Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (11 page)

Cools’s eyes start to roll. Others curse under their breath in frustration.

Janice, noticing their reactions, begins defending her statement. “No, think about it: this guy calls a live radio broadcast with millions of listeners. So I ask you: why did he do that?”

“Because he is a psychopath,” Michelle chirps out.

“Well, maybe…But there is more to it than that. I compiled a full psychological report on him. He drives a Lotus; his wife is a stripper; and have you seen his picture? Flashy hair, jewelry, tight abs, very metro-sexual—he’s a playboy, a classic narcissist. And I believe he will welcome the limelight with open arms. I believe there’s the very real possibility that, subconsciously, he wants to come in to parade in front of the cameras, just like his father. Have you ever seen him?”

Silence cascades over the room as all of them grant some consideration to her idea.

“That actually somehow makes sense,” Michelle says, while others begin to gesture the same.

Cools surveys them all for a second before spouting out, “Are you guys losing your fucking minds? What are we supposed to do—just sit around here and wait for him to knock on the goddamned door?”

“Just be quiet, Brad. Let’s hear what Janice has to say,” Michelle says, with a gentle pat on his leg. Everyone returns their attention to Janice, some making note of the affection between the two detectives.

“So, do you have any suggestions as to how we’re gonna get him in here?” Captain Jackson asks.

“Well, I do,” Janice answers, feeling empowered. She scoots gracefully forward in her seat. “I want you all to consider this: egomaniacs are extremely overconfident, and if he’s done something to Kimberly, he not only wants you to know about it, he’s certain he will escape punishment for his crimes, especially given the fact that he’s now had close to a week to cover his tracks.” A few glance at Cools; others try not to as Janice rolls on. “I believe he wants to answer your questions more than you want to ask them. Think about it: he supposes himself as superior to you. And he not only wishes for you to know it, he wants the whole world to know it. If for no other reason than to boast, to be documented, acknowledged. So to answer your question more directly: he wouldn’t be able to refuse control; he knows sooner or later he will have to answer some questions; all we have to do is plant the seed that he should do it on his own terms.”

“So how do we use all that to get him to stroll in here with his hands in the air?” Cools asks.

“Maybe we could simply contact him and offer him the opportunity to present a statement, so we could state to the media that he is freely cooperating and not hiding behind his attorney, emphasizing the ‘hiding behind his attorney’ part.”

“I think it’s worth a shot,” Captain Jackson announces, just as his secretary pops in.

“Excuse me, Captain, there’s a call coming in from the two officers you have in the field.”

“Send it in.”

Then quietly brainstorming, no one says a word, waiting for the phone to ring.

After a moment, the call is connected. “Hello?”

“Captain Jackson, this is Officer Poulet; he’s on the move.”

“Is he alone?”

“Yes, it appears so.”

“All right, keep us updated; I wanna know what he’s having for lunch—got it?”

“Got it, Captain.”

“All right, let’s get this going. Milkowski, which judge offers the best chance to get what we need?”

“Judge Cooper maybe,” he replies unconfidently.

“All right, I want you to start with her.”

“She’s not going to—”

“I said to
start
with her—get the ball rolling,” Captain Jackson replies sharply. Then, letting Milkowski know their conversation is over, he turns to Cools. “You and Robertson, I want you to see what more you can get out of Amberly.” He shifts his attention to JFK. “Detective Fredo.”

“Yes, Captain Jackson.”

“I want you on Maggie, the suicide hotline girl. Get me something.”

“Yes, sir, I would be happy to.”

“Officer Smithe, you’re going to Tacoma. I’ve already talked to a Detective Shoemaker there, and he agrees to let you ride along in his investigation of Trace Friesen. This is a big shot for you; don’t screw it up.

“Officer Jakew, you get the best assignment here—the Kitty Club. So go make some new friends.” Next he speaks to the entire team. “Any and all new information is to be—and I don’t care how little you think it is—needs to be given to me immediately! Is that understood?” Everyone agrees and begins rising to their feet. “Janice, you’re gonna prepare a phone call to Mr. Siconolfi. We’ll see whether you know what you’re talking about. Does anyone have any questions?” There’s a pause before JFK raises his hand.

“What is it, Fredo?”

“I think we should discuss the leak.”

