Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (18 page)

Cools abruptly 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

D
eep 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 of 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.

Cools’s phone rings. Sergeant Wielder says, “You may now enter.”

The two detectives dart in, wanting to take full advantage of Joshua’s shock to ask a few key questions. Through the disintegrated door, they cross into the smoky room still full of activity, officers with guns drawn searching every nook and cranny. Across the space they see Joshua deflated and cuffed on the couch. Cools wastes no time. He runs directly to him. “Where’s Kimberly?”

“Fuck you, top cop!” Joshua replies, tussling in his restraints.

Cools leans in close, violating his space, and asks again. This time he only responds by turning his attention to Michelle, seizing a long look; his smiling, evil eye gazes up and down.

Then Michelle screams, “Where’s Kimberly, asshole?”

Cools adds, “And where is Amberly?”

Without moving a muscle, Joshua’s eyes shift their focus from peering at her to peering through her. Michelle, at that instant, knows they’re not going to get anything out of him. She diverts her attention to the room, the shattered windows and curtains strewn throughout, lying across his audio system—it seems odd to her that it’s turned on.

Cools continues, demanding, “What have you done to Kimberly? Where’s Amberly?” He remains highly agitated even as the rest of the men around them begin to settle down. “Tell me where the fuck your wife is.”

Joshua angles his stare back to him, stating, “You’ve made a big mistake, top cop!”

“And how’s that?”

At first Joshua doesn’t answer, he just nuzzles his head back into the couch cushions and, seemingly very comfortable and sure of himself, whispers, “The devil comes, the devil does, and the devil goes; and I bet you think the blood on the yacht is Kimberly’s.”

Stunned and exasperated, Cools grabs him and yells, “Listen here, you freak. I’m tired of hearing your bullshit. I don’t need her blood. I will find her body. And now that I have you, I have your DNA. And I don’t care how careful you think you are, asshole; I will plant your hair, your blood, even your semen if I have too.”

“She’s my fucking dead wife; why wouldn’t my blood, hair, or semen be on her, top cop?”

Instantly Cools realizes what a stupid comment it was and looks around hoping few had heard it.

“Brad, settle down,” Michelle warns, pulling him back. Then she motions for the remaining officers to take Joshua away.

They spring back into action, pluck him from the couch, and seconds later emerge from the house. “Move, move, move!” they shout, with Joshua cuffed, his feet bouncing along as they half run, half drag him to an open side door of a van. They throw him in and slam the door shut as the engine roars to life. One of them bangs on the side, the tires squeal, and they’re gone.

Then forensics moves in, snapping pictures of everything. They find a room converted into a shrine for Kimberly. Her picture, the same picture, haphazardly pasted to every square inch of the walls. Standing in the room, Michelle asks, “How did he know about the blood?”

“I don’t know; something isn’t right.”

“Did you see his smirk? I’m starting to think everything we find is…is what he wants us to find.”

“No, we’re going to get him!” Cools yells before he recognizes how upset she is.

“Brad, he frightens me.”

Cools places his arm around her and holds her. “Yeah, I know; he scares me, too.”

They embrace for a time, letting the agitation subside. Michelle needs him more than she lets on, but he knows. He tells her how sweet her hair smells, calming her enough to regroup her thoughts. And it isn’t long before she begins to analyze the incident.

“Did you get
anything
from him when you asked about Amberly?”

“Not even a twitch.”

“I feel like he’s playing us, like he’s going to get out of this somehow.”