaks to him like this, so he rethinks his dispute, considers his personal responsibilities, and carefully chooses his words.

“Okay, okay, I was wrong.” He looks to her with sincerity.

“Say it again, Brad.”

“Okay, I was wrong about the way I treated your open-mindedness in front of the other detectives. I should have backed you all the way, and I fell short. I am an asshole.” Michelle doesn’t respond, so he then rolls his window down and hollers to the world traveling past, “My name is Brad Cools, and I am an asshole! I am a stupid fucking asshole! I need to show respect to those who deserve it! Did I mention that I’m an asshole?”

Finally Michelle lets out a little smile. She’s never really understood why, but she has always found it difficult to stay mad at him for very long. He has a way about him, always seemingly in total control but still in need of someone to look after him—a duty she feels the calling to attend too. With her fingers she combs the sides of his hair back, saying, “Yes, you are; you are an asshole, but you’re my asshole.” They share a restorative silence, with only the sound of the car’s motor winding down the road.

She remembers the first day they met. She was standing alone in the line at Starbucks, when out of the corner of her eye she saw him in the reflection of the glass, walking up behind her. There was something about him that caught her married eye. He stood close, and just before she was up to order, she turned ever so briefly. Their eyes met long enough for a flashing friendly smile. She ordered, and then he ordered, and left in a hurry. She gave it little more thought, since today was her big day. It was going to be her first day as a police officer on the Seattle Police force.

Two hours later, dressed in blue, she saw him again. He walked in, as sure of himself as the sun itself, he looked directly toward her, walked over grinning, and asking with the point of his finger, “carmal latte right?”

She blushed yes, and felt the security of making a new friend, a friend of chararcter and clout in her new job. They soon became close, enough so that the rumors began around the water-cooler, even more so when she was promoted to detective, and they became partners. But she doesn’t care, she always feels safe with him, not only from the criminals they have to contend with, but also safe enough to really be herself, which is sometimes childish, and needing of attention.

“Have I told you that you look really nice today? And that I have not only noticed, but greatly approve of your new nail color.”

“Uh, ha-ha, now you’re just sucking up.”

“Yeah, maybe some,” he agrees with a smirk. “So how’s your chubby husband?” he asks playfully.

“He’s not chubby…just thick.”

“Oh…He’s thick, huh?”

Michelle responds with nothing but smiles.

“Okay, then, did you have your talk with Lindsey about the pot?”

“No, I didn’t have a chance, Brad; remember, you called me first thing this morning demanding that I meet you immediately!” He doesn’t react, knowing she has more to say. “She’s such a pretty and smart young girl, and I just don’t know what to do. All the kids today are moving so fast; it’s hard to keep up, you know. I only want the best for her, but I feel like I’m losing all control.” Michelle stares out the window, following the rolling scenery, her mind meandering to a familiar place of feminine fussing where empathy and worry rules queen. And not solely for her daughter Lindsey, but also for Kimberly, maybe even Amberly.

“She’s going to turn out fine; you and your chubby hubby are doing great,” Cools says, breaking her thought.

“Okay, enough about me; what about you, Brad? How’re you doing? Still drinking your sorrows away at that Russian mafia bar?”

“Something like that. I do what works.” Michelle flings him a piteous glance. “It’s the only place that feels like home to me,” he says, somewhat defending himself. “And I have a history there; it’s where I belong.” Cools perceives her unchanged expression and gives up. He knows that there is nothing he can say to sell her on the idea that drinking alone in a gangster bar is sound judgment. Maybe someday I’ll share with her the story of Rueben the Jewish child molester, who I allowed to be excommunicated from earth so that a young boy named Nico could grow up normally and an old man named Sergey could find some justice and closure.

“Well, anyway, I was thinking we have a lot of weak characters tied into this case. Amberly, for one…” He holds out his hand, displaying one finger. “You know if she’s hiding anything, we’re going to get it. Two: there’s Trace Friesen, and I’m positive the investigation into him is going to open some doors. And three is you and me baby—we’re going to figure this out, just like you are going to maintain a solid grip on Lindsey and guide her to all the best things in life.”