“Oh yeah, how could I forget that? Someone’s talked to the press, and they’re gonna pay for it when I catch them, and I will catch them.” Then his eyes alter, drawing the group’s full consideration. “If anyone leaks information, I will personally destroy you. I’m an old man with not much to lose, and—come hell or come heaven—I would have no problem going out with a vengeance.”

No one utters a sound.

Again the phone rings, startling everyone. “Captain, Officer Poulet here.”

“What’s new?”

“He’s made us, and he’s running; we’re half mile behind him on NE Sand Point, and he’s moving fast—real fast!”

“Don’t lose him!” Captain Jackson yells. Then he starts clapping his hands together, saying, “All right, everyone, let’s get a move on—let’s go. We meet back here at six o’clock. Fredo, get me a chopper in the air—now!”

With that everyone except Janice Dryer begins parting.

.

Chapter Fourteen

“O
h shit! Fuck!” yells Officer Poulet’s partner, (Donovan), as their tires screech around a corner, the sounds quickly replaced by the revving engine. The transmission kicks down into a lower gear, launching them to 85 mph on a 35 mph road—all lights flashing, sirens blaring.

“Hold on,” Poulet warns, stepping hard on the brakes and veering three feet over the yellow line, going into an S-turn. He’s taking great risks for both him and his partner, just to keep up. Still the two young, adrenaline-driven cops are losing ground with every turn. The red Lotus they’re pursuing doesn’t just look faster—it is faster, lighter, with more horsepower and racing suspension. And the only asset they have is that they’d rather crash and burn than lose this arrest.

Up ahead, on a short straightaway, the highly tuned sports car passes up the middle between a camper van and a motorcycle in the oncoming lane. “This guy is fucking crazy!” Poulet yells, knowing he’ll have to match the same level of peril if he ever stands a chance. He redlines the engine but gets caught behind the old camper van before the next set of turns.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—get the hell out of the way!”

“We’re losing him!”

Poulet turns back and forth wildly, within inches of the van’s bumper, while Officer Donovan screams through the windshield. “Move it! Get the fuck out of the way!” He takes a chance and pulls into his version of the center lane, as they head into a corner, and punches the accelerator. The squad car lurches forward, past the rear bumper, rear tires, and almost to the driver’s side door, when an oncoming GMC truck flashes at them like a bullet train.

“We’re not going to make it! God!”

No longer seeing a middle lane, only a full head-on collision, Poulet hits the brakes and cranks the wheel, rubbing into the van. The large truck swerves but clips the cruisers front bumper and scrapes down the side, shaving off paint and the driver’s side mirror.

Inside the van an old, burned-out Vietnam vet, realizing the situation, shouts out through his smoked-stained beard, “Not today, you yuppie bastard!” Then he yanks the wheel purposefully, crashing his vehicle over a ditch and into a grassy field. His van comes to a violent halt just as he sees the police cruiser fly through the debris cloud. “Go get ’em, copper!”

After a few more treacherous turns, Poulet finds a patch of open road and lets the cruiser loose.

“There—there he is!” Donovan yells, pointing to a red dot a mile ahead. “We can still get him! Let’s go, let’s go!” Poulet pushes the cruiser up to 95 mph. Their car begins to shake in the front axle. “Listen to me, Poulet. I’ve been your partner for two and half years now; I completely trust your skills, so don’t hold back because of me. Let’s show this asshole how to drive!”

“You got it, and if we make it…oh, am I going to beat the shit out of this fucking dirt bag!”

“Yeah, well you gotta catch him first!”

Poulet pushes it up to nearly 110 mph, and the shaking is getting worse with every measure of speed.

Captain Jackson and Janice are listening to the entire episode on speakerphone. She is speechless, and he remains silent, only waiting for a moment in which he can be of assistance, as the call gets louder and louder by the second. The squad car sounds to be rattling to pieces; even the volume of their voices is increasing as they speak over the noise.

The cruiser nears 120 mph, and Poulet implores, “Hold on baby; hold on for just a little bit longer!”

Out on the open, straight stretch, the cruiser has the advantage. And they are gaining a bit of ground, but the shaking has turned into more of a hammering: 120…122…124 mph.