“Yeah,” she hums with a smile, “you’re probably right.”

Michelle rides the rest of the trip in utter amazement at how he can sometimes make such good sense, even if he is scared to talk about himself. And she values his efforts to hold their unique friendship together. Also she is confident they’ll root out the bad guys in this game; she even has the sense that they’re close to being on the right track. But what she doesn’t know is that given the information they have at this time it would be impossible to predict the twisted truth that lies ahead.

.

Chapter Thirteen

C
aptain Jackson is just finishing up a phone call with the chief of Tacoma, who is informing him of his intentions: he plans to give a press conference later today disclosing the fact that the death of Trace Friesen is tied into the Joshua Siconolfi case, including that there will be a joint effort between the Tacoma and Seattle Police Departments concerning any ongoing investigations. He’s basically telling Jackson that they are going to work this case together—like it or not. Captain Jackson hangs up the phone. “That son of a bitch,” he mutters to himself, while digging through his desk drawer for some pain relief medication. There he finds a half bottle of Vicodin; he takes out a couple and downs them with some bourbon. The bottle doesn’t exactly have his name on it, and even though not exactly having your name on the bottle makes up for about 15 percent of the population in his jail, he doesn’t feel one bit ashamed. Today he can break a few rules.

Suddenly he is startled by his intercom. The sweet voice coming through is that of Misty Lakewoods, his secretary. She’s alerting him that Detective Fredo (JFK) is requesting to update his progress.

“Yeah, all right, send him in.”

Detective Fredo comes in and says, “I have everyone ready, just like you ordered; we’re just waiting for Cools and Michelle, but they are on their way and should be here shortly.”

Captain Jackson grabs his jacket and scoots out of his chair, replying, “All right, let’s go.” Fredo holds the door for him. Even Captain Jackson thinks he’s a kiss ass, but has always carried the attitude of “What the hell—it’s kinda nice having a bitch boy close by your side.” Together they move down the hall toward the meeting room—the war room.

Captain Jackson, realizing he has a few minutes to squander, tells JFK to go on in and wait. Then he slips down the hall and sneaks a peak through the two-way mirror. No one needs to enlighten him to the fact that the girl behind the glass is Amberly—the stripper. Or that she is on drugs, for that matter. She looks nervous and annoyed, most likely from being confined inside the small, claustrophobic space and not knowing her fate. If she knew the truth, she would have jetted out of the building hours ago. But earlier Cools bent a couple of rules and told her she couldn’t leave until he could clear her of any wrongdoing. And now Captain Jackson is all alone with her. He takes a good long gaze, with the kind of eyeball he wouldn’t dare if she could see back through the glass. I might just check out the Kitty Club some night.

Then across the hall and through another two-way mirror, he spies Maggie— the suicide hotline girl—and the officer who has just brought her in. She’s kind of homely, with knotted hair, and way too skinny for his taste. He speculates: if one were to put the two together in the same room long enough, what would emerge—two strippers or two psychology students?

A commotion catches his attention, followed by the distinct sound of Michelle Robertson’s voice, always trying to slow her partner down. A smooth step around the corner and he’s hidden from view. He wouldn’t wish for Robertson to catch him peeking. Captain Jackson thinks the world of her, and although he would never admit it, Michelle (who he always refers to as Robertson) could get away with anything as far as he is concerned. To him, she is probably the most perfect package of a women inside and out to ever cross his path. Standing motionless at the corner, he watches her, bouncing along after her hot-headed partner as they march into the war room. Then a voice inside his head says, “All right, Captain Jackson, it’s time for you to get your big, bad, black ass in there and tell all those white boys what the fuck to do!”

Twenty seconds later he enters and sizes up his makeshift task force. It all feels surreal, having such a high-profile case land in his lap, right at the height of his career. He can taste the power of control, mixed with the fear of knowing that cases like these have all the potential of going bad, and often do. This he has learned from seeing his counterparts in other counties and states go into battle against a proficient counsel on one side, William Siconolfi, and the unforgiving media on the other. A wet and slippery road lies ahead, and he will never know what to expect, just that he needs to keep it as visibly clean as possible and always watch his back. Still, the distinctive circumstance does offer some prospective opportunity—like the advancement to chief of police, police commissioner, or maybe even a run for mayor. All he needs to do is win: first, by identifying the bad guy; followed with an arrest and then a successful prosecution; and last but not least, do it with observable integrity and well-dressed efficiency.

Do it with style.

Inside the war room sits a hefty rectangular meeting table bordered by his team. In front of them are laptops, notepads, digital recorders, plus a large multifunction conference phone waiting in the middle. The walls are draped in maps and dry-erase boards. They silence themselves and prepare for orders as Captain Jackson, at the head of the table, begins constructing the tone of the operation like a coach setting forth on the first day of ball camp. “All right, I hope everyone knows everyone,” he begins, pointing around the room. “This is prosecutor Andrew Milkowski; Detective Michelle Robertson and her partner in crime, Detective Brad Cools; Detective Jack Fredo; Janice Dryer is our psychologist; and at the far end are Officers Jakew and Smithe. We also have two other officers in the field doing surveillance. I have another working data. And sweating away in our interrogation rooms, we are holding Amberly Carlson, the coworker, and Maggie, the suicide hotline girl. Now, is everyone familiar with each other?”

Everyone utters a soft affirmatives—all except JFK, who interjects with his tally of their consensus, then reports his findings as if Captain Jackson were blind. “Looks like we are all acquainted, boss.” Michelle lets out a satirical sigh as things move ahead.

“All right, now, listen up. This is gonna be considered a homicide case. And we’re gonna work as a team. Now, if there’s anyone on this team you don’t like, they’re now your new BFF. Is that clear?”

Most steal a quick look at JFK before nodding in accordance.

“This is a highly sensitive case, as you well know, and I will not tolerate any mistakes. And if I find that any one of you even talks in your fucking sleep, uttering just one word to the media, I will personally destroy your careers and reputation! Do I make myself clear?”

Everyone nods.

“All right, let’s start with Detective Robertson.”

Michelle coughs nervously, then brings everyone up to speed, adding only the trivial information, just recently learned, that Kimberly seems to have no surviving family except for an aunt in Minnesota.

“Okay, I have a few things to add,” Cools says, jumping in. “First of all I’d like to point out the fact Joshua has not reported his missing wife—as missing. And there’s this: Trace Friesen stated on tape that he knew Joshua killed her.”

They all look to Milkowski who holds up his hands, letting them know it’s only empty speculation, and replies, “The testimony of a suicide is nothing, and as far as we know, anyone could have killed her.”

“Are you the prosecutor or his defense attorney?” Michelle asks, then glances at her partner, realizing where she got the idea.

“All right, everyone calm down. Now, Robertson, like I told you before, we really don’t have anything, not enough for an arrest, not yet.” The captain then turns to Milkowski and asks, “What do we need to get a search warrant? Because I have to do something and soon. This is going into the spotlight as we speak, and the public will demand I do something. And I’m not gonna look the fool!”

Milkowski, this time, holds his palms out and answers them directly. “Here’s the deal: this being a high profile case, you won’t find a judge to sign a search warrant, not without something substantial. And I don’t think you’re bold enough for any shenanigans, not with everyone watching.”

With that an uneasy Captain Jackson looks at Cools and slightly shakes his head, letting him know before his wheels begin to turn, that isn’t the path he intends to take.

“I have an idea,” says Janice Dryer, the psychologist. Everyone sighs before turning their attention to her. She wears the ideal attire for her profession— the skirt-and-blouse combo that’s 70 percent classy innocence and 30 percent take me now. Her hair is pulled back into a bun, leaving a few strands dangling beside her cheeks. Although everyone would concede she is nice to look at, no one wants to hear anything she has to say. Janice knows this, and in spite of their judgment, she confidently explains her proposal with poise. In a soft voice, she says to them, “I think maybe he will just come in on his own.”