“Ah, I see brake lights! He’s turning south onto Lake Washington Boulevard!” 125…126…127 mph. “Ah fuck, you’re coming in awfully fast!” Poulet steps on the brakes and shifts the automatic transmission down to third…second… first—barely making the corner onto another twisting road. The Lotus now has the advantage, and at every turn it pulls a little farther away. “Goddammit! Can we get a chopper on him? I can’t keep up!” Poulet screams over the receiver.

“We’re working on that as we speak,” Captain Jackson replies. “Just don’t lose him.” He then makes a quick call to the helicopter crew, but is told it could take four or five more minutes—not fast enough.

Janice, following them on the map on the war room wall, states, “Looks like you guys still have another two or three miles of curves.”

The odds are not on their side.

Then Poulet almost loses the cruiser on a tight bend. The back end begins to slide at 79 mph, and he’s forced to turn out earlier than he wants to. The tires straddle the ditch, churning gravel. They squeak through only to see the next obstacle. The road ahead is an incline with a long, sweeping corner at the top. “Ah, I’m thinking about not slowing down for this one, partner! Ah, I’m thinking we can hit it at top speed—and ride the guardrail!”

“That’s insane!” Captain Jackson yells. But it sounds like his advice is being ignored.

“I’m with you, partner!”

“Fucking here goes!”

Next all Captain Jackson and Janice can hear is the constant speeding of the engine and then horrid sounds of twisting metal on metal. The controlled crash shatters the side and back windows, blows all the airbags, and buckles the hood; however, it works. They exit out of the corner at 74 mph, leaving a shower of sparks in their wake, and gain some ground. The Lotus is up about a mile. They see him turn again. Just two seconds slower, and they would have had no idea which way he went.

Donovan yells, “He’s just turned westbound onto Madison!”

Forty-five seconds later they make the same turn onto Madison, where they find themselves in almost no traffic. And Madison, being straighter than Lake Washington, gives them a better chance. Soon Poulet reaches 125 mph, and although they’re closing in little by little, the car is literally falling apart. A piece of the grill breaks away and crashes into the windshield, sounding like a bomb as it hits them and spiderwebs the glass.

“Ah, it looks like we’re going to I-5!” This represents a scenario they definitely don’t want: high-speed mayhem on the interstate will be a disaster in waiting. Then the brake lights on the Lotus shine bright as it banks hard, exiting the thoroughfare and once again vanishing out of view. “We’re going to lose him.”

The cruiser holds at 129 mph until the last viable second as Poulet prepares to make the same g-force turn. The cruiser makes noises never heard before, the tires nearly bursting into flames, and a moment later they realize where they are: a shopping center with a busy parking lot. Immediately he has to choose left or right. “Which way?” Poulet screams. “Which goddamn way?”

“There! There he is!” Donovan answers, pointing to the left.

Poulet sees him. He’s already parked and is casually getting out. Though speed is no longer required, the blood is still pumping through Poulet’s veins like a race horse, and he pulls in fast, locking the brakes. The cruiser skids to a stop, carrying with it two extremely anxious, armed, and pissed-off policemen. They unholster their weapons; Poulet jumps out, crouching behind his door. Donovans’ door won’t open, so he aims out the window. “Get down!”

“Get down on the ground—now!”

Joshua doesn’t comply. He just leans over his car, adjusts his sunglasses, and stares at them, as if victorious. Just then, a deafening and low-flying helicopter emerges over the top of the mall, ruffling his blond hair.

“What’s going on?” Captain Jackson asks impatiently.

“I don’t know, Captain,” Poulet screeches over the noise of the helicopter. “We’re parked behind him…uh…We’re at a mall!”

“All right, and what the hell is he doing?”

“Well…uh…he’s just staring at us.”

“This guy is fucking with us!” Captain Jackson shouts, slamming his fist into the table. Then he says, “All right, everyone, settle.” Next he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“What do want us to do, Captain?”

“I want you to shoot him! Shoot him right in the middle of his fucked-up head! But not now,” he adds, changing his command before one of them actually does it.

“He’s moving…he’s walking into a computer store, Captain. What do you want us to do?”

Captain Jackson thinks for a moment then instructs Poulet to get a pen and a business card. “All right, now write this down on the back: Detective Janice Dryer. Then under her name, write my private office number—the line we’re on now. Got it?